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Updated: May 1, 2025
Look-a here, let me tell you, Joe: I love that little woman, kid, just as honest and true as any man could love her, and she thinks the world and all of me. I only want to take her away from here because I love her and want to make her happy. Don't you see it, kid?" "How would you do that? You couldn't marry her." "Not for a while, of course," admitted Morgan.
Look-a here! whose life's the safest in the whole world The poor mariner's. You look at the statistics, you'll see. So don't you fool away any sympathy on the poor mariner's dangers and privations and sufferings. Leave that to the poetry muffs. Now you look at the other side a minute. Here is Captain Brace, forty years old, been at sea thirty.
"'About three miles 'n' all hills, says Butsy. "'How do you get out? says Peewee. "'We could take the street-car if it wasn't fur the hosses, says Butsy. 'As it is we'll have to hoof it through the mud. "'Look-a here, I says to Butsy, 'there's no sense in three of us gettin' wet. You know the way 'n' we don't. You take the hosses 'n' we'll come out on the street-car.
"Now, Myles, you know I have always had a great regard for you, and do you think I'd speak as I have done unless I was in earnest?" O'Hara reflected a moment, then turning to McGowan, said: "Ed, look-a here." "Yes, Myles, what is it?" "Bethune ourselves, an' on the level, what d'ye think the owld woman would say?" "Be tickled to death over it." "An' the childer what about thim?"
Where is the baking powder? I'll get the biscuits started." Puss turned fiercely. "Now look-a heah, yo' can't make biscuits! Yo' jes' go se' down wif dat young gen'm'n! Jes' lemme lone, ef yo' please! Dis ain't de firs' time I killed chickens, Miss Dicksie, an' made biscuits. Jes' clair out an' se' down! Place f'r young ladies is in de parlor!
1 The hares, according to the negroes, used to take holidays and would not go into traps in this season; so the only way to get them was by hunting them. Just then, however, a small boy pointed over to the top of the hill calling, "Look-a yander," and shouts arose, "Dyah she go!" "Dyah she go!" "Dyah she go!" Sure enough, there, just turning the hill, went a "molly cotton," bouncing.
"'Cause I want to be the right sort," burst out Sandy, passionately. "This ain't the way you get to be the right sort." Ricks surveyed him contemptuously. "Look-a here, are you comin' along of me or not?" "I can't," said Sandy, weakly.
Soon he felt himself drowsing again. By shifting his position, he caused a jab of pain from his broken leg, which brought him back to wakefulness. Then the deadly drowsiness returned. This time, he was wakened by a sharp voice, mingled with a throbbing sound that seemed part of a dream of the cannonading in the Argonne. "Dah! Look-a dah!" It was, he realized, Sergeant Williamson's voice.
"You must be quick, then," said Dawson, "'cause I'm in a hurry to get back." "Yais," smiled the Greek. "Bimeby he rain-a bad." "Rain?" queried Dawson incredulously. The air was like balm. "You see," the Greek nodded. "This-a way, sir. I go look-a quick." Dawson waited in the bar, where a dark, sallow bar-man stared him out of countenance for twenty minutes.
Over the sea, behind them, lay, black-stretching, a long low arm of island-shore; before them flamed the splendor of sun-death; they were sailing into a mighty glory, into a vast and awful light of gold. Shading his vision with his fingers, Sparicio pointed to the long lean limb of land from which they were fleeing, and said to La Brierre: "Look-a, Doct-a! Last-a Islan'!"
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