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Her playful smile, her buoyance wild, Bespeak the gentle, mirthful child; But in her forehead's broad expanse, Her chastened tones, her thoughtful glance, Is mingled, with the child's light glee, The modest maiden's dignity. One summer's day, two years after the ball and review, Mary Ross and her father were finishing their early dinner, when she said,

Few are the foreheads which like Shakespeare's or Melancthon's rise so high, and descend so low, that the eyes themselves seem clear, eternal, tideless mountain lakes; and all above them in the forehead's wrinkles, you seem to track the antlered thoughts descending there to drink, as the Highland hunters track the snow prints of the deer.

She had neither fire in her eyes nor colour on her skin. The thin close multitudinous wrinkles ran up accurately ruled from the chin to the forehead's centre, and touched faintly once or twice beyond, as you observe the ocean ripples run in threads confused to smoothness within a space of the grey horizon sky.

"I see 'em when I slick my hair in the kitchen glass ... I don't think they're much like yours." Bobbie paid no heed to the allusion to himself. "Your forehead's smooth, too," he mused. "Your eyes are big, and the lashes round 'em 're long. You're much prettier'n your dog, but then girls 're always pretty."

In profile, you plainly perceive that horizontal, semi-crescentic depression in the forehead's middle, which, in man, is Lavater's mark of genius. But how? Genius in the Sperm Whale? Has the Sperm Whale ever written a book, spoken a speech? No, his great genius is declared in his doing nothing particular to prove it. It is moreover declared in his pyramidical silence.

Zeen!" cried Mite and she pushed him back by his forehead to make him look up. "Zeen! Zeen! It's I: don't you know Mite?" "Oof!" sighed Zeen; and his head dropped down again without his eyes opening. "He's got the fever," said Barbara. "Just feel how his forehead's burning and he's as hot as fire." "Haven't you poulticed him?" asked Stanse. "He wants poultices on his feet: mustard."

"Ain' no great hand fer sech flummydiddles," said he, as he put the medal away. "It's a badge of honor," said I. "It shows you 're a brave man." "Got 'nough on 'em," said D'ri. "This 'ere rip 'n the forehead's 'bout all the badge I need." "It's from the emperor the great Napoleon," I said. "It's a mark of his pleasure."

His firm lips met like the lips of a vice; the Delta of his forehead's veins swelled like overladen brooks; in his very sleep, his ringing cry ran through the vaulted hull, "Stern all! the White Whale spouts thick blood!" The Blacksmith

Through the gulfs, with inward gazes, I may look till I am lost; Wandering deep in spirit-mazes, In a sea without a coast. Windows open to the glorious! Time and space, oh, far beyond! Woman, ah! thou art victorious, And I perish, overfond. Springs aloft the yet Unspoken In the forehead's endless grace, Full of silences unbroken; Infinite, unfeatured face.

"It's a face of Gainsborough!" Mr. Longdon returned with spirit. "Lady Julia herself harked back." Vanderbank, clearly, was equally touched and amused. "Let us say at once that it's a face of Raphael." His old friend's hand was instantly on his arm. "That's exactly what I often said to myself of Lady Julia's." "The forehead's a little too high," said Vanderbank.