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Updated: May 12, 2025
Necessity soon suggested a plan. My "picker" a piece of straight wire with a ring-end hung from one of my breast buttons. This I took hold of, and bent into the shape of a grappling-hook.
Missy knew it must have gone hard with him to be put in the wrong by Mr. Picker. "Oh, father, I'm sorry! I really am!" Father patted her hand. He was an angel. "Did you bring it home?" brightening at a thought. "Bring what home?" asked father. "Why, the candy." "Of course not." "I don't see why, if you had to pay for it. The bottom part wasn't hurt at all." Father laughed then, actually laughed.
Picker, carrying his noon mail, was Rev. MacGill. "Here! What's this?" demanded Mr. Picker. Then she heard Arthur, that craven-hearted, traitor-souled being she had once called "friend," that she had even desired to impress, she heard him saying: "I don't know, Mr. Picker. She just came riding in " Mr.
She was a picker of cotton. She labored at the sugar mill and in the tobacco factory. When, through weariness or sickness, she had fallen behind her allotted task, then came, as punishment, the fearful stripes upon her shrinking, lacerated flesh. "Her home life was of the most degrading nature.
Even then the wire-spring energy was hers that still puzzled her mother energy and an ever-present determination to get ahead. Sometimes she caught enough fish to sell a few. Sometimes she carried rabbits into the town for sale. In blackberry season she was an indefatigable picker. She went in for chickens and had steady customers in Louisville for her guaranteed eggs.
When a boll was wide open a deft picker could empty all of its compartments by one snatch of the fingers; and a specially skilled one could keep both hands flying independently, and still exercise the small degree of care necessary to keep the lint fairly free from the trash of the brittle dead calyxes.
It was warm and thawing so that the dead horse across the street, with the hugely swollen body, threw off an offensive odor. "Smells like the good ol' summer time," said the boy, nodding his head toward the horse and addressing the rag picker who was pulling a burlap sack into the basement. "Like ta getta da skin. No good now though," replied Luigi. "You gotta da rent money, Nucky?"
For what would he have to support Dea? What would have become of that poor child, the sweet blind girl who loved him? Without his rictus, which made him a clown without parallel, he would have been a mountebank, like any other; a common athlete, a picker up of pence from the chinks in the pavement, and Dea would perhaps not have had bread every day.
In spite of its name, it is not a grass but a flowering plant whose stalk has a tough fibre useful in making cordage and paper. When the plant turns brown and has become dry to the root, the esparto picker gets busy. By four o'clock in the morning he is at work, his heavy woollen baracan, or blanket, wrapped tightly about him, for the air is not only chilly but almost freezing cold.
"They all says 'why don't folks build their own houses'; they does always be talking about Mike Callahan and how well he saved up and owns a pritty place for himself convanient to his work. You might tell them he'd money left him by a brother in California till you'd be black in the face, they'd stick to it 'twas in the picker he earnt it from themselves," grumbled Mary Cassidy.
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