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"That weren't good sherry," said Uncle Pentstemon with the first note of pathos Mr. Polly had detected in his quavering voice. The funeral in the rather cold wind had proved wonderfully appetising, and every eye brightened at the sight of the cold collation that was now spread in the front room. Mrs. Johnson was very brisk, and Mr. Polly, when he re-entered the house found everybody sitting down.
"If ever I'd 'ad a grizzler I'd up and 'it 'er on the 'ed with sumpthin' pretty quick. I don't think I could abide a grizzler," said Uncle Pentstemon. "I'd liefer 'ave a lump-about like that other gal. I would indeed. I lay I'd make 'er stop laughing after a bit for all 'er airs. And mind where her clumsy great feet went....
"Nicer girls no one ever 'ad though I say it who shouldn't." Mrs. Johnson in a shrill clear hospitable voice: "Harold, won't Mrs. Larkins 'ave a teeny bit more fowl?" Mr. Polly rising to the situation. "Or some brawn, Mrs. Larkins?" Catching Uncle Pentstemon's eye: "Can't send you some brawn, sir?" "Elfrid!" Loud hiccup from Uncle Pentstemon, momentary consternation followed by giggle from Annie.
Here begins the manzanita, adjusting its tortuous stiff stems to the sharp waste of boulders, its pale olive leaves twisting edgewise to the sleek, ruddy, chestnut stems; begins also the meadowsweet, burnished laurel, and the million unregarded trumpets of the coral-red pentstemon. Wild life is likely to be busiest about the lower pine borders.
Opposite him was Miriam and another of the Johnson circle, and also he had brawn to carve and there was hardly room for the helpful Betsy to pass behind his chair, so that altogether his mind would have been amply distracted from any mortuary broodings, even if a wordy warfare about the education of the modern young woman had not sprung up between Uncle Pentstemon and Mrs.
"That Annie?" asked Uncle Pentstemon, pointing a horny thumb-nail. "Fancy your remembering her name!" "She mucked up my mushroom bed, the baggage!" said Uncle Pentstemon ungenially, "and I give it to her to rights. Trounced her I did fairly. I remember her. Here's some green stuff for you, Grace. Fresh it is and wholesome.
Punt and her son had escaped across the road, the son trailing and stumbling at the end of a remorseless arm, but Uncle Pentstemon, encumbered by the tea-caddy, was the centre of a little circle of his own, and appeared to be dratting them all very heartily. Remoter, a policeman approached with an air of tranquil unconsciousness. "Steady, you idiot. Stead-y!" cried Mr.
For a touch of color she margined one side of her drawing with a little spray of Pentstemon whose bright tubular flower the canyon knew as "hummingbird's dinner horn."
"Oh, I came" said Uncle Pentstemon. "I came." He turned on Mrs. Larkins. "Gals in service?" he asked. "They aren't and they won't be," said Mrs. Larkins. "No," he said with infinite meaning, and turned his eye on Mr. Polly. "You Lizzie's boy?" he said. Mr. Polly was spared much self-exposition by the tumult occasioned by further arrivals. "Ah! here's May Punt!" said Mrs.
Hadn't they after all wanted him to marry her? Because if that was the case ! He became aware for the first time of the presence of Uncle Pentstemon in the background, but approaching, wearing a tie of a light mineral blue colour, and grinning and sucking enigmatically and judiciously round his principal tooth. It was in the vestry that the force of Mr.
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