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Daviess, Maria Thompson, 1872-1924

"Phyllis"


Roxanne choked her sobs down in my neck and I choked mine down in my
heart as the little doctor kicked one fat little knee out from under
the cover and began to squeal like a queer kind of pig as one of his
arms went around and around.
"That's the way I cried when that old Dr. Hughes hurt my eyes to make
'em well, Phyllie, and you wasn't here to see him do it and tell me
how red they looked and if they had got any blue around the edges like
a carbuncle. Roxy can't tell disease like you kin, and now you was
away from 'em and didn't see the nice ones I have got in both eyes."
The reproach in his voice was so funny and yet so sad that Roxanne and
I both choked still more and held on to each other tight. I just
simply couldn't say a word, and I was again made ashamed by that
unruly lump in my throat that never seems to come unless something is
the matter with the Byrds.
"I'm hungry, too, for some of the nice sweet charlock rookster that
your cook makes me and I eats in the afternoon, right now. I waked up
in the night and wanted it and you, too, Phyllie, and I wouldn't have
old Doug or Roxy, neither.


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