“Now lissen deer” ses she. “I’ve finished me floury hidge and this afternoon I must shtart on the beds. You do the digging for me like an angel” ses she.
Here are some good ones from a little book called “Philosophy of the Street,” by E. R. Petherick, of Merrill, Wisconsin. There are hundreds more in the book as good, and that is saying much:
Then it was that Ste-phen A. Doug-las went to see Pres-i-dent Bu-chan-an and have a talk with him. Doug-las was an-gry at what the un-just jud-ges said. The Pres-i-dent said that he, him-self, was in fa-vor of the Le-comp-ton pa-per, that for slaves in Kan-sas. Then Doug-las told him that he should work a-gainst the views there held, and Bu-chan-an told him that a Dem-o-crat could not have i-de-as that would dif-fer from those held by the pres-i-dent and lead-ers of his own par-ty, with-out be-ing crushed by them. So Doug-las went a-way. He knew the slave pow-er would not for-give him for the stand he took, but he al-so knew that if he did not work a-gainst hav-ing slaves in Kan-sas he would lose his own re-e-lec-tion to the Se-nate.
At Smithland young Webb was directed to Salem, “which then contained a population, white and black, of about two hundred and fifty.” There, in turn, he was advised by Judge Dixon Given to consult Colonel Arthur Love relative to the best method of gaining information regarding his brother who had been captured at the Cave. Colonel Love, a highly esteemed citizen, lived a few miles from the home of James Ford, who was suspected by many of being a leader of the Cave-in-Rock band. No crime, however, had ever been traced to Ford “with sufficient clearness to cause his arrest and trial.” On his way to Colonel Love’s farm Webb fell from his horse and sprained his ankle, and it so happened that Cassandra Ford, daughter of James Ford, found the helpless young man lying in the road. She took him to her home, and he soon discovered he was in the house of the very man he dreaded most. But his fears rapidly vanished, for his rescuer had become very much attached to him and he to her. He was shown the flute of which he had been robbed near
municipal authorities of the contemporary type in impossible business undertakings under the guidance of fussy, energetic, legal minded and totally unscientific instigators. Except for the quite recent development of Socialist thought that is now being embodied in the New Heptarchy Series of the Fabian Society, scarcely anything has been done to dispel these reasonable dreads. I should think that from the point of view of Socialist propaganda, the time is altogether ripe now for a fresh and more vigorous insistence upon the materially creative aspect of the Vision of Socialism, an aspect which is after all, much more cardinal and characteristic than any aspect that has hitherto been presented systematically to the world. An enormous rebuilding, remaking, and expansion is integral in the Socialist dream. We want to get the land out of the control of the private owners among whom it is cut up, we want to get houses, factories, railways, mines, farms out of the dispersed management of their proprietors, not in order to secure their
Thereupon, seeing my mind so firmly resolved, he bade me prepare for a visit to the Cardinal Protector, and in all haste I made myself ready. The truth is, now that I saw Father Urbani had yielded, I would have faced His Holiness the Pope with the whole College behind him, without a second thought.
Everybody used to migrate to these festivals. Well, not quite everybody ... but you know what I mean; just the very people you most awfully wanted to meet again and talk to and hear music with: people like Granville Bantock, Ernest Newman, Samuel Langford, John Coates, Dr McNaught, Frederic Austin, Herbert Hughes. 188London used to send thirty or forty critics, and the provinces about the same number. And from the surrounding towns would pour in county families, middle-class families anxious (poor deluded ones!) to keep abreast of the musical times (or do I mean The Musical Times?), maiden ladies still and for ever ecstatic over Mendelssohn’s poor old Elijah, fierce choir-masters with ideas on choral singing, village organists who really believed that Dr Brewer was the Last Word, immaculate young men with æsthetic fever and a decided leaning towards Elgar’s The Dream of Gerontius (always alluded to by them as The Dream), very “nee-ice” young ladies who when at home played the violin, and, last of all, deans (oh yes, lots of deans), minor canons, slim curates, parsons of all kinds, squires without money, squarsons.
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