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Updated: June 4, 2025
"What do you think of him?" he asked. "He's adorable," declared Honora. Would you like to try him?" "Oh might I? Sometime?" "Why not to-day now?" he said. "I'll send him over to your house and have your saddle put on him." Before Honora could protest Mrs. Chandos came forward. "It's awfully sweet of you, Trixy, to offer to send me to Fanny's, but Warry says he will drive me over.
Why he's jest the best ever happened 't least the best ever happened 'round this end o' the bush. Lives down to ; better not tell you right where he lives, for I stirred up th' letters in his name, so 'f any of his friends heerd you tell th' story they won't know it's on him; fer he's jest that good I'd rather hurt anybody, 'cept my woman or bird, than hurt him. "Warry!
The Shan dialect is quite distinct from the Chinese, but all the princes or princelets dress in Chinese fashion and learn Mandarin, and it was of course in Mandarin that the Santa Sawbwa conversed with Mr. Warry. This Sawbwa is the son-in-law of the ex-Wuntho Sawbwa. He rules over a territory smaller than many squatters' stations in Victoria.
But it's gettin' a leetle hard for Warry late years fish 's come to know him so well that after he's made a few casts 'n' hooked one or two that's got away, they know his tricks so well they just passes the word 'round, 'n' it's 'pike' for th' pike, 'beat it' for th' bass, 'trot' for th' trout, 'n' 'skip' for the salmon, until now, after th' first day or two, 'bout all Warry can get in reach of 's mud turtles.
Brent threw back his head and laughed. "You haven't got it anyway, Warry," he cried. Mr. Trowbridge, who resembled a lean and greying Irish terrier, maintained that he had. "It's a pity you don't ride, Lula. I understand that that's one of the best preventives for gout. I bought a horse last week that would just suit you an ideal woman's horse. He's taken a couple of blue ribbons this summer."
'N' darned if I could ever quite figure out why, 'n' him so smart, 'nless because he goes poundin' through the bush like a bunch o' shantymen to their choppin', with his head stuck in his stummick, studyin' some new trick to play on a trout, makin' so much noise th' deer must nigh laugh theirselves to death at him a-packin' o' a gun. "Hunt? Warry? Does he hunt?
"Can't you come over to my box for lunch? I've asked Lula Chandos and Warry Trowbridge." It was not without appropriateness that Trixton Brent called his house the "Box." It was square, with no pretensions to architecture whatever, with a porch running all the way around it.
Warry, so many years consul at Smyrna, of the astonishment and envy of his mother's neighbours, at Sawbridgeworth, in Hants, where his father had a country house, when he ran home and came back with an umbrella, which he had just brought from Leghorn, to shelter them from a pelting shower which detained them in the church porch, after the service, on one summer Sunday. From Mr.
"No doubt ye are corrict." "Then let's do it without throwing away another moment." He turned hurriedly to carry out his own purpose, when his comrade laid his hand on his arm and detained him. "I think, Warry," he said, in a low voice, "that ye've forgot one matter yer fayther, mither, and Dot." "Gracious! how came I to do that?
Why, say! youse couldn't no more keep a gun from rustin' in this wet bush 'thout hot water than Warry Hilliams can kill anything goin' faster than three-legged deer. "Rust! Youse might 'a well try to catch a habitaw goin' to a weddin' 'thout more ribbons on his bridle 'n' harness than his gal has on her gown 's hunt for rust in a hot-watered gun!"
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