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Updated: May 7, 2025
See also Shurtleff and Pulsifer, Records of Plymouth, 12 vols., ending with the annexation of the colony to Massachusetts in 1692; Prince's Chronological History of New England, ed.
One whole day he preached, striving for the treasures in that to come. You could not lay a finger on a weak spot in his moral armor, but Tip Pulsifer protected from the assaults of Satan only by a shield of human skin, always seemed to me the better of the two. Tip wore leaky boots all last winter, but when spring came he bought Mrs. Pulsifer a sewing machine.
Ma Pulsifer is bitin' her lip; but she's right there with the soothin' words. "Please, Dear," says she, "let me go. They want you to finish your story." It was a happy touch, that last. Pa Pulsifer recovers his napkin, settles back in his chair, and goes on with the tale, while Mother slips out quiet.
Pulsifer flutterin' to town, all smiles and greatly excited. Where was the wedding to be? And the reception? Not in this stuffy little hotel suite, she hopes! Why not at Crag Oaks, her place near Lenox? There was the dearest little ivy-covered church! And a perfectly charming rector! Then Sister Marjorie is called in. Sure, she was strong for the frilly stuff.
He gets his perfecto goin' nicely, blows a couple of smoke rings up towards the ceilin', and then remarks in sort of a weak growl: "Hanged if I'll walk down a church aisle, Maria hanged if I do!" "I told them you wouldn't," says Ma Pulsifer, smoothin' the hair back over his ears soothin'; "so they've agreed on a simple home wedding, with only four bridesmaids." "Huh!" says he.
So did I, for more reasons than one. What I wanted was peace, and plenty of it, with Vee more or less disengaged. Nothin' could have been more promisin' either than the openin' of that first dinner party. Pa Pulsifer had showed up about six o'clock from the Country Club, with his rugged, hand-hewed face tinted up cheery.
"No, I'm going to sit awhile and smoke," I answered jauntily, "and talk to Captain." Tim was leaving the valley. We tied his tin trunk on the back of the buggy and he climbed to the seat beside me. Tip Pulsifer handed him a great cylindrical parcel, bound in a newspaper, and my brother held it reverently in his lap; for it was a chocolate cake, six layers high, that Mrs.
It landed on the floor and went rolling across the room. Tim made a dive for it. He groped his way to the corner where its career had ended. Then he lighted it again. Behind us stood the doctor, and Mrs. Tip Pulsifer, and Elmer Spiker's much better half. Mary was at the head of the stairs. "Come, Tim," she called. "Mr. Weston wants to see you."
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