About This Book
"Look where you are steering, Cora Kimball! You nearly ran over a chicken that time." "Yes, and avoiding the chicken on that side, you nearly hit a child on this side. Such a dear little boy—or was it a girl? I never can tell when they're so young." "Two misses are as good as two miles," misquoted the bronzed girl at the wheel of the automobile, as she straightened the car on the long, shaded road, where the trees met in a green archway overhead, and where the golden shadows flitted in the dust like so many little chickens running to cover, away from the fat-tired wheels. "Why are you in such a hurry, Cora?" asked Bess Robinson, as she tucked back a straying lock of brown hair. "It's too perfect a day to do anything in a hurry—even run a car." "Bess doesn't believe in doing anything in a hurry," lazily droned her sister Belle, from the rear seat. "That's why she's so fat." "Don't dare use that objectionable word!" stormed Bess, turning about so suddenly that she sent Cora's elbow against the plunger of the horn, thereby producing a sudden blast.
