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Amy summoned him to bring her share. He delivered it to the hand and arm extended from the low window. "You must be nearly dead," said Amy, "after that long stage ride to come right up the mountain." "It's the finest sort of a night," said Bob. "I wouldn't have missed it for anything. It's H-O-T, hot, down at the Flats. This ride just saved my life."
And she sang in a sort of chanting tone: "H-o-t corn, hot corn. Here's your nice hot corn, s-m-okin' h-o-t. B-a-ked pears, baked pears Get away, chillen, get away, 'les you've got a penny. Stop crowdin'." They had enough to eat at home, but the corn was tempting. One night one boy would treat and break the ear of corn in two and divide. And the baked pears were simply delicious.
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