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Updated: June 22, 2025
On her way to her room that sultry June night Sophy had encountered the persistent Tack. Ella Morrissey, up in her room, was fathoms deep in work. It was barely eight o'clock and there was a wonderful opal sky a June twilight sky, of which Paris makes a specialty all grey and rose and mauve and faint orange. "Somebody's looking mighty sweet to-night in her new Paris duds!"
Morrissey and her two children, who were taken prisoners and carried off by the Indians, but shortly afterward were surrendered to the government. Early in the morning of the same day the Indians attacked the Godfrey ranch. There were living there Mr. Godfrey, better known as Old Ricket; his wife; his daughter, a girl of fourteen years; and two other white men.
I saw a man get up the other day in a pleasant company, and talk away for about five minutes, evidently by a pure effort of will. His person was good, his voice was pleasant, but anybody could see that it was all mechanical labor; he was sparring for wind, as the Hon. John Morrissey, M. C., would express himself. Presently,
Louis Post-Dispatch of August 20, contains a half-page puff of one John Morrissey, who seems to be a peripatetic iconoclast who has started out with a Bible in one hand, and a free lunch in the other to abolish preachers.
A cup of tea, anyway. Isn't there some little cool fool place where I can be comfortable on a hot day like this where we can talk comfortably? I've got at least an hour's conversation in me." With the first sip of her first cup of tea, Ethel Morrissey began to unload that burden of conversation. "Emma, this is the best thing that could have happened to you. Oh, yes, it is.
Adams, Archer, Axtell, Barnes, Barnum, Beck, Boyer, Brooks, Burr, Cary, Chanler, Eldridge, Fox, Getz, Glossbrenner, Galladay, Grover, Haight, Holman, Hotchkiss, Richard D. Hubbard, Morrissey, Mungen, Niblack, Nicholson, Phelps, Pruyn, Randall, Ross, Sitgreaves, Stewart, Stone, Taber, Lawrence S. Trimble, Van Auken, Van Trump, Wood and Woodward 47. On motion of Mr.
Chip off the old block, that boy." So he had the men, too! It was in this frame of mind that Miss Ethel Morrissey found her on the morning that she came into New York on her semi-annual buying-trip. Ethel Morrissey, plump, matronly-looking, quiet, with her hair fast graying at the sides, had nothing of the skittish Middle Western buyer about her.
She might have passed for the mother of a brood of six if it were not for her eyes the shrewd, twinkling, far-sighted, reckoning eyes of the business woman. She and Emma McChesney had been friends from the day that Ethel Morrissey had bought her first cautious bill of Featherlooms. Her love for Emma McChesney had much of the maternal in it.
Ethel Morrissey, whose friendship dated back to the days when Emma McChesney had sold Featherlooms through the Middle West, used to say laughingly, her plump, comfortable shoulders shaking, "Emma, if you ever give me away by telling how many years I've been buying Featherlooms of you, I'll I'll call down upon you the spinster's curse." Early Monday morning, Mrs.
By this time crowds began to assemble at the place of rendezvous before alluded to, and word was brought us that the Reverend Mr. Morrissey, the parish priest of that place, was endeavouring to disperse them. Owing to his character, there was not much to be apprehended from his influence with the people.
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