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PDF Business Analytics James R. Evans All Chapter
PDF Business Analytics James R. Evans All Chapter
PDF Business Analytics James R. Evans All Chapter
Evans
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the blind, and the ignorant, metaphorically speaking. Papa brought
them home and mamma took pity on them. Now it was Becky Sill, a
great, overgrown girl of sixteen, whose intemperate father had just
died in the poorhouse, where the three younger children—boys—
were waiting for a chance to be put out to the farmers.
“Look at this ’ere floor, Miss Rose! I’ve scrubbed it white as snow.
And I’ve been a peelin’ of pertaters.”
“This floor is sufficient, Becky; and peeling, and potatoes.”
“O, law, you’re just like your mother. Some people are born ladies
and have fine ways. I wasn’t.”
“You have been very industrious,” I returned, cheerfully; and then I
went at the dinner.
The hungry, noisy troop came home from school. What if they
were all boys!
Do you want a photograph of us? I was past seventeen, not very
tall, with a round sort of figure, and dimples everywhere in my face,
where one could have been put by accident or design. My skin was
fair, my hair—that was my sore point. I may as well tell the truth; it
was red, a sort of deep mahogany red, and curled. My features were
just passable. So, you see, I was not likely to set up for a beauty.
Fan was sixteen, taller than I, slender, blonde, with saucy blue eyes
and golden hair, and given to rather coquettish ways. Nelly was
fourteen, almost as tall as I, with papa’s gray eyes,—only hers had a
violet tint,—and mamma’s dark hair. Daisy was next, eleven, and on
the blonde order. Lily, whose name was Elizabeth, and Tim, aged
seven. Her real cognomen was Gertrude; but we began to call her
Tiny Tim, and the name, somehow stuck to her. What a host of girls,
to be sure!
“Papa,” I said that evening, going to the study for a good night
kiss, where he was writing in the quiet,—“papa, are you sorry to
have so many girls?”
I had been exercised on the subject all day, and I wanted to
dispose of it before I slept.
“Why, my dear! no;” with a sweet gravity.
“But, papa,”—and I stumbled a little,—“it isn’t likely that—that—we
shall all—get married—”
I could not proceed any farther, and hid my face on his shoulder.
“Married! What ever put such an absurd idea into your head,
Rosalind? A parcel of children—married!”
I knew papa was displeased, or he would never have called me
Rosalind.
“O, dear papa, don’t be angry!” I cried. “I was not thinking of being
married, I’m sure. I don’t believe any one will ever like me very
much, because my hair is red, and I may be fat as Mrs. Downs. And
if I should be an old maid,—and I know I shall,—I want you to love
me a little; and if I’m queer and fussy, and all that, you must be
patient with me. I will try to do my best always.”
“My dear darling! what a foolish little thing you are! Some of the
old women have been talking to you, I know. I shall certainly have to
turn the barrel upside down, and find the sermon on bridling the
tongue. You are all little girls, and I will not have the bloom rudely
rubbed off of my peaches. There don’t cry about it;” and he kissed
my wet face so tenderly that I did cry more than ever.
“My little girl, I want us to have a good many years of happiness
together,” he said, with solemn tenderness. “Put all these things out
of your head, and love your mother and me, and do your duty in that
state of life to which it shall please God to call you. I want you to be
like Martin Luther’s bird, who sat on the tree and sang, and let God
think for him. And now, run to bed, for I wish to finish this sermon
while I am in the humor.”
I kissed him many, many times. I was so sure of his sweet, never-
failing love. And I suppose fathers and mothers never do get tired of
us!
CHAPTER II.