She was unquestionably what she had confessed herself to be--a rattlepate.

She rattled now, with a little waiting, half-tremulous smile to mark her pauses, as if she knew people would weigh and find her wanting, but hoped for judgments tempered with mercy.
"Mad about the war?
I should think so! Grandpa Gideon mad, and Harvey D .-- that dear thing's going to do something at Washington for a dollar a year.

You'd think it was the only honest money he'd ever earned if you heard Merle talk about bankers sucking the life blood of the people.
Juliana taking charge of something and Mother Ella mad about knitting--always tangled in yarn.

She'll be found strangled in her own work some day.

And Uncle Sharon mad about the war, and fifty times madder about Merle.
"D'you see Merle's picture in that New York paper yesterday ?--all hair and eyeglasses, and leaning one temple on the two first fingers of the right hand--and guess what it said--'Young millionaire socialist who denounces country's entrance into war!' Watch him--he's trying to look like the picture now! Uncle Sharon read the 'millionaire socialist,' and barked like a mad dog.