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Updated: June 10, 2025
Another wind like the last and we'll have the roof off the house too." Then he called to the new-comer, with his face to the porch door, and the answer came back to him in a wail like the wind itself. "Who's there?" It was Joney from the glen. "We're like herrings in a barrel we can't let you in." She wasn't wanting to come in.
The postman looked up inquiringly. "Never heard of Auntie Joney Uncle Joe's wife? No? Well, really, really is it sleeping I am? Not Auntie Joney, the Primitive? Aw, a good ould woman as ever lived. A saint, if ever the like was in, and died a triumphant death, too. No theaytres for her, though. She won't bemane herself.
"I've sail enough already for a wind like this, mother," cried the voice of Pete, and then the swirling sound in the porch went off with a long-drawn whirr, and Cæsar came back alone to the kitchen. Pete's wound ached again, but he pressed his hand on the place of it and struggled up the glen, dragging Joney behind him. They came to her house at last.
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