"Oh, my gracious!" Jean, usually so calm, flung a magazine against the wall.
"This is just about as pleasant as a hanging! let's saddle up and ride in
after the mail, Rosemary. Maybe the squaw in her will be howled out by the
time we get back." And she added with a venomous sincerity that would have
warmed the heart of old Applehead, "I'd shoot that dog, for half a cent! How
do you suppose an animal of his size can produce all that noise?"
"Oh, I don't know!" Rosemary spoke with the patience of utter weariness. "I've
stood her and the dog for about eight months and I'm getting kind of hardened
to it. But I never did hear them go on like that before. You'd think all her
relations were being murdered, wouldn't you?"
Jean was busy getting into her riding clothes and did -not say what she
thought; but you may be sure that it was antipathetic to the grief of Annie-
Many-Ponies, and that Jean's attitude was caused by a complete lack of
understanding. Which, if you will stop to think, is true of half the
unsympathetic attitudes in the world. Because they did not understand, the two
dressed hastily and tucked their purses safely inside their shirtwaists and
saddled and rode away to town.
Pages:
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119