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Updated: June 28, 2025
To see that critter come like a turkey out of a bag at Christmas, to be fired at for ten cents a shot, was as good as a play; but to look round and see the poverty the half-naked children; the old pine stumps for chairs; a small bin of poor, watery, yaller potatoes in the corner; daylight through the sides and roof of the house, lookin' like the tarred seams of a ship, all black where the smoke got out; no utensils for cookin' or eatin'; and starvation wrote as plain as a handbill on their holler cheeks, skinney fingers, and sunk eyes went right straight to the heart.
If I'd 'a' knowed it, his things would 'a' choked me. And your brother talked to me about the expense of keepin' my children! Why, you git me a fat Irish woman, who likes real vittles, and who ain't above cookin' oatmeal, and pay her about fifty dollars a month, and she'll suit me and we'll be savin' enough to pay for the babies." She was quiet a moment.
"I wouldn't be finicky if if my wife was doin' my cookin'," he declared, his own face crimson. "I wouldn't kick if she gave me the same kind of grub every mornin' if it was she I've wanted." "Why, Sanderson! Is this " "It's a proposal, ma'am. I can't say what I want to say what I've figured on sayin' to you. I don't seem to be able to find the words I wanted to use. But you'll understand, ma'am."
I don't see no shame in that." "No, I presume likely YOU don't. You're way past shame, both of you. And when I think of all I've done for you. Slaved and cooked your meals " "Well, you're cookin' 'em yet, ain't you? I ain't asked you to stop." "I will stop, though. I will." "All right, then; heave ahead and stop. I cal'late my wife'll be willin' to cook for me, if it's needful." "Your wife!
Louie and brought her out here to slave around cookin' for rodér hands, and she wanted her daughters to live different. Nope, she didn't want no bow-legged cow-punch for a son-in-law, and I don't blame her none, because this ain't no place for a woman; but Sal was a mighty fine girl, all the same."
Ca'line, you teck yo' eyes off dat ar roas' pig, er I'll fling dis yer b'ilin' lard right spang on you. I ain' gwine hev none er my cookin' conjured fo' my ve'y face. Congo, you shet dat mouf er yourn, er I'll shet hit wid er flat-iron, en den hit'll be shet ter stay." Then, as Mrs.
But don't go imaginin' you've learned all there is ter know about farmin' yet." "If there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that," said Bob a trifle grimly. "That's right. I ain't got much of a farm, an' any'ow, it's winter. I on'y showed yous a few of the odd jobs an' wot it is to 'ave to batch fer yerself, not comin' in like a lord to Billabong ter see wot Mrs. Brown's been cookin' for yous.
Being a little uncertain as to which was the winning side that night, they had the wisdom to keep their own counsel. Oliver presided over the culinary department. "You see, I'm rather fond of cookin'," he said, apologetically, "that's why I take it in hand." "Ah, that comes of his bein' a good boy to his mother," said Master Trench in explanation, and with a nod of approval.
Brackett's retreating nose. "Think I don't know how to make plum-duff me that's sailed the sea for thutty-five years?" "Never made no such remarks on your cookin'," declared the guest, clearing his husky throat in which the food seemed to be sticking. "Hain't got no fault to find with that plum-duff?" "Not a mite," agreed Mr. Brackett, heartily.
Johnnie done the fancy cookin’; he could make a pie like any one’s maw, and while you was lost to the world in the delights of masticatin’ it, he’d have all his greasy dishes washed up and put away—" "No wonder she hated to lose a man like that," interrupted the fat lady, feelingly.
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