Miss Flax, the little thin sister, and Miss Gloria, the stout able-bodied sister, lifted up their hands and eyes in horror at the mere hint of a wet nurse.
My daddy doesn’t gib me guns, ’cause he doesn’t like dem. But Pop will gib me one when I gets ten.
But then I had the [massive] flintlock by me for protection. […] The linen-press and a chest on the top of it formed, however, a very good gun-carriage; and, thus mounted, aim could be taken out of the window[…], and a 'bead' could be drawn upon Molly, the dairymaid, kissing the fogger behind the hedge, little dreaming that the deadly tube was levelled at them.
Mowing the lawn and chopping the weeds topped his to-do list of chores.
