"He's worked like a nailer, ain't he ?" There were tears in his eyes when he took my hand in his rough palm and squeezed it and said: "Sometimes I wish ye was little ag'in so I could take ye up in my arms an' kiss ye just as I used to.

Horace Dunkelberg says that you're the best-lookin' boy he ever see." "Stop!" Aunt Deel exclaimed with a playful tap on his shoulder.

"W'y! ye mustn't go on like that." "I'm tellin' just what he said," my uncle answered.
"I guess he only meant that Bart looked clean an' decent--that's all--ayes! He didn't mean that Bart was purty.

Land sakes!--no." I observed the note of warning in the look she gave my uncle.
"No, I suppose not," he answered, as he turned away with a smile and brushed one of his eyes with a rough finger.
I repeated the rules I had learned as we went to the table.
"I'm goin' to be like Silas Wright if I can," I added.
"That's the idee!" said Uncle Peabody.

"You keep on as you've started an' everybody'll milk into your pail." I kept on--not with the vigor of that first day with its new inspiration--but with growing strength and effectiveness.