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Updated: June 16, 2025
It was, of course, the shape and color of the thing he had once loved; but you can't feed a hungry heart by staring at a pair of glass eyes and a wired tail without any wag in it. Saturday the Ninth Struthers and I have been busy making clothes, during the absence of Dinky-Dunk, who has been off duck-shooting for the last three days.
Before I knew where I was the fellow in charge called them to attention and then gave 'Eyes right!" "What did you do?" asked Struthers anxiously. "I hadn't time to do anything except grin, and say, 'Good morning!" confessed Bobby Little. "You were perfectly right," announced Struthers, and Cockerell murmured assent. "Are you sure?" persisted Bobby Little.
There weren't three of us unwounded. The house was a wreck. Wilbur had a broken nose. "Chick" Struthers' kneecap hurt. "Lima" Bean's ribs were telescoped, and there wasn't a good shin in the house. We quit in disgust and sat around looking at Ole. He was sitting around, too. He happened to be sitting on Bangs, who was yelling for help. But we didn't feel like starting any relief expedition.
I can see death and destruction hanging over the glassware of this household.... The weather has been stormy, and yesterday Whinnie and Struthers put up the stove in the bunk-house. They were a long time about it, but I was reluctant to stop the flutterings of Cupid's wings. Tuesday the Twelfth
"Isn't that 'er, all over?" demanded Struthers, forgetting her place and her position and even her aspirate in the excitement of the moment. But I handed back the paper without comment. For a day, however, Lady Allie has loomed large in my thoughts. Sunday the Thirteenth It will be two weeks to-morrow since I've had a line from Dinky-Dunk.
Wilbur Daniel Steele and Katharine Fullerton Gerould are still at the head of their craft. But during the past year the ten published stories by Maxwell Struthers Burt and Charles Caldwell Dobie seem to promise a future in our literature of equal importance to the later work of these writers.
SOUTH YARMOUTH, MASSACHUSETTS Twelfth Night, 1916 From Scribner's Magazine Copyright, 1915, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Copyright, 1916, by Maxwell Struthers Burt. Some men are like the twang of a bow-string. Hardy was like that short, lithe, sunburned, vivid.
Beale, Cosins, Sterne, Martin, Laney, masters, from their Masterships in Cambridge University, and, subject to the Assembly's approval, nominated Mr. Palmer, Mr. Arrowsmith, Mr. Vines, Mr. Seaman, and Mr. Young in their places. The Assembly offered their congratulations, but desired that their brethren should meanwhile not be withdrawn from the Assembly." Mr. Struthers adds that, though Dr.
I told Struthers, who was still a bit quavery and excited, to sit down and we'd talk the matter over, for rustling maids, in a land where they're as scarce as hen's teeth, is a much graver crime than rustling cattle. Yet if Lady Allie had taken my husband away from me, I didn't see why, in the name of poetic justice, I shouldn't appropriate her hand-maid.
"Never having known the divine passion, it ain't for me to judge, but I tightened on his voice-box and whispered: "'You've outlived your period of usefulness, Struthers, and it's time to go. Let us part friends, however. So I bade him Godspeed from the top step. "Looking back on the evening now, that adieu was my only mistake. I limped for a week he had a bottle in his hip pocket."
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