On the state-coach went, down the
steep, driving the mules madly before it. Their hoofs made music on
the bridge, and my journey was ended.
Home again! Even Tip Pulsifer was dear to me then. He was between the
wheels when we stopped, and I planted a crutch on one of his bare feet
and embraced him.
He grinned and cried, "Mighty souls!"
That embrace, that grin and that heart-born exclamation marked the
entrance of the Pulsifer family into my life. Theretofore I had
regarded them with a suspicion born of a pile of feathers at the door
of their shanty on the ridge, for they kept no chickens. Now the six
little Pulsifers, all with the lower halves of their faces washed and
their hair soaped down, were climbing around me, and the latest comer,
that same Cevery who arrived with Piney Martin's spring-bed, was
hoisted into kissing distance by his mother, who was thinner and more
wan than ever, but still smiling. But this was home and these were
home people. My heart was open then and warm, and I took the seven
little Pulsifers to it.
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