United States or Mozambique ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
"So you were not actually trying to rescue the dog?" demanded Jess. "That howwible cweature!" gasped Purt, in disgust. "I would fling him from the tallest cliff there is could I safely do so." "And not try to dive after him eh?" chuckled Bobby. "You are cruelty incarnate!" exclaimed Jess, gravely.
"I never did see such a cweature weally." "He must have been an old friend of yours, Purt," said Reddy Butts. "Dogs don't follow folks for nothing." "But weally, I never saw him before," Purt tried to explain. "Aw, that's all very well," Billy Long sang out. "But it's plain enough why he followed you." "Why?" asked Reddy, willing to help the joke along.
"Why, weally and twuly, there's considewable cleverness about the cweature; but it's low, disgustingly low: it violates pwabability, and the orthogwaphy is so carefully inaccuwate, that it requires a positive study to compwehend it." "Yes, faith," says Larner; "the arthagraphy is detestible; it's as bad for a man to write bad spillin as it is for 'em to speak wid a brrogue.
The Seraph, with folded hands and bent head, repeated glibly: "Accept our thanks, O Lord, for these Thy good cweatures given to our use, and by them fit us for Thy service. Amen." There was a scraping of chairs, and we got to our feet. The Seraph, holding his bit of egg shell in his warm little palm asked "Is an egg a cweature, yet?" Mrs. Handsomebody gloomed down at him from her height.
"Yes, Stawms, use my name as fweely as you please; but I pwotest against letting up on this old cweature Harley." "But, my dear boy," observed Richard, "you must consider! Mr. Harley is to be my father-in-law, he's Dorothy's father." Mr. Fopling declined to consider what he called a "technicality." Mr. Harley must be squeezed. "Weally, Stawms," said Mr.
"What is the matter?" demanded his companion, with some tartness. She did not like mysteries. "I I heard a dog bark," stammered Purt. "Well! what if you did?" "But on this this island. Who who could have brought the howwid cweature here?" "Not that dog, Purt!" gasped Lil, suddenly remembering. There was a hail from the crew of the Duchess. Again the sharp bark of a dog sounded.
"Aw quite a wemarkable cweature. A sort of aw long-legged curiosity of the Andes. Mad, I suppose, or drunk." These remarks were partly a soliloquy, partly addressed to a friend who had joined the sportsman, but they were overheard by Quashy, who, with the fire of a free negro and the enthusiasm of a faithful servant, said "No more mad or drunk dan you'self you whitefaced racoon!"
It's simply awful, they say, for a chap to be bwoke. As for this Stow-wy, if Stawms hasn't got the money to go aftah him, I'll let him have some of mine. You see, Bess," concluded Mr. Fopling, with a broad candor that proved his love, "I hate this cweature Stow-wy." "Why?" asked Richard, somewhat interested in his unexpected ally. "He spoke dewisively of me," and with that Mr. Fopling lapsed.
Word Of The Day