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Ethel Morton at Rose House

Smith, Mabell S. C.

Published by IndyPublish.com
ISBN 10: 1421951576 / ISBN 13: 9781421951577
Used / Hardcover / Quantity Available: 1
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Title: Ethel Morton at Rose House

Publisher: IndyPublish.com

Binding: Hardcover

Book Condition: Good

Description:

1421951576 No dust jacket. Scuffed edges. Pages slightly browned from age. Previous owner's name on inside page. World hardcover 50-100 years old; silver letters on blue cover; spine faded; no marks in text. Bookseller Inventory # 25897

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Synopsis: Excerpt: ...Swedes do beautiful work. Why don't we have a class for international embroidery?" laughed Dorothy. "I think Mother would like to learn the Russian; she's crazy about Russian music and everything Russian." "We'll ask Mother and Grandmother, too, and perhaps the Miss Clarks would come and the women could charge a fee and make a little money teaching us and be amused themselves." "I dare say it will do the others good as well as the little Italian. You've hit on something that will benefit all of them while you were trying to help Mrs. Paterno," surmised Mr. Emerson. "What I came over here this morning to see you about was this," he went on in a business-like tone that made them look at him attentively. "Grandmother and I think that Mrs. Paterno has been a trifle too exciting for you young people the last few days. We think you need a change of thought as well as that young woman herself." They all sat and waited for what was coming, quite unable to guess what proposition he was going to make. "Helen and Roger are somewhat older and stand such upheavals a little better than you girls, so my plan doesn't include them." "Just us three?" asked Ethel Brown. "Just you three. Here's my scheme; see if you like it. I have to go over to Boston to-morrow on a matter of business and it occurred to me that it would be a pleasant sail on the Sound and that you'd be interested in seeing the city--" "O--o!" gasped Dorothy; "Cambridge and Longfellow's house." "Concord and Lexington!" cried Ethel Brown. "The Art Museum!" murmured Ethel Blue. "And Bunker Hill Monument, and, of course, the Navy Yard especially for this daughter of a sailor," and he nodded gayly at his granddaughter. "Grandmother will go, to take you around when I have to attend to my business, and we can stay a day or two and come back fresh to attend to Mrs. Paterno's affairs. How does it strike you?" Without any preliminary conference, the three girls flung their arms around his neck and hugged him...

Product Description: For the fortieth time that afternoon, it seemed to Ethel Brown Morton and her cousin, Ethel Blue, they untangled the hopelessly mixed garlands of the maypole and started the weavers once more to lacing and interlacing them properly. "Under, over; under, over," they directed, each girl escorting a small child in and out among the gay bands of pink and white which streamed from the top of the pole. May Day in New Jersey is never a certain quality; it may be reminiscent of the North Pole or the Equator. This happened to be the hottest day of the year so far, and both Ethels had wiped their foreheads until their handkerchiefs were small balls too soaked to be of any further use. But they kept on, for this was the first Community Maypole that Rosemont ever had had, and the United Service Club, to which the girls belonged, was doing its part to make the afternoon successful. Helen, Ethel Brown's sister, and Margaret Hancock, another member of the Club, were teaching the younger children a folk dance on the side of the lawn; Roger Morton, James Hancock and Tom Watkins were marshalling a group of boys and marching them back and forth across the end of the grass plot nearest the schoolhouse. Delia Watkins, Tom's sister, and Dorothy Smith, a cousin of the Mortons, were going about among the mothers and urging them to let the little ones take part in the games. Everybody was busy until dusk sent the small children home and the caretaker came to uproot the pole and to shake his head ruefully over the condition of the lawn whose smoothness had been roughened by the tread of scores of dancing feet.

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