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Updated: June 24, 2025
"Oh, something you like that is a wife's secret: keep the stomach of a man warm, and his heart will never grow cold. What say you to fried eels?" "Bravo!" cried the gay old boatman, as he sang, "'Ah! ah! ah! frit a l'huile, Frit au beurre et a l'ognon!" and the jolly couple danced into their little cottage no king and queen in Christendom half so happy as they.
The path led steeply in a zigzag down one side of the quarry cliff, where Abel had told Hazel of the cow falling, and where she had felt drodsome. Once more as she came down with a more and more lagging step, the same horror came over her. 'I'm frit! she cried; 'canna we be quick? But speed was not in Mrs. Marston. She came clinging to Edward's arm, very cautiously, like a cat on ice.
This process was to be effected gradually, as he explained, a certain portion being at first placed in the heated pot, and suffered to melt, and then another, until the pot should be full, when the door of it would be put up and closed with cement. "And how long before the frit will be entirely melted?" asked Monsieur. "From thirty-six to sixty hours.
The spike, which, by tradition, the country people call speca, seems to get its name from spes, hope. For men plant with hope of the harvest. When the spike is mature its taper end above the grain is called the frit, while that below, where the spike joins the straw culm, is called the urruncum.
"He must be badly hurt, Joses," exclaimed Bart. "What are we to do?" "Wait a moment till I think," said Joses. "He's hurt in his head, that's what's the matter with him." "By the bears' claws?" "No, my lad, they didn't hurt him. He's frit." "Frightened?" said Bart. "Yes! He's lost his nerve, and daren't move." "Let's say a few encouraging words to him."
'I went along by the water, Hazel thought, 'and watched the piefinches and the canbottlins flying about. And I thought it was the waters of comfort. Only Mr. Reddin came and frit the birds and made the water muddy. She did not feel as sure as the others did of the waters of comfort. 'So beautiful, dear, murmured Mrs. Marston, 'so like your poor dear father.
'I mun go! she whispered. 'Ah! You go, said Vessons, glad that for once duty and inclination went hand in hand. 'I'll send you, he added. 'Where d'yer live? She hesitated. 'You needna be frit to tell me, said Vessons. 'I'm six-and-sixty, and you're no more to me' he surveyed her flushing face contemplatively 'than the wold useless cat, he concluded.
Martha, her stout red arms bare, her blue gingham dress and white apron flying in the wind, was directed to hold on to Mrs. Marston's mantle behind as one tightens the reins downhill to keep her on her feet. Edward was carrying a kitchen chair for his mother to sit on during the journey. Hazel felt that they were none of them any good; they none of them knew what it was like to be frit.
Who could have dreamed, a twelve-month ago, that this scraggy bluff could be made into such beautiful homes, and that the dismal flat-iron below, dumping-place for tincans, frit, and cinders, as it was, could bloom out into that neat grassy park with growing trees along its walks, and flower-beds everywhere. Truly, money talks." "Not money alone, Mr. Dalton.
"I hate taking care of girls, they do such silly work, and I won't take care of Madame; and if lions and tigers come, they may kill them themselves, for I won't do it for any of them." Even the too indulgent Mother could not help laughing at the absurdity of such a frit killing tigers and lions, looking not much bigger than an impudent monkey. Fresh tears followed the universal laughter.
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