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"What's a C. B.?" asked Mrs. Kidder anxiously. "A Companion of the Bath." "My goodness! Whose bath?" "The Bath of Royalty. We say it with a capital B." "My! How awkward for your King. And what was done about it when you had only a Queen on the throne?" "You must inquire of the chamberlains," I replied. "But about that trip of ours.
"What a kidder!" says I. "But if you will delay the champion hen expert of the country," and I nods to Old Hickory, "just send word up to Mr. Nash that Mr. Skellings has come with that pair of silver-slashed blue Orpingtons he wanted to see." "Blue which?" says the guard. "Ah, take a look!" says I. "Ain't they some birds? Gold medal winners, both of 'em."
I was dear little thirteen-year-old Beechy Kidder, who wasn't telling fibs about her age, because she was thirteen, and was it anybody's business if she were something more besides? I looked at my bracelet-watch, which I had tucked under my pillow last night.
"Oh, ain't you the kidder!" smiled Masie. "How many other girls did you ever tell that?" But Carter persisted. And at length he reached the flimsy, fluttering little soul of the shopgirl that existed somewhere deep down in her lovely bosom. His words penetrated the heart whose very lightness was its safest armor. She looked up at him with eyes that saw. And a warm glow visited her cool cheeks.
Jim, you and I ought to go into the movies we'd have a six reeler called The Kids of Kidder Lake or Fido of Frying-pan Island. How's that strike you? Most of those kids don't need any pistols, they can kill time without them. We've got some dead ones over there, Jim, only they haven't got sense enough to lie down. What do you bet we don't get some gas in this house?
Kathryn Stanley Kidder, of Denver, Colorado. My little girl, here she's all I've got in the world since Mr. Kidder died is Beatrice, but we call her Beechy for short. We used to spell it B-i-c-e, which Mr. Kidder said was Italian; but people would pronounce it to rhyme with mice, so now we make it just like the tree, and then there can't be any mistake.
The American writer Kidder, in his interesting account of the military operations in eastern Maine and Nova Scotia during the Revolution, says: "It is now generally conceded that our present boundary was fixed mainly on the ground of occupation, and had we not been able to hold our eastern outpost at Machias, we cannot say what river in Maine would now divide us from a British province."
But throughout the life of his first successor his anxiety about his former diocese was very great, and his satisfaction was extreme when Kidder was succeeded by Hooper, a bishop of kindred principles to his own. And Ken was in these respects a fair representative of many who thought with him.
"Where will you go?" inquired Dalmar-Kalm. "I might be able to join you somewhere en route." "Well, that's one of the things we haven't quite settled yet," replied Mrs. Kidder. "Almost anywhere will suit me. We can just potter around. It's the automobiling we want. You know, this is our first time in Europe, and so long as we're in pretty places, it's much the same to us."
Dupont and Kidder, immaculately dressed, had for companions two waitresses at a well-known Cambridge cafe, two Harvard Square hairdressers, and a number of individuals whose dress and general appearance indicated physical strength rather than mental powers. Dupont and Kidder went out at the end of the first act and did not return. The next time that Tom met Fred Dupont he asked,
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