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Updated: May 5, 2025
"I was just afther telling the Missis, Mary, how careful you are of the Polean pitcher you used to rush the growler with for your poor dear father," said Katie, with a shy grin that was gone before we fairly saw it. Mary turned away without a word. She never spoke to me on the subject, nor I to her.
I think it was the "Polean pitcher." End of the story end of the chapter end of the book! And what could be more satisfactory than the ending of the old fairy-tales, "and so they were married, and lived happy ever after"? Not for them the strenuous adjustment of temper and temperament, of extravagance and poverty, with the divorce court at the end of the second year.
"Because she says her father used to send her every night, when she was a little girl, to get his Polean pitcher filled with beer. She says she minds him every time she looks at it Gahd rest his soul." I turned and looked at the little squat figure of Napoleon. It was the pitcher the little man had given Mary for getting our trade for him, when we were first married.
She has now what she calls his Polean pitcher " "His what?" "Shure I don't know! But she says it is. It's got a man on the outside, and you pours out of his three-cornered hat." "Oh, yes," I said. "I remember now. What did you say she called it?" "There it is now, on the shelf above your head. But how it got there, I don't know. And Mary would be throwing fits if she saw it." "Why?"
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