Peter Parley's Own Story

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Sheldon, 1864 - Всего страниц: 320
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Стр. 243 - Hey, diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon. The little dog laughed to see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon!
Стр. 194 - Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day — so warm, that every window was wide open — and so perfectly still, that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes.
Стр. 227 - Was it the chime of a tiny bell That came so sweet to my dreaming ear — Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell, That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the moon and the fairy...
Стр. 168 - And what are we That hear the question of that voice sublime? Oh, what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side? Yea, what is all the riot man can make In his short life to thy unceasing roar? And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to HIM Who drowned a world and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains?— a light wave That breaks and whispers of its Maker's might.
Стр. 168 - THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, While I look upward to thee. It would seem As if God poured thee from His hollow hand, And hung His bow upon thine awful front; And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake, The sound of many waters...
Стр. 168 - And hung his bow upon thine awful front; And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake, The sound of many waters ; and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks.
Стр. 194 - I may have but a minute to speak to you. My dear, be a good man — be virtuous — be religious — be a good man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come to lie here.
Стр. 168 - Oh, what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ? Yea, what is all the riot man can make In his short life, to thy unceasing roar? And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains?
Стр. 244 - We're all in the dumps, For diamonds are trumps — The kittens are gone to St. Paul's — The babies are bit, The moon's in a fit — And the houses are built without walls.
Стр. 26 - I had learned to write, and had made a little progress in arithmetic. There was not a grammar, a geography, or a history of any kind in the school. Reading, writing, and arithmetic were the only things taught, and these very indifferently — not wholly from the stupidity of the teacher, but because he had forty scholars, and the standards of the age required no more than he performed.

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