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Updated: June 11, 2025
"Well, an' is she not softenin' at all?" "Upon my sounds, Cooney, I cannot say she is. If I could only get her to spake one sairious word on the subject, I might have some chance; but I cannot, Cooney; I think both you an' little Toal had betther give it up. I doubt there's no chance." "Faith an' the more will be her loss. I tell you, Jemmy, that he'd outdo either you or me as a meal man.
But she did not go to the telephone; not even to her father. She brushed her hand upward vaguely, fending away the advancing blackness. And then it would have been with her as with poor Miller that day at the Works, but that Charles Cooney, who had been watching her closely, was quick and strong.
"What you gobstick players need is a time-table," says he, "instead of notes. Come in on the A about eight-fifteen. If you can do that well, we'll try to struggle along." "Don't get forte," Cooney replies cheerfully. "If you'd try to follow both those cornets instead of rambling along by yourself, you'd split, sure." "Better play cornet, too, Cooney," says Ad Smith, whirling around.
Now, the reader already knows that each of these men had three or four large arks of meal laid past until the arrival of a failure in the crops and a season of famine, and that Murray had three large stacks of hay in the hope of a similar failure in the meadow crop. "Good-morrow, Jemmy." "Good-morrow kindly, Cooney; isn't this a fine saison, the Lord be praised!"
In particular, she found her soul revolting at the prospect of another season her fifth another winter of endless parties, now with a secret campaign thrown in. "I'm tired of the same old round, that's all," she said, moodily. "I want something new something different." "There's plenty that's new and different, Cally," said Henrietta Cooney, cheerfully, "if you really want to go in for it.
Hen, a Cooney, had had a special reason for wondering if this interesting affair might not be "on" again. However, Cally, skipping the conversation along, was talking now of the visit she had in prospect to her friend, Mrs. Willing, Florence Stone that was, in New York.
He had shot two deer, a "cooney" and an "isaacer" that is, a doe and a buck and he had their warm, bloody skins on his back. He said that there were plenty of deer over there, and to-morrow we would move the camp up to that spot. So we put the skins and some tenderloin in a cairn, and covered it up with heavy stones, and after eating some of the raw tenderloin we started for home.
Hearing the whir of a slowing motor behind her, and her name called besides, Henrietta Cooney checked her practised pedestrian's stride and looked back over her shoulder. The Heth car, with Carlisle alone in it, rolled abreast of her at the curb. "What on earth are you doing, Hen," asked her cousin, but hardly as if the matter interested her much "up here at this time!"
Canning had sneaked back, too, now that the worst is over, and wasn't so very bad at that. There's a man I'd like to have five minutes' talk with," said Henrietta Cooney. "I think I'd give him something to put in his memory-book." Hen, having her own theory of events, gave a defiant tug to her new sailor-hat. She considered that she looked very nice to-day, and she did.
"You've got enough mouth for both." "Well, we ought to have a cornetist," says Cooney, "it's what we've needed for years." This riles the scrub cornet player, whoever he happens to be, and he gets up excitedly. "We'd get along a lot better without one or two human calliopes " he begins. "Set down, set down," says old Dobbs from the coils of his tuba. "Let 'em fight.
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