human
Anyhow, resumed Mrs. Crankett, raising the lid of the churn to see if there were any signs of butter,
gpt
Easy, ma, easy, gently remonstrated Ephr'm.
human
When he seed you lookin' at his pet rose-bush on yer way to church las' Sunday, didn't he hurry an' pull two or three an' han' 'em to ye?
gpt
Yes, an' what did he hev' in t'other han'?--a Boasting paper, an' not a Sunday one, nuther! Millicent ain't a Christian name, nohow ye can fix it--it amounts to jest 'bout's much ez she does, an' that's nothing. She's got a soft face, an' purty hair--ef it's all her own, which I powerfully doubt--an' after that ther's nothin' to her. She's never been to sewin' meetin', an' she's off a boatin' with that New York chap every Saturday afternoon, instead of goin' to the young people's prayer-meetin's.
human
She's most supported Sam Ransom's wife an' young uns since Sam's smack was lost,
gpt
That's you, Deac'n Crankett, replied his wife,
human
Wa'al, wife, said the deacon,
gpt
cried Mrs. Crankett, giving the dasher a vicious push, which sent the cream flying frantically up to the top of the churn;
human
I hope he'll turn out bad, an' her pride'll be tuk down ez--