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I am just going on shore with my children.... It is now afternoon and I have been on shore. It is I think the roughest land I ever saw.... We are all ordered to land tomorrow and not a shelter to go under." Such is the simple story told by this good lady; the reader's imagination can fill in the details. At the time of Mrs. Frost's arrival she was a young matron of twenty-eight years.
Where do you come from? 'Last from the station, said Louis. 'What makes you knock at that door, now the drawing-room is alive? 'I could not venture on an unceremonious invasion of Mrs. James Frost's territory. 'You'll find no distinction of territory here, laughed Clara. 'It was a fiction that we were to live in separate rooms, like naughty children. Does not the drawing-room look nice?
Matthew Frost's wife had died in giving birth to Robert, and twenty years elapsed ere he married a second. He was seventy years of age now, but still upright as a dart, with a fine fresh complexion, a clear bright eye, and snow-white hair that fell in curls behind, on the collar of his white smock-frock.
As Grant Showerman's "A Country Chronicle" is an admirable rendering of the farm life of Wisconsin in the seventies, so these poems are a fine imaginative record of the pioneer life of Nebraska a little later. I believe this volume to contain quite as fine poetry as Robert Frost's "North of Boston."
True, the young lady herself said the gazelles loved her; but disagreeable people are apt to think themselves amiable, and in view of the course invariably taken by the gazelles themselves anyone accustomed to weigh evidence will hold that she was probably mistaken. I must, however, return to Frost's Lives of Eminent Christians.
The first impulse kept him close to the wholesome Hoosier soil. The second is an anticipation of Robert Frost's theory of speech tones as the basis of verse, as well as a revival of the bardic practice of reciting one's own poems. For Riley had much of the actor and platform-artist in him, and comprehended that poetry might be made again a spoken art, directed to the ear rather than to the eye.
"He's over there," said Sol, feeling that he had made a noise like a peanut-bag which one inflates and smashes in the palm in the expectation of startling the world. "Have they took him up?" "Well, you see, Bill Frost's kind of keepin' his eye on him till the inquest," explained Sol. "Yes, and I could name the man that put him up to it," said she. "Well, circumstantial evidence " began Sol.
Once there, he coughed softly to attract Frost's attention, but that individual was too much engrossed with his work to heed any lesser sound than the grating of the chairs he was arranging. Bainton waited patiently, standing near the carved oaken portal, till by chance the verger turned and saw him, whereupon he beckoned mysteriously with a crook'd forefinger. "Adam! Hi! A word wi' ye!"
In the spring of 1888, on his return from photographing the statues at Varallo, he found, to his disgust, that the authorities of the British Museum had removed Frost's Lives of Eminent Christians from its accustomed shelf in the Reading Room.
It had cut the intestines in a dozen places and opened large branches of the mesenteric artery. The bullet from Frost's gun had entered at the right shoulder, fractured the humerus, blown a hole an inch in diameter in the chest wall, opened up a jagged hole in the trachea, and dissipated its energy in the left lung.
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