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This appears in the harp, lute, or horn; and from all tortuous and enclosed places sounds are returned stronger. The nostrils, in like manner, are ever open, because we have a continual use for them; and their entrances also are rather narrow, lest anything noxious should enter them; and they have always a humidity necessary for the repelling dust and many other extraneous bodies.
My heart is like a silent lute Some faithless hand has thrown aside; Those chords are dumb, those tones are mute, That once sent forth a voice of pride! Yet even o'er the lute neglected The wind of heaven will sometimes fly, And even thus the heart dejected, Will sometimes answer to a sigh!
The only thing that angered him was carelessness or listlessness; and Paul was an apt and untiring pupil, and learnt so easily and deftly that Mark was often astonished. "How did you learn that?" he said one day suddenly to Paul when the boy was practising on the lute, and played a strange soft cadence, of a kind that Mark had never heard.
The two little angels are of the utmost beauty; the one is playing on a lute, and listens with head inclined to hear whether the instrument is in tune; the other is blowing a pipe. The whole is perfectly finished and of a splendid effect of colour. To the year 1486 belongs a Madonna Enthroned with Six Saints, now in the Academy at Venice.
He sings to us, not like the gay minstrel with his lute, but in stately measured tones, which remind us most of solemn organ chords. His voice comes to us, too, out of a poet's country through which, if we would find our way, we must put our hand in his and let him guide us while he sings. And only when we come to love "the best words in the best order" can we truly enjoy Milton's Paradise Lost.
"They were rich people, they were people of distinction born in grandeur, and brought up in it. Wheugh wheugh!" whistled the wind; then it continued the tale. "I never saw there, as in other old mansions, the high-born lady sitting in her boudoir with her maidens and spinning-wheels. She played on the lute, and sang to it, though never the old Danish ballads, but songs in foreign languages.
Their garments, of the lightest rose, violet, or yellow tints, diversify fantastically the monotonous white robes of their gentle companions. Of their employments, the most conspicuous are playing on the lute, gaming with dice, teasing their lapdogs, and insulting their parasites. Whatever their occupation, it is performed with little attention, and less enthusiasm.
"Why shouldn't he write to me?" I asked, tartly. "But but HIM writin' to YOU!" "Humph! Even a god stoops once in a while. Read your mythology, Lute." "Hey? Say, look here, what are you swearin' about?" "Swearing? Oh, that's all right. The god I referred to was a heathen one." "Well, it's a good thing Dorindy didn't hear you; she's down on swearin', heathen or any other kind. But what did Mr.
The red chuprassie is our Colorado beetle, our potato disease, our Home ruler, our cupboard skeleton, the little rift in our lute. The red-coated chuprassie is a cancer in our Administration. To be rid of it there is hardly any surgical operation we would not cheerfully undergo.
Then Lute, with a look of disgust, would declare that he would trade the crazy old fool off the very first chance he had "if he had to take a goat even up for her." One day we drove up to a farmer who was working in the garden, and Lute inquired at the top of his voice if he had any sheep to sell. The man said he did not, and never had owned a sheep in his life. I waited until Mr.
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