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Richmond, Grace S. (Grace Smith), 1866-1959

"The Whistling Mother"

... Maybe I didn't turn over then for a minute, and bury my head
in my pillow and have it out a bit. But that didn't count, because
nobody saw.
Next morning was just the same; and we had the greatest sort of a
breakfast--everything tasting bully, the way it does at home, you
know. Then I went down to the office with Dad, and saw the boys, who
all came round and gave me the glad hand, and wished me luck.
Everybody I met on the street wished me that, except an old lady or
two, who sighed over me--but I didn't mind them, they just made me
want to laugh. Then home, and lunch, with Mother looking ripping in
the jolliest sort of a frock. And we had lots of fun over a letter
she'd had from some inquiring idiot, who wanted to know a lot of
things she couldn't tell him; and she asked our advice, and of course
we gave it, in chunks. In the afternoon she and I took another spin
and, as I'd quite ceased to fear I couldn't see it through, it went
off mighty well.
I was a little owly about dinner, though, because soon afterward it
would be train time. But I needn't have been. My family certainly is
the gamest crowd I ever saw. Even Grandfather, who takes things rather
seriously as a rule, told a couple of corking stories, and Grandmother
laughed at them in a perfectly natural way, though I couldn't help
suspecting her of bluffing.


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