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Showing: 1-10 results of 483

AN A D D R E S S TO ALLWell provided Hibernians. Gentlemen,   S Nature hath been so very Indulgent to ye, as to stock your Gardens with Trees of the largest Growth, for which Reason ye are caress'd, whilst Men of less Parts, tho' in some Things more deserving, are laugh'd at, and excluded all Company. As all Infants, especially of the Female Sex, are much delighted with Fruit, so as their Years and other Appetites increase, no Wonder... more...

by Unknown
PREFACE. The Publishers offer in this little volume well known and long loved stories to their young readers. The tales which have delighted the children of many generations will, they feel assured, be equally welcome in the nurseries of the present day, which, with the popularity and antiquity of the contents of the volume, justify them in styling it The National Nursery Book.   RED RIDING-HOOD. Once upon a time there lived on the... more...

CHAPTER FIRST. ABOUT A YOUNG ENGLISH MUSICIAN, AND HOW HE CAME TO SPEND THE WINTER AT MOUNT CARMEL. great many turtle-doves lived about Mount Carmel, and there were orange-trees and cypresses there, and among these the doves lived all the winter. They had broods early in the year, and towards the end of March, or the beginning of April, they set off like great gentlefolks, to spend "the season" near London. All last winter a young English... more...

AN INTERPRETER OF LIFE. BY LYMAN ABBOTT. Poetry, music, and painting are three correlated arts, connected not merely by an accidental classification, but by their intrinsic nature. For they all possess the same essential function, namely, to interpret the uninterpretable, to reveal the undiscoverable, to express the inexpressible. They all attempt, in different forms and through different languages, to translate the invisible and eternal into... more...

The Voyageur Dere's somet'ing stirrin' ma blood tonight,On de night of de young new year,Wile de camp is warm an' de fire is bright,An' de bottle is close at han'—Out on de reever de nort' win' blow,Down on de valley is pile de snow,But w'at do we care so long we knowWe 're safe on de log cabane? Drink to de healt' of your wife an' girl,Anoder wan for your frien',Den geev' me a chance, for on all de worl'I 've not many frien' to... more...

THERE was once a little Brownie, who lived—where do you think he lived? in a coal-cellar. Now a coal-cellar may seem a most curious place to choose to live in; but then a Brownie is a curious creature—a fairy, and yet not one of that sort of fairies who fly about on gossamer wings, and dance in the moonlight, and so on. He never dances; and as to wings, what use would they be to him in a coal-cellar? He is a sober, stay-at-home,... more...

DEDICATION Bob Southey! You're a poet, poet laureate,And representative of all the race.Although 'tis true that you turned out a Tory atLast, yours has lately been a common case.And now my epic renegade, what are ye atWith all the lakers, in and out of place?A nest of tuneful persons, to my eyeLike four and twenty blackbirds in a pye,Which pye being opened they began to sing'(This old song and new simile holds good),'A dainty dish to set before... more...

My readers, would you like to go abroad, for just an hour or so, With little friends of different ages? Look at them in these pictured pages— Brothers and sisters you can see,—all children of one family. Their father, too, you here will find, and good Miss Earle, their teacher kind. Three years ago their Mother died, and ever since has Father tried To give his children in the Spring some tour, or... more...

Some years ago, while editing Henry C. Whitney's "Life of Lincoln" I showed a photograph of the bust of Lincoln by Johannes Gelert, the most intellectual to my mind of all the studies of his face, to a little Italian shoeblack, and asked him if he knew who it was. The boy, evidently prompted by a recent lesson at school, said questioningly, "Whittier?—Longfellow?" I replied, "No, it is Lincoln, the great President." He answered, "Well, he... more...

Hannibal. Could a Numidian horseman ride no faster? Marcellus! oh! Marcellus! He moves not—he is dead. Did he not stir his fingers? Stand wide, soldiers—wide, forty paces; give him air; bring water; halt! Gather those broad leaves, and all the rest, growing under the brushwood; unbrace his armour. Loose the helmet first—his breast rises. I fancied his eyes were fixed on me—they have rolled back again. Who presumed to touch... more...