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Bower, B. M., 1871-1940

"Good Indian"

Great coffee, Mrs. Hart, and such cream
I never did see. I sure do hate to leave so many good things and
go back to a boardin' house. Look at this honey, now!" He sighed
gluttonously, leaning slightly over the table while he fed.
"Dogs were barking at something down in the orchard," Wally
volunteered, passing over Baumberger's monologue. "I was going
down there, but it was so dark--and I thought maybe it was Gene's
ghost. That was before the moon came up. Got any more biscuits,
mum?"
"My trap wasn't sprung behind the chicken-house," said Donny. "I
looked, first thing."
"Dogs," drawled Baumberger, his enunciation muffled by the food
in his mouth, "always bark. And cats fight on shed-roofs. Next
door to where I board there's a dog that goes on shift as regular
as a policeman. Every night at--"
"Oh, Aunt Phoebe!" Evadna, crisp and cool in a summery dress of
some light-colored stuff, and looking more than ever like a
Christmas angel set a-flutter upon the top of a holiday fir in a
sudden gust of wind, threw open the door, rushed halfway into the
room, and stopped beside the chair of her aunt.


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