On the death of Mr. B., the annuity, which he had so long received, fell in.

He saw Lindy playing jacks on the sidewalk in Front of the store, snatching up ninesies and tensies in a heedless, all-out swoop that kept the backs of her lingers perpetually scraped raw.

I was offered a thousand acres, the other day, at twenty-five cents an acre, remarked the doctor. The owner is so land-poor that he can't pay the taxes.

Now—well, Moura was scarcely Drinkwater, but it was more than just a cocky farm too.