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Updated: June 11, 2025
The mouth was shrewd, but its expression was oddly contradicted by the eyes, which had on the whole a childish, weak look. "I think yer must leave it to me, 'Liza," he said at last. "I'll do all for the best." "No yer'll not, John," said the dying voice. "You'd a done a many stupid things if I 'adn't stopped yer. An' I'm a-goin'. You'll never leave it wi' Bessie?"
"An' who 'ud yer 'ave me leave it with? Ain't Bessie my own sister's child?" An emaciated hand stole out of the bed-clothes and fastened feebly on his arm. "If yer do, John, yer'll repent it. Yer never were a good one at judgin' folk. Yer doan't consider nothin' an' I'm a-goin'. Leave it with Saunders, John." There was a pause. Then John said with an obstinate look
"Thanky, Miss Annie," he said, after a momentary hesitation, "I dunno ez I keers ef I does tas'e a piece er dat ham, ef yer'll cut me off a slice un it." "No," said Annie, "I won't. Just sit down to the table and help yourself; eat all you want, and don't be bashful." Julius drew a chair up to the table, while my wife and I went out on the piazza.
Her face was flattened against the window in order to see what was going on below, for the electric arc-light at the corner made the street visible for the distance of a block. "I've dropped a crumb," said Freckles ruefully. "Pick it up then, or yer'll catch it Oh, my!"
Becky lifted her eyes at the sound of the voice. "Hello, Jake," she said faintly. "Hello, Becky, yer'll be all right soon, won't yer?" "I'm all right now," said Becky, sleepily, "and Tim's all right. He didn't get burnt, but the basket and all the pretty flowers did. If I could make another " "I'll make another for you," said Lizzie, pressing forward. "And hang it for Tim?" asked Becky.
'Twould 'a' meant half a day's wages garn if I'd com', and theer, my dear, 'ud been reason for another delay in oor getting spliced." "You're fine and vulgar, upon my word! A little free, too, and a little mistook. I've no mind ter get spliced, as yer carls it, wi' a chap as cannot see's way ter keep tryst." "Yer doan't mean thart?" "Doan't I? Yer'll answer fer me in everything, 't seems.
Aun' Sheba had heard and recognized his voice, and she went through the throng like a puffing tug through driftwood. "Mister Buggone," she said, with the sternness of fate, "ef yer doan stop yer noise you'se 'lowance stop heah and now. Yer'll hab ter wuck shuah or starbe, fer if yer doan come wid me now yer neber come agin." Uncle Sheba went away with her, meek as a lamb.
Truly, as the sheriff had said, "desperate characters will take desperate chances." "If yer open yer head or call out or make a noise wid yer feet or poun' de side o' de car or start a-bawlin' I'll brain ye, ye hear? Nobody gets me alive. An' if anybody comes in here 'cause o' you makin' a noise and cryin' fer help, yer'll be the fust to git croaked see?"
O bless us, Lord! O bless us now, we pray; Unless ye'll come an' bless us, Lord, We won't leave hyear ter day. "Deze chil'en, Lord; deze chil'en, Lord, O keep dey little feet Er gwine straight ter hebn, Lord, Fur ter walk dat golden street. "O bless us, Lord! O bless us, Lord! O come in all yer might; Unless yer'll come an' bless us, Lord, We'll wrestle hyear all night.
There ain't a balcony, but see there! there's the top of the bay windy and I can lean out why didn't yer tell me yer could play the guitar?" "Because I can't." "A harp, belike?" "No; guess again." "Yer no good; but yer'll come?" "Shurre; an' more be token it's at eight 'o the clock Oi'll be under yer windy." He gave the accent with such Celtic gusto that the little girl was captivated.
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