And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. “I think,” he said, “that I am right. Ed. . Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. A rock gave way to deep water. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. Gregory B.
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