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Updated: May 12, 2025
Crabtree, consoling her in that she would not be far removed from her child, "you can almost see the brewery chimneys from the church tower." Those who knew the two ladies well were aware that there was some little slur intended by the allusion to brewery chimneys. Mrs. Crabtree's girl had married the third son of Sir Reginald Rattlepate.
If she meant to come she must come soon, he thought, but the rising moon distinctly showed the bare stile. She had written a long time ago. She was notoriously a rattlepate. Of course she would have forgotten. Then for a moment his straining eyes were puzzled. His gaze had not shifted even for an instant, yet the post at the left of the stile had unaccountably thickened.
"She trotted a smart mile over there. Everybody says so. Family tickled to death about her. Me, too, of course." "Of course." "Rattlepate, though." "Yes, sir," said Wilbur. When the old man had gone he looked out over the yellowing fields with a frank distaste for the level immensity.
Private Cowan nestled his cheek against the earthen side of his little slit trench and tried to remember what she had worn that last night in Newbern. Something glistening, warm in colour, like ripe fruit; and a rusty braid bound her head. She had watched, doubtfully, to see if people were not impatient at her talk. A rattlepate, old Sharon called her.
And Juliana, I guess she wasn't ever frivolous enough for marriage. And that Pat she'll pick out one of them boys with a head like a seal, that knows all the new dances and what fork to use. Trust her! Not that she didn't show Whipple stuff over there. But she's a rattlepate in peacetime." "Yes, sir," said Wilbur.
Up flew the Scarecrow and escaped falling into the stream only by the narrowest margin. "Blockhead!" shrilled the Rattlesnake, who had taken a great fancy to the Scarecrow. "I'm all right," cried the Scarecrow rather breathlessly. "Thank you very much!" He sprang nimbly up the bank. "Hope you have a pleasant vacation!" "Can't, with a rattlepate like that."
You are the most awful rattlepate " "There, now, on you go," said poor Kitty. "I'm a rattlepate, am I? It seems that I can never speak but I get into somebody's black books." "You don't get into mine, I am sure," said Elma. "But I think you ought to be greatly obliged to me for telling you what is your plain duty with regard to the Tug-of-war Society.
But you've been my boy in my fool mind I always had you for my boy, when you was little and when you went to war. You could of known that, and that was enough for you to know. Of course I never did think of you and Pat. That was too gosh-all perfect. Of course I called her a rattlepate, but she was my girl as much as you was my boy."
Nothing more strikingly attests the folly of freeing the negro than the unwillingness of the better class of slaves to leave their former owners " "Now you are going to quote a paragraph or so from your Gracious Era. As if I hadn't read everything you ever wrote! You are a fearful humbug in some ways, Rudolph." "And you are a red-headed rattlepate, madam.
I know I'm a rattlepate, but that's what I'm going to do. All of us mad about the war." Wilbur studied her as he had studied Merle. She was in better condition, he thought. She came only to his shoulder as he stood to seat her, but she was no longer bony. Her bones were neatly submerged.
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