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Updated: June 20, 2025
It took six good days of such chorus work to get every odd job at The Briers nicely finished up, and daddy and the mayor and Colonel Menefee mended all the rail fences before they rested on the seventh. Then on Monday morning came the log-raising for the poet's lodge, and everybody assembled long before Sam had nicked the last log with his great big adz.
"Oh, Miss Garland!" interposed Judge Menefee, with uplifted hand, "I beg of you, no comments! It would not be fair to the other contestants. Mr. er will you take the next turn?" The Judge addressed the young man who had the Agency. "My version of the romance," began the young man, diffidently clasping his hands, "would be this: They did not quarrel when they parted. Mr.
"Look out that you don't get put in the play on the other side of the footlights, Hayes," said the mayor, slapping daddy on the back. "Be careful how you have a poet sitting around your house." "The South has long waited to have a genius come down and write a fitting epic about her Homeric drama of Civil War, Elizabeth," said old Colonel Menefee.
More deeply pitched than the clarion even orchestral in volume the voice of Judge Menefee proclaimed the succour that lay in apposition with their state of travail. The one room of the house was uninhabited, he said, and bare of furniture; but it contained a great fireplace, and they had discovered an ample store of chopped wood in a lean-to at the rear.
Hear our modest tales of romance, and then award the prize as you may deem it just." The lady passenger smiled sweetly. The apple lay in her lap beneath her robes and wraps. She reclined against her protecting bulwark, brightly and cosily at ease. But for the voices and the wind one might have listened hopefully to hear her purr. Someone cast fresh logs upon the fire. Judge Menefee nodded suavely.
"The apple," continued Judge Menefee, charging his jury, "in modern days occupies, though undeservedly, a lowly place in our esteem. Indeed, it is so constantly associated with the culinary and the commercial that it is hardly to be classed among the polite fruits. But in ancient times this was not so.
So he pulled up his four stout horses, and delivered to his five passengers oral deductions of his wisdom. Judge Menefee, to whom men granted leadership and the initiatory as upon a silver salver, sprang from the coach at once.
The lady was sleeping sweetly. The Judge essayed to take her hand to awaken her. In doing so he touched a small, cold, round, irregular something in her lap. "She has eaten the apple," announced Judge Menefee, in awed tones, as he held up the core for them to see. I stopped overnight at the sheep-ranch of Rush Kinney, on the Sandy Fork of the Nueces. Mr.
Fifty yards above the upper fence, showing a dark blot in the white drifts, stood a small house. Upon this house descended or rather ascended Judge Menefee and his cohorts with boyish whoops born of the snow and stress. They called; they pounded at window and door. At the inhospitable silence they waxed restive; they assaulted and forced the pregnable barriers, and invaded the premises.
"Apples like them," said the windmill man, lingering with the objective article, "are worth $3.50 a barrel in the Chicago market." "Now, what I have to propose," said Judge Menefee, conceding an indulgent smile to his interrupter, "is this: We must remain here, perforce, until morning. We have wood in plenty to keep us warm.
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