He tries to breed blue roses.
Whitey Hermanson's Leatherneck son thought that his dad's car could get along on iron rations, or whatever Marines carry to their landing with situations in hand, forgot to put some slickem in the case for the turn-arounds, and that knocked the babbit outa the gadgets.
On this island they found a single house neatly fitted and furnished and provided with pantriesful and gardensful of good things to eat and conveniences all the way from “bakin’ pewder” to Dutch ovens.
Can I bear to write shame on that fair young brow—send him forth a wanderer from the home of which he has been the delight—sow dissension between a father and son, who now idolise each other?
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