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a web of many textures

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Ike is remarkably fond of turkey, and the hug-me-close
and the merry-thought he is as much attached to,
almost, as if they were a part of himself. “Bless me!”
said Mrs. Partington, at table, on Thanksgiving Day,
looking at the boy, whose face was as greasy as that of
a New Zealander, “why, you look like a gravy-image,
dear, and your face shines like the rory-boralius.” —
“With this difference,” said old Roger, winking at the
Brahmin: “the aurora-borealis appears in fair weather,
but this in fowl.” The Brahmin, by a motion of his
long beard, was supposed to smile, and a sound resembling
“travels in Turkey and Grease” came from
his lips. But Mrs. Partington saw not the point. “You
should learn, dear, to bemean yourself before folks;
because, without good behavior, a man may be ever
so imminent for debility, but will never be inspected.”
She ceased here, and baled a spoonful of the stuffing
upon the juvenile's plate, which he took very kindly.