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Updated: June 13, 2025
'Why, now, paw says "You tell Maw Pettengill I might be willing to take 'em off her hands at fifty dollars a head," he says. 'I should think he might be, I says, 'but they ain't bothering my hands the least little mite. I like to have 'em on my hands at anything less than sixty a head, I says. 'Your pa, I went on, 'is the man that started this here safety-first cry.
Lysander John Pettengill, accompanied by one Buck Devine, a valued retainer, rode into the yard and dismounted. She at once looked searchingly about her. Then she raised her voice, which is a carrying voice even when not raised: "You, Jimmie Time!" Once was enough. The door of the bunk house swung slowly open and the disgraced one appeared in all his shameful panoply.
Here she was wrong. The letter inclosed a perfectly new note for four hundred and fifty dollars; and would Mrs. Pettengill send on the extra one hundred and fifty dollars that would enable the debtor to get on his feet and pay all his debts, as there was a good season of hog buying ahead of him! "I guessed wrong," admitted the lady.
Lysander John Pettengill, who has largely known life for sixty years and found it entertaining and good. And we had parted at an early nine, both tired from the work and the play that had respectively engaged us the day long. My candle had just been extinguished when three closely fired shots cracked the vast stillness of the night.
She had found she could really do it with a hairpin, and had held off for effect. Still, I wanted to be told. "Nothing easy like that," said Ma Pettengill. "She'd been honest with the hairpins. She didn't tell me till the day before they were leaving. 'It was a perfectly simple problem, requiring only a bit of thought, she says.
Ten-thirty, and me having to start the spring sport of ditch cleaning to-morrow morning at seven! Won't I ever learn! By the evening lamp in the Arrowhead living room I did my bit, for the moment, by holding a hank of gray wool for Ma Pettengill to wind. While this minor war measure went forward the day's mail came. From a canvas sack Lew Wee spilled letters and papers on the table.
"I never had a minute's doubt after that, for it was the eyes of one fascinated to a finish that he turned back on me half an hour later as he says: 'Really, Mrs. Pettengill, our Miss Hester is feminine to her finger tips, is she not? 'She is, she is, I answers.
It just shows how important my little actress friend is and look what she come up from!" I said I wouldn't mind looking what she come up from if she had started low enough to make it exciting. Ma Pettengill said she had that! She had come up from the gutter. She said that Vida Sommers, the idol of thousands, had been "a mere daughter of the people." Her eyes crinkled as she uttered this phrase.
The mistress herself finds it beyond her strength, even if the traces of rough work were not quite so distasteful to her. Miss Pettengill in her story of domestic service brings out the great part played by sooty dust, sifting in even through closed windows, in the burden of the waitress who is expected to keep the dining-room immaculate.
Ain't it lovely how men will dig up a license to give themselves all credit for hog luck they couldn't help! Ma Pettengill busied herself with a final cigarette and remarked that she never knew when to stop talking.
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