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Bacheller, Irving, 1859-1950

"Darrel of the Blessed Isles"


"What shall we do?" said Miss Letitia.
"My sister had a baby once," said Tunk, approaching it doubtfully
but with a studious look.
He made a few passes with his hand in front of the baby's face.
Then he gave it a little poke in the ribs, tentatively. The effect
was like adding insult to injury.
"If 'twas mine," said Tunk, "which I'm glad it ain't--I'd rub a
little o' that hoss liniment on his stummick,"
The two old maids took the baby into their bedroom. It was an hour
later when Trove came back. Tunk sat alone by the kitchen fire.
There was yet a loud wail in the bedroom.
"What's the news?" said Tunk, who met him at the door.
"Drunk, that's all," said Trove. "I took this bottle, sling-shot,
and bar of iron away from him. The woman thought I had better
bring them with me and put them out of his way."
He laid them on the floor in a corner.
"I got him into bed," he continued, "and then hid the axe and came
away. I guess they're all right now. When I left he had begun to
snore."
"Wal,--we ain't all right," said Tunk, pointing to the room. "If
you can conquer that thing, you'll do well. Poor Miss Teeshy!" he
added, shaking his head.
"What's the matter with her?" Trove inquired.


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