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Fisher sprang and put a spoonful of stimulant to them, while Mrs. Cabot buried her face yet deeper on Polly's shoulder, her husband turning on his heel, to pace the floor and groan. "Polly, Polly!" called Pickering quite distinctly, in a tone of anguish. "O, Polly, Polly! he's dying go to him do!" Mrs. Cabot tore her hand out of Polly's, almost pushing her from the chair. "Quick, dear!"
Tell him to come up. Ask him if he minds seeing me in my room." "I told him you were in bed, sir, and he used shocking language," said Fisher. Kara laughed. "Send him up," he said, and then as Fisher was going out of the room he called him back. "By the way, Fisher, after Mr. Gathercole has gone, you may go out for the night.
Fisher, firmly, "I shall stay, so that is all there is about it, Polly. Now run along, child, and tell Matilda to hurry out too, for she wants to see the sunrise." Polly still lingered, until her mother looked up in surprise. "Why, Polly," she said, reprovingly. "O dear me!" exclaimed Polly, "I didn't mean to disobey, Mamsie, I really didn't; I'll go."
There were red-sashed "Fisher Lads" wading with butterfly-nets on their shoulders; there was a "Tying the Ribbon on Pussy's Neck"; there were portraits in oil and petrifactions in crayon, as hard and tight as the purses of those who had refused to accept them, leaving them upon their maker's hands because the likeness had failed.
Until, much too soon for Stuart's intent, they were suddenly and quietly joined at a fork of the paths by Rollo, with Miss Fisher on his arm. As the waltz ceased, Rollo had secured without difficulty the companionship of Miss Fisher for a walk; and Miss Fisher never knew how peculiar a walk it was, nor imagined that her cavalier was following a very fixed and definite purpose of his own.
But were you living up there, you would know them, and the dread of them would seldom be out of your mind. One is called Spite the Marten and the other Pekan the Fisher. "Spite the Marten is also called the Pine Marten and the American Sable, and he is one of the handsomest members of the Weasel family. Shadow the Weasel can climb, but he spends most of his time on the ground.
De Peyster." "Yes, indeed," he answered, "have n't I?" Then he continued, after a few thoughtful puffs of smoke, "Do you know, I 'm not quite so sure as I used to be that fishing is the best of all sports. I sometimes think of giving it up and going in for croquet." "SIMPSON. Have you ever seen any American books on angling, Fisher?" "FISHER. No, I do not think there are any published.
Your Uncle Catty thinks he was a ghost even that day at Fort Fisher. I don't. He is the Catholic Bishop of Alden. You'll go to him to-morrow. He'll tell you what it means." Bishop Joseph Winthrop of Alden was very much worried.
He had fished and rowed in Black Pond, sat by its falls in the primitive forest, sometimes with a book, sometimes with his son, or with some other hunter or fisher of congenial tastes; and on one memorable day in April, years agone, he had tarried there with Walt Whitman. There, seated on a fallen tree, Whitman wrote this description of the place which was later printed in "Specimen Days":
Here, in front of Fort Welch and Fort Fisher, the corps was massed in columns of brigades in echelon, forming a mighty wedge, which should rive the frame-work of the confederacy. The corps was formed in the rear of the picket line; the Third brigade, Second division, being the point of the wedge.
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