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Updated: June 29, 2025
I put Sharley and Chrissie together, because they were both ten years old and did most of their lessons out of the same books. Next came another little pair: May, Ernest's younger sister, and Eustace. Last of all, the little ones: Ernest's youngest brother, Leslie, and Chrissie's youngest brother, Dick. These little boys were only six years old.
He had not neglected her in all his life before. It was not the habit, either, of this grave young man with the earnest eyes to do or not to do without a meaning. He would put silence and the winter between them. That was what he meant. Sharley, looking out upon the windy dark with straight-lidded eyes, knew that beneath and beyond the silence of the winter lay the silence of a life.
I daresay it's partly because they are just a little like their real names Percival and Quintin. 'What a great many of you there are! I said, but Sharley took my remark in perfectly good part, even though I went on to add 'It's like the baker's children I counted them once, but I couldn't get them right; sometimes they came to nine and sometimes to eleven.
It is the music and the dress-parade to-night, the groaning and the blood to-morrow. Sharley had been little more than a child, in her unreasoning young joy, when she knotted the barbe at her throat on Saturday night. "I am an old woman now," she said to herself on Monday morning.
"The butter is here now, and it's time to see about supper, Charlotte." "More calico!" said impatient Sharley, and she gave the baby a jerk. Whether he came or whether he did not come, there was no more time for Sharley to dream that night. In fact, there seldom was any time to dream in Mrs. Guest's household. Mrs. Guest believed in keeping people busy.
That's just about what we're put into this world for, and we're not fit to go out of it till we have found this out." Now the moralities of conversation were apt to glide off from Sharley like rain-drops from gutta-percha, and I cannot assert that these words would have made profound impression upon her had not Halcombe Dike's mother happened to say them.
"No, you don't, for I'm not looking at you." "But I am looking at you." "Oh!" "What were you crying about, Sharley!" "Because my grandmother's dead," said Sharley, after some reflection. "Ah, yes, I remember! about '36, I think, her tombstone gives as the date of that sad event?" "I think it's wicked in people to laugh at people's dead grandmothers," said Sharley, severely.
It was only the third or fourth time in my life I had ever been there, and I had never travelled for longer than half an hour or so, when granny had taken me, and once or twice Sharley and the others, to one of the neighbouring towns famed for their beautiful cathedrals. We travelled second class.
Her name is Charlotte, like one of yours, but we call her Sharley; we spell it with an "S" to prevent people calling her "Charley," for she is boyish enough already, I am afraid. Then I have three girls younger nine, six, and three, and two boys of
"It's this way, Auntie: We think I mean we're afraid that you're getting along so in life getting so old that we " "Who say Ise gittin' ole?" demanded Aunt Sharley, and she jerked her hands out of the dough she was kneading. "We both think so I mean we all think so," corrected Emmy Lou. "Who do you mean by we all? Does you mean dat young Mistah Winslow, Esquire, late of de North?"
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