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Updated: June 5, 2025
Sunday children don't run away, they don't, and good girls mind their mother." "I do." "A tough one to mind you are." "Do, too, Mr. Podge. Want to go home now." "You can't stop the horse." "I can. Whoa!" But he did not stop, for his master slyly urged him on. She was in earnest now: she really wanted to go home, and she called "Whoa!" again, but the old horse still jogged on.
But our esteem for facts has not neutralized in us all religiousness. It is itself almost religious. Our scientific temper is devout. Now take a man of this type, and let him be also a philosophic amateur, unwilling to mix a hodge- podge system after the fashion of a common layman, and what does he find his situation to be, in this blessed year of our Lord 1906?
What silly things you may have heard us say." "Dear girl," exclaimed Duff Salter, "nothing which I heard from your lips ever affected me except to love you. You cured me of years of suspicion, and I consented to hear again. The world grew candid to me; its sounds were melodious, its silence was sincere. It is you who are deaf. You cannot hear my heart." "I hear no other's, at least," said Podge.
Failing noted the half official way in which she vouched for her lover. "But of course Rickie is a little complicated. I doubt whether Mr. Wonham would understand him. He wants doesn't he? some one who's a little more assertive and more accustomed to boys. Some one more like my brother." "Agnes!" she seized her by the arm. "Do you suppose that Mr. Pembroke would undertake my Podge?"
Duff Salter looked a little wondering out of those calm gray eyes and his strong, yet benevolent Scotch-Irish countenance. Podge, who now talked freely with Agnes in his presence, said confidently: "I believe I can tantalize this good old granny by giving him doubts about me! I am real bad, Aggy; you know that! It is no story to tell it!"
"Yes," added Podge Byerly, "the woman who writes anonymous letters, I think, will have a cancer, or wart on her eye, or marry a bow-legged man. The resurrectionists will get her body, and the primary class in the other world will play whip-top with the rest of her." Agnes and Podge went to church prayer-meeting the night following Calvin Van de Lear's repulse at their dwelling, and Mr.
"I generally drink from half to three-quarters of a cup of black coffee, or nearly black, every morning at from eleven to five minutes past, so as to keep off hypersomnia. It's the best thing, the doctor says." "Aren't you afraid," I said, "of its keeping you awake?" "I am," answered Podge, and a spasm passed over his big yellow face. "I'm always afraid of insomnia. That's the worst thing of all.
"You did, eh!" "I did." "I knew you was a stranger all the time." "But I ain't." "No?" "No. I am Flora Lee." "And who am I?" "You are Mr. Podge." "Podge?" "You are." "Not if I know myself." "You are, too, Mr. Hodge Podge. That's what you told me. Don't you remember your own name?"
We shot two, both of which Podge dived after and retrieved, to the unbounded joy both of ourselves and his four-footed chums, who more than gladly shared the carcasses with him later. A friend, returning from an island, was jogging quietly along on the bay ice, when his team suddenly went wild.
He must learn more about pigs. He witnessed a performance not too namby-pamby of Punch and Judy. "Hullo, Podge!" cried a naughty little girl. He tried to catch her, and failed. She was one of the Cadford children. For Salisbury on market day, though it is not picturesque, is certainly representative, and you read the names of half the Wiltshire villages upon the carriers' carts.
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