The Mornin'-Glory Girl

								

unhappy boy a dismal round of duties.
“Oh Mosey,” cried Betty at the breakfast table, being first on the
scene to arrange her flowers, “we’ll hev a spellin’ match to-day I
bet.”
“Don’t care a doughnut,” answered Moses defiantly, “I’d ruther turn
the washin’ machine any day than stand like a goose spellin’ words any
arss can spell.”
Betty playfully thrust a small forefinger into one of the fresh
biscuits on the table and bore it, impaled on the rosy weapon,
triumphantly to her plate. This was for the amusement of Moses, but
instead of laughing as he was expected to do, he eyed his little
sister with assumed indifference.
“You carnt spell so smart anyways,” he ventured. Betty turned her
piquant nose up at him and suddenly bounced up from the table.
“Oh, poor li’l Nancy wants in!” She raised the window and gently
lifted the cat into the room. Running to her place at the table, she
poured half of her cup of milk into a saucer and set it in a sunny
spot on the floor.
“There Nancy,” she whispered, “is a sunbeam for breakfast dipped in
milk.”
The sunbeam somehow got into the internal decorations of Nancy and
filtered out through her eyes. Their amber depths seemed to have
turned into liquid gold.
Jethro, lying on a mat at the door, was contentedly gnawing a bone.
Nancy, having finished her milk, and still enjoying its flavor from
her whiskers, as Betty remarked, stealthily approached her canine
playmate. A slight altercation took place concerning the ownership of
the bone. It was not long before Jethro walked out of the room,
perceptibly toeing in, and probably reflecting that life was too short
to wrangle over a bare bone anyway.
Mrs. Wopp was too busy to eat breakfast in the orthodox fashion. She
could be heard in the kitchen preparing for the trying ordeal of
wash-day. Out in the yard the head of the house was busy feeding the
fowl.
Clank! Clank! Clank!
The sound was an ominous warning to Moses, to finish his breakfast
with all possible speed.
“Good-by Dad and Mar and Mosey,” called Betty as she sped down the
path toward the school-house.
Moses heaved a sigh, as he entered the kitchen and took his stand at
the washing-machine. One hundred and thirty-seven times that
diabolical barrel had to be turned before the dirt accumulated by the
Wopp family during the week could be obliterated.
The chinking began in earnest. Moses stood, turning till each freckle
on his ruddy face shone with honest sweat.
“Now Moses,” announced his mother, “Jist for a change an’ rest like,
turn this here separator.”
Another sound in a somewhat higher key was heard. Moses had simply
modulated in his domestic symphony of labor from a major task to a
minor one. As a change and refreshing recreation, Moses was allowed to
turn the small wheat-mill. Ninety soul-stirring turns it required to
empty the hopper once, and he must turn out enough flour for a batch