The Mornin'-Glory Girl

								

for his scriptural appellation. A store of names had been secretly
acquired for use in the event of her marriage, but as in the course of
years only one boy had come to add freckles and rotundity to the
family circle, she was thankful that she had used at least three of
the collection on the fortunate youth. Moses Habakuk Ezra Wopp, the
exact counterpart of his mother, sat next to his father and eyed the
plate of Betty, who was seated beside him, mentally calculating the
amount of each succulent morsel she consumed. Since he was twice her
size, he was entitled, he thought, to at least twice her share. On his
own plate a lonely pickled onion floated in gravy.
“Mar,” he demanded hastily, “more marshed turnips, please.”
“We shorely are glad to hev a teacher at larst,” re-asserted the
bustling lady of the house, as she passed a cup of creamy tea to her
new boarder. “Did you hear what happened to our larst teacher, Miss
Gordon?” Here the good lady heaved a deep sigh. “The pore man hed a
tryin’ time with some big boys named Bullock who started in to school
larst fall arter workin’ all summer. The teacher used to spend his
evenin’s to Bullock’s bunkhouse, playin’ black-jack with ole man
Bullock.”
“And could he beat the old gentleman?” inquired Nell Gordon, vastly
entertained.
“Miss Gordon, with all his book larnin’ he knowed no more ’bout
black-jack than I know ’bout divin’ fer pearls, and the Bullock boys
thort he was no good anyhow, ef he couldn’t beat their Par at cards.
So one mornin’ they met him as he was goin’ to school, an’ they give
him a good beatin’ up, then flung him in Rodd’s creek to cool him,
bein’ winter. He crawled outer the creek, Miss Gordon, an’ never went
to the school no more. It shorely was a jedgement on him fer playin’
those wicked card games. Moses, parse the ketchup.”
This account of the abruptly ended career of her predecessor was
somewhat disturbing to Nell.
“You must ’scuse me not goin’ to meet you, Miss Gordon,” apologized
Mr. Wopp, as he held suspended a knife full of mashed potato, destined
for his mouth. “But I hev a sick cow I couldn’t git away from, so I
ast Howard here to drive in fer you.”
“It was quite all right,” answered Nell, anxiously watching for the
reappearance of Mr. Wopp’s knife, “Mr. Eliot gave me a glorious drive
over the prairie behind his team of greys, but,” with a sly look
towards the young rancher, “I don’t believe he likes to meet trains.”
“La now! An’ why do you say that, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Wopp. “Set
up straight, Moses, yer back looks like you was packin’ a sack of
pertaters.”
“I might as well tell you all about it, Mrs. Wopp,” confessed Howard.
“When I got to town and found the train was almost due, I felt
frightfully shy. So I got Ken Judson to put on his boiled shirt and
Sunday suit and go to the station. He looked the part, I assure you,