Print
Word
PDF God be with you till we meet again,
Keep love’s
banner floating o’er you,
Smite death’s
threatening wave before you;
God be with you till we meet again!
When Pearl got Tom safely started for the party a great weight seemed to have rolled from her little shoulders. Tom was going to spend the night—what was left of it—with Arthur in the granary, and so avoid the danger of disturbing his parents by his late home-coming.
Pearl was too excited to sleep, so she brought out from her bird-cage the little note-book that Mrs. Francis had given her, and endeavoured to fill some of its pages with her observations.
Mrs. Francis had told her to write what she felt and what she saw.
She had written:
August 8th.—I picked the fethers from 2 ducks to-day. I call them cusmoodles. I got that name in a book. The cusmoodles were just full of cheety-wow-wows. That’s a pretty name, too, I think. I got that out of my own head. The cheety-wow-wows are wanderers to-night, I guess. They lost their feather-bed.
Arthur’s got a girl. Her name is Thursa. He tells me about her, and showed me her picter. She is beautiful beyond compare, and awful savin’ on her clothes. At first I thought she had a die-away-ducky look, but I guess it’s because she was sorry Arthur was comin’ away.
August 9th.—Mrs. Motherwell is gittin’ kinder, I think. When I was gittin’ the tub for Arthur yesterday, and gittin’ water het, she said, “What are you doin’, Pearl?” I says, “gittin’ Arthur a bath.” She says, “Dear me, it’s a pity about him.” I says, “Yes’m, but he’ll feel better now.” She says, “Duz he want anyone to wash his back?”—I says, “I don’t know, but I’ll ask him,” and I did, too; but he says, “No, thanks awfully.”
August 10th.—The English Church minister called one day to see Arthur. He read some of the Bible to us and then he gave us a dandy prayer. He didn’t make it—it was a bot one.
There’s wild parsley down on the crik. Mrs. M. sed’t wuz poison, but I wanted to be sure, so I et it, and it isn’t. There’s wild sage all over, purple an lovely. I pickt a big lot ov it, to taik home—we mite have a turkey this winter.
August 11th.—I hope tom’s happy; it’s offel to be in love. I hope I’ll never be.
My hands are pretty sore pullin’ weeds, but I like it; I pertend it’s bad habits I’m rootin’ out.
Arthur’s offel good: he duz all the work he can for me, and he sings for me and tells me about his uncle the Bishop. His uncle’s got servants and leggin’s and lots of things. Arthur’s been kind of sick lately.
I made verses one day, there not very nice, but there true—I saw it:
The little lams are beautiful,
There cotes are
soft and nice,
The little calves have ringworm,
And the 2-year
olds have lice!
