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Bacheller, Irving, 1859-1950

"Darrel of the Blessed Isles"

Vaughn, gently.
"Young love should be stored away, and if it keeps, why, then it's
all right."
"Like preserves!" said Polly, soberly, as if she were not able to
see the point.
Against the protest of Polly and her mother, Trove went to sleep in
the sugar shanty, a quarter of a mile or so back in the woods. On
his first trip with the drove he had developed fondness for
sleeping out of doors. The shanty was a rude structure of logs,
with an open front. Tunk went ahead, bearing a pine torch, while
Trove followed, the blanket over his shoulder. They built a
roaring fire in front of the shanty and sat down to talk.
"How have you been?" Trove inquired.
"Like t' killed me there at the ol' maids'."
"Were they rough with you?"
"No," said Tunk, gloomily.
"What then?"
"Hoss."
"Kicked?" was Trove's query.
"Lord! I should think so. Feel there."
Trove felt the same old protuberance on Tunk's leg.
"Swatted me right in the knee-pan. Put both feet on my chest, too.
Lord! I'd be coughin' up blood all the while if I wa'n't careful."
"And why did you leave?"
"Served me a mean trick," said Tunk, frowning. "Letishey went away
t' the village t' have a tooth drawed, an' t'other one locked me up
all day in the garret chamber.


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