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Updated: May 18, 2025
"Oh! very well, and I will wait here," said Mr Sudberry, seating himself on a large stone, and pulling out his letters. Seeing this, the gypsy got up again, and looked cautiously along the road, first to the right and then to the left. No human being was in sight. Mr Sudberry observed the act, and felt uncomfortable. "You'd better go for help, sir," said the man, coming forward.
In the course of that day Mr Sudberry and his boys learned a great deal about their new home from McAllister, whom they found intelligent, shrewd, and well-informed on any topic they chose to broach; even although he was, as Mr Sudberry said in surprise, "quite a common man, who wore corduroy and wrought in his fields like a mere labourer."
"You'd better send Jacky inside, my dear." "Ah, he may as well remain where he is," replied Mr Sudberry, whose imperfect hearing led him to suppose that his spouse had said, "Jacky's inside, my dear!" whereas the real truth was that the boy was neither out nor inside. Master Jacky, be it known, had a remarkably strong will of his own.
Mr Sudberry shut his window, and George, hearing the noise, leaped out of bed with the violence that is peculiar to vigorous youth. Fred yawned. "What a magnificent day!" said George, rubbing his hands, and slapping himself preparatory to ablutions; "I will shoot." "Will you a-ow?" yawned Fred: "I shall sketch. I mean to begin with the old woman's hut."
Meanwhile, he sat down and gloated over the jam tart, devouring it in imagination. "Is that water boiling yet?" cried Mr Sudberry. "Just about it. Hand me the eggs, Fred." "Here they are," cried Flora, going towards the fire with a basket. She looked very sweet at that moment, for the active operations in which she had been engaged had flushed her cheeks and brightened her eyes.
He was also elated at the thought of firing at real wild birds and animals his experiences with the gun having hitherto been confined to the unromantic practice of a shooting-gallery in Regent Street. "Success to you, George," cried Mr Sudberry, waving his hand to his son, as the latter was about to enter a ravine.
They went to a particular spot, which Lucy had named the Sunny Knoll, and there learned hymns off by heart, which were repeated at night, and commented on by Mr Sudberry. After supper they all got into what is called "a talk." It were presumptuous to attempt to explain what that means. Everyone knows what it is.
This infirmity, coupled with an uncommon capacity for upsetting ink-bottles, had induced him to hire a small clerk, whose principal duties were to mend pens, wipe up ink, and, generally, to attend to the removal of debris. When Mr Sudberry slept he did it profoundly.
Dan is so kind, though he does not speak much, and Hugh too. They will be sure to find them, darling mamma!" The sweet voice and the hopeful heart of the child did what philosophy had failed to accomplish Mrs Sudberry was comforted. Thus we see, not that philosophy is a vain thing, but that philosophy and feeling are distinct, and that each is utterly powerless in the domain of the other.
"That is a dreadful account, no doubt," said Mr Sudberry, "but you must remember that Lady Knownothing is given to exaggerating, and is therefore not to be depended on. Have you done with the cons?" "Not nearly done, John, but my nervous system cannot stand the sustained contemplation of such things.
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