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Updated: June 26, 2025
She could beat up biscuits that fell apart at the lightest pressure, revealing little pools of golden butter within. Oh, Pearlie could cook! On week days Pearlie rattled the typewriter keys, but on Sundays she shooed her mother out of the kitchen. Her mother went, protesting faintly: "Now, Pearlie, don't fuss so for dinner.
She had promised to get out a long and intricate bill for Max Baum, who travels for Kuhn and Klingman, so that he might take the nine o'clock evening train. The irrepressible Max had departed with much eclat and clatter, and Pearlie was preparing to go home when Sam approached her.
It gave her many hours of freedom for gadding and gossiping. "Pa, will you look after Pearlie for a little while this morning? I got to run downtown to match something and she gets so tired and mean-acting if I take her along. Ma's going with me." He loved the feel of Pearlie's small, velvet-soft hand in his big fist. He called her "little feller," and fed her forbidden dainties.
Her teeth like little shining pearls, Oh, she's my queen of all the girls, My little twirly-whirly, pearlie Girlie!" Ruth and Fibsy finished the silly little song in concert, and Stone clapped his hands in applause. Rhoda sniffed and Sarah acidly remarked: "How can you, Ruth? I wish you'd be a little more dignified." Quickly the light went out of Ruth's eyes.
Patsey, looking up from his self-appointed task of brushing the legs of the stove with the hair-brush, loudly demanded that the story should begin at once. "Story, is it?" cried Pearlie in her wrath, as she took the hair-brush from Patsey. "What time have I to be thinkin' of stories and you that full of badness. My heart is bruck wid ye."
"She can lave a note half turned up in the air, and go off and lave it, and ye'd think she'd forgot where she left it, but never a fear o' ma, two days afther she'll rache up for it and bring it down and slip off into the choon agin, nate as nate." On this particular day Mrs. Watson sang because she couldn't help it, for Pearlie was coming home
The widow mourns, and the little children weep comfortless in their mountain home, and the wind rushes through the forest, and the river foams furiously down the mountain, falling in billows of lace over the rocks, and the sun shines over all, cold and pitiless. "Why, Pearlie Watson, what are you crying for?" Mrs. Francis whispered severely. Pearl's sobs had disturbed her.
Pearlie could take a piece of rump and some suet and an onion and a cup or so of water, and evolve a pot roast that you could cut with a fork. She could turn out a surprisingly good cake with surprisingly few eggs, all covered with white icing, and bearing cunning little jelly figures on its snowy bosom.
"Really, how very interesting; I must see if Dr. Parker mentions this strange phenomenon in his book." "Please, ma'am, I think I had better take him home now," said Pearlie. She knew what Danny was, and was afraid that greater disgrace might await her. But when she tried to get him back into the blanket he lost every joint in his body and slipped to the floor.
Pearlie, sitting on the porch, could see them dimly, although they could not see her. She could not help remarking that these strolling couples were strangely lacking in sprightly conversation. Their remarks were but fragmentary, disjointed affairs, spoken in low tones with a queer, tremulous note in them.
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