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Updated: June 2, 2025
"Some things we can't do; we can't stop the creakin' sounds of the world's work; the big roar of the wheel of business that rolls through the week days, can't be oiled into stillness; but Sundays they might get a little rest Sunday is the only day of rest for thousands of men and wimmen, nervous, pale, worn by their week's hard toil. "The creakin' of the wheels of traffic are stopped on this day.
Yo'd come on a bit o' creakin' wood windlass like a well-head, an' you was let down i' th' bight of a rope, fendin' yoursen off the side wi' one hand, carryin' a candle stuck in a lump o' clay with t'other, an' clickin' hold of a rope with t'other hand." "An' that's three of them," said Mulvaney. "Must be a good climate in those parts." Learoyd took no heed.
"`T'ank you, Angelica, says I. `Das all comfrably settled. You's a good gall, kiss me now, an' go away. "So she gib me a kiss an' I turn round an' went sweetly to sleep on de back ob dat for I was awrful tired, an' de ribs was creakin' badly." "Did you marry Angelica?" asked our middy, with sympathetic interest. "Marry her! ob course I did. Two year ago.
If you have ever been to sea, in a calm, you'd know what a plaguy tiresome thing it is for a man that's in a hurry. An everlastin flappin of the sails, and a creakin of the boombs, and an onsteady pitchin of the ship, and folks lyin about dozin away their time, and the sea a heavin a long heavy swell, like the breathin of the chist of some great monster asleep.
I've seen the fowk sometimes turn roond-aboot in their seats, when Sandy cam' creakin' up the passage, as gin they thocht it was a brass-band comin' in. But Sandy appears to think there's something reverint an' Sabbath-like in cheepin' buits, an' he sticks to them, rissen be't or neen. I can tell ye, it's a blissin' there's no' mony mair like him, or we'd hae gey streets on Sabbath.
Tenie wuz gone, en dey wa'n't nobody ner nuffin' fer ter watch de tree. "De two men w'at cut de tree down say dey nebber had sech a time wid a tree befo': dey axes would glansh off, en didn' 'pear ter make no progress thoo de wood; en of all de creakin', en shakin', en wobblin' you eber see, dat tree done it w'en it commence' ter fall. It wuz de beatenis' thing!
"I've heard your grandfather is sick," said Nan, remembering Tom's report of the health of the community when he had met her and her uncle at Hobart Forks. "Yes. He's got the tic-del-rew," declared Margaret, rather unfeelingly. "Aunt Matildy says he's allus creakin' round like a rusty gate-hinge." "Why! That doesn't sound very nice," objected Nan. "Don't you love your grandfather?"
And as to the ingein, a nasty, wheezin', creakin', gaspin', puffin', bustin' monster, alvays out o' breath, vith a shiny green-and-gold back, like a unpleasant beetle in that 'ere gas magnifier, as to the ingein as is alvays a pourin' out red-hot coals at night, and black smoke in the day, the sensiblest thing it does, in my opinion, is, ven there's somethin' in the vay, and it sets up that 'ere frightful scream vich seems to say, "Now here's two hundred and forty passengers in the wery greatest extremity o' danger, and here's their two hundred and forty screams in vun!"
"Well, you're right about that," sez I. "If I owned a place like this, I wouldn't board a man who didn't do more than I do. That's one reason why I'm goin' to travel on a little I 'm gettin' so rusty that the creakin' o' my joints sets my teeth on edge." "Poor old man," sez Jabez, sarcastic.
Pity I can't wear his shoes, dey's so soft, and dey don't creak. I hates boots and shoes all time creakin, its so like poor white folks when they get dressed up on Sunday. I wonders often Miss Anna don't send me none of master's old ruffled shirts. 'Spose she thinks a servant oughtn't to wear 'em.
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