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"It was penned by an underling at the Wells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing." "Sir, About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so much so this year that there was nobody allmost. We did a mear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be sad to be in the last Stag of a Decline.
Gass to complete the observation of equal altitudes and joined them in the evening at their camp on the Lard. side just above the entrance of turf creek. we had a shower of rain wich continued about 40 minutes attended with thunder and lightning. this shower wet me perfectly before I reached the camp. the clouds continued during the night in such manner that I was unable to obtain any lunar observations.
Sims, despite her piteous entreaties, was arrested and brought before the magistrate. Her appeals for mercy were heart-rending. "'Ho, mercy, your washup; mercy, Mr. Worrell. Wich I thinks hit were that dratted dorg. Don't 'ang me. I never hintended But Worrell was inexorable. "'But you said you would kill me, you would murder me, and you nearly did murder me.
From p. 234 of 'Inglish Littracher 1890-1900' bi T. K. Nupton, publishd bi th Stait, 1992: 'Fr egzarmpl, a riter ov th time, naimd Max Beerbohm, hoo woz stil alive in th twentieth senchri, rote a stauri in wich e pautraid an immajnari karrakter kauld "Enoch Soames" a thurd-rait poit hoo beleevz imself a grate jeneus an maix a bargin with th Devvl in auder ter no wot posterriti thinx ov im!
'Yes, sir; hand that dratted dog Carlo, hevery mornin', when hi goes to hair your sheets, gives me ha start with growlin' hat me from hunder the bed-clothes, wich 'e wraps 'isself hup hin hevery mornin', sir, like has hif 'e were a Christian. Now, sir, hi'm ready to slave hand wear myself hout for you, but has for slavin' for a dirty cur and a French brat, hi've no need to, han' hi won't. He.
And her mother whipped her again. And the wich pie made her sick. And she died. She couldn't det well, 'cause the dottor he didn't come. He couldn't come. There wasn't any dottor. He was eated up by tigers. Isn't that a nice 'tory?" The girls laughed so hard over Rosy's story that, much abashed, she hid her face in Kitty's lap, and wouldn't raise it for a long time. Eyebright tried to comfort her.
I received a letter addressed in a peculiar but not ornate hand, and I opened it with misgivings and read it with consternation. MR. STANHOPE SIR: Prudence and I thinks youd better come home. The plummer was hear twice yisterday and the cutworms is awfle. Hero got glass in her foot and the brown tale moths is bad again wich is al for the presnt. Respecfuly
Dear Liz, i am doing very well and i will tell you a secret i am going to be rekermended for the V.C. becos i done so well in the trenches. i don't feel a bit fritened wich is nice, and, dear Liz, i hope to be made Lance Corpril soon as my officer is so ..." And here it ended, this letter from a liar. I balanced it on my knee and wondered what to do with it.
"Wich is it you mean, massa, dis one?" said Peter, purposely mistaking and turning to Foster. "Oh! you needn't ask about him. He not wuff his salt. I could tell him at a mile off for a lazy, useless feller. Gib more trouble dan he's wuff. Dere now, dis looks a far better man," he added, laying hold of the thin sprightly youth and turning him round. "What d'ye t'ink ob dis one?"
'Too true, too true, indeed, said Mrs. Weller, murmuring a groan, and shaking her head assentingly. 'Well, said Sam, 'I des-say they may be, sir; but wich is your partickler wanity? Wich wanity do you like the flavour on best, sir? 'Oh, my dear young friend, replied Mr. Stiggins, 'I despise them all. If, said Mr.
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