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a web of many textures

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Music is one of the greatest attractions of home,”
said the teacher, leaning his left hand upon the table,
and elevating his right, with the fore-finger protruding,
like a lightning-rod. “The greatest attraction,” he repeated,
drumming upon the table with his sinister digits, as if
he would enforce his remark by a practical example. —
“Well,” said Mrs. Partington, smoothing down a seam
in some garment she was making, “I believe it is, and
when our neighbor, Mr. Smooth, got his new pioneer
fort for his noisy children, it seemed as if they had added
forty detractions to home, for they were always quarrelling
like dog's-delight to see who should play on to it.
The way to make home harmonious,” — and she looked
up with an expression of great wisdom, as she said it,
her eyes glancing through the western window at the


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Old South vane, that gleamed in the sunshine, as if
catching the ray of her own inspiration, — “the way to
make home harmonious is to organize it — to buy a
hand-organ, and hire somebody to play on to it. The
noise of it would soon put a stop to all the family jars,
depend upon it.” She bit off the thread of her discourse
and her cotton at the same time, while her listener
smiled faintly, either at the misapprehension she was
evidently laboring under, or at the newness of her theory
with regard to the harmony of home, but made no
further remark.