If
ever I quit wantin' to stan' well with him, he'll get his
comeuppance, short an sudden!"
"Speakin' o' standin' well with folks, Phil Perry's kind o'
makin' up to Patience Baxter, ain't he, Cephas?" asked Uncle Bart
guardedly. "Mebbe you wouldn't notice it, hevin' no partic'lar
int'rest, but your mother's kind o got the idee into her head
lately, an' she's turrible far-sighted."
"I guess it's so!" Cephas responded gloomily. "It's nip an' tuck
'tween him an' Mark Wilson.
That girl draws 'em as molasses does flies! She does it 'thout
liftin' a finger, too, no more 'n the molasses does. She just
sets still an' IS! An' all the time she's nothin' but a flighty
little red-headed spitfire that don't know a good husband when
she sees one. The feller that gits her will live to regret it,
that's my opinion! "And Cephas thought to himself: "Good Lord,
don't I wish I was regrettin' it this very minute!"
"I s'pose a girl like Phoebe Day'd be consid'able less trouble to
live with?" ventured Uncle Bart.
"I never could take any fancy to that tow hair o' hern! I like
the color well enough when I'm peeling it off a corn cob, but I
don't like it on a girl's head," objected Cephas hypercritically.
"An' her eyes hain't got enough blue in 'em to be blue: they're
jest like skim-milk.
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