If he yelled at her to get the heck off him, she'd stick her index finger
in the corner of her mouth and holler, which would, of course, crank up his mother.
“Jesse Oliver! You leave that baby alone. Whatcha mean lying there in the middle of the floor doing nothing anyway?”
“Didn't I tell you I couldn't cook supper before you chopped wood for the stove?”
Sometimes he would sneak down to the old Perkins place and find Prince Terrien crying on the porch, where Mr. Burke had exiled him.
You couldn't blame the man. No one could get anything done with that animal grabbing his hand or jumping up to lick his face.
He'd take P. T. for a romp in the Burkes' upper field. If it was a mild day, Miss Bessie would be mooing nervously from across the fence.
She couldn't seem to get used to the yipping and snapping. Or maybe it was the time of year—the last dregs of winter spoiling the taste of everything.
Nobody, human or animal, seemed happy. Except Leslie. She was crazy about fixing up that broken-down old wreck of a house.
She loved being needed by her father. Half the time they were supposed to be working they were just yakking away.
She was learning, she related glowingly at recess, to “understand” her father.
It had never occurred to Jess that parents were meant to be understood,
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