d it to him, that I didn't mean tramps with broken hats, variegated pantaloons, ventilated shirt-sleeves, and barefooted. But I meant tramps with diamond ear-rings, and cuff-buttons, and Saratoga trunks, and big accounts at their bankers.
And he said, "Oh, shaw!"
But I went on nobly, onmindful of that shaw, as female pardners have to be, if they accomplish all the talkin' they want to.
And sez I, "It duz seem sort o' pitiful, don't it, to think how sort o' homeless the Americans are a gettin'? How the posys that blow under the winders of Home are left to waste their sweet breaths amongst the weeds, while them that used to love 'em are a climbin' mountain tops after strange nosegays."
The smoke that curled up from the chimbleys, a wreathin' its way up to the heavens -- all dead and gone. The bright light that shone out of the winder through the dark a tellin' everybody that there wuz a Home, and some one a waitin' for somebody -- all dark and lonesome.
Yes, the waiter and the waited for are a
I picked up this book yesterday at an antique shop and read it cover to cover - then I had to know more. This woman was quite a keen observer and though only schooled until age 14 far smarter in the 1800's than many people are today. Her sentiments on religion, human "nater" and rest of Samantha's world make me eager to read all of her works.