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"Oh, Limuel," his wife protested; "a body to hear you talk would think that you don't do anything at all but thirst for blood. If the Lord puts it in the mind of a steer to kick you, why, it ain't the poor creeter's fault." The old man snorted. "And if the Lord puts it in my mind to kill the steer it ain't my fault, muther.
Warn't it funny for a lady like her to care about a little child like me what comes of factory folks and ain't got nothin' ahead but plain humbleness? "And diphtheria is a ketchin' disease muther says. That's why Miss Mary picked me up so quick and brought me out here when the doctor said I had it.
I knew how to take care of myself. But your mother didn't, and with children it's a risk to have it around. I wasn't afraid." "But you might have took it. And muther says you've been a prisoner since I've been out here. You couldn't go nowhere, and couldn't nobody come to see you. Ain't any the mill folks and factory folks seen you for three weeks. You couldn't even go to see Miss Gibbie Gault."
"Armstrong is American, I suppose. I don't know what it is." She laughed, pulling the petals off a rose and popping them with her lips. "Hedwig is a pretty name, and the other part I never think of. I had almost forgotten the other part." "I didn't know there was any other part. But I heard Susie tell muther once the Mrs.
"You mean muther won't have to cook for two weeks, won't have to wash dishes I always wipe them and can sit down as long as she wants, and can sleep till seven o'clock in the mornin'? You mean You ain't foolin' of me are you, Miss Mary?" "Of course I'm not. You are to go to-morrow week." "But how we goin'? The hens can't lay eggs enough for " "The hens have nothing to do with this.
"One of our young gentlemen here, black eyes, black hair." describes with surprising memory of exact observation a fellow-serf "was to get a book for me a couple of months ago." Bought the Muther monograph on Goya. Referred humorously to his new book one on music. Said, "Many people won't believe that one can be equally good, or perhaps bad, at many things."
Richard Muther, the erudite German critic: "A marriage is taking place in the sacristy of a rococo church in Madrid. The walls are covered with faded Cordova leather hangings figured in gold and dull colours, and a magnificent rococo screen separates the sacristy from the middle aisle.
Here are a few of the titles that have been given to the greatest Dutch painter that ever lived: The Shakespeare of Painting; the Prince of Etchers; the King of Shadows; the Painter of Painters. Muther calls him a "hero from cloudland," and not only does he alone wear these titles of greatness, but he alone in his family had the name of Rembrandt.
If'n she hadn't Teeny might have took it from me, 'cause we sleep in the bed together, and Susie might, too, for she's in the same room, and all the twins might, the little ones and the big ones, and muther would have been worked to death a-nursin' of me and a-cookin' for the rest.
Muther says some folks is born to poke for rubbish, and if they can't find a thing mean to say they'll say it anyhow. Crittersizers, I believe she calls 'em. Some who ain't good at anything else is great at that, she says." "Very true, my solemn Peggy, but you shouldn't know it." Mary Cary laughed. "And if we don't like 'crittersizers, then don't let's criticise.
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