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to line one's pockets
to line one's pockets
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Description
Young as ye are, this youthful heat restrain,
Nor think your Nestor's years and wisdom vain.
A godlike race of heroes once I knew,
Such as no more these aged eyes shall view!
Lives there a chief to match Pirithous' fame,
Dryas the bold, or Ceneus' deathless name;
Theseus, endued with more than mortal might,
Or Polyphemus, like the gods in fight?
With these of old, to toils of battle bred,
In early youth my hardy days I led;
Fired with the thirst which virtuous envy breeds,
Details
it. I know perfectly
well I took it _off_, because--”
“Because you hain't got but one _on_. Just _listen_ at the man! I know
you took it off, and know it by a better way than your wool-gethering
memory, too, because it was on the clo's-line yesterday--I see it there
myself. But it's gone, that's the long and the short of it, and you'll
just have to change to a red flann'l one till I can get time to make a
new one. And it 'll be the third I've made in two years. It just keeps
a body on the jump to keep you in shirts; and whatever you do manage to
_do_ with 'm all is more'n I can make out. A body 'd think you _would_
learn to take some sort of care of 'em at your time of life.”
“I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can. But it oughtn't to be
altogether my fault, because, you know, I don't see them nor have
nothing to do with them except when they're on me; and I don't believe
I've ever lost one of them _off_ of me.”
“Well, it ain't _your_ fault if you haven't, Silas; you'd a done it
if you could, I reckon. And the shirt ain't all that's gone, nuther.
Ther's a spoon gone; and _that_ ain't all. There was ten, and now
ther's only nine. The calf got the shirt, I reckon, but the calf never
took the spoon, _that's_ certain.”
“Why, what else is gone, Sally?”
“Ther's six _candles_ gone--that's what. The rats could a got the
candles, and I reckon they did; I wonder they don't walk off with the
whole place, the way you're always going to stop their holes and don't
do it; and if they warn't fools they'd sleep in your hair, Silas--_you'd_
never find it out; but you can't lay the _spoon_ on the rats, and that I
know.”
“Well, Sally, I'm in fault, and I acknowledge it; I've been remiss; but
I won't let to-morrow go by without stopping up them holes.”
“Oh, I wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. Matilda Angelina Araminta
_Phelps!_”
Whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws out of the
sugar-bowl without fooling around any. Just then the nigger woman st