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By the way," Adrian continued, as if diverging to another topic, "you met two gentlemen of the road in your explorations yesterday, Magians. Now, if I were a magistrate of the county, like Sir Miles Papworth, my suspicions would light upon those gentlemen. A tinker and a ploughman, I think you said, Mr. Thompson. Not? Well, say two ploughmen." "More likely two tinkers," said Richard.
'What, Roger Dart! exclaimed the soldier, 'is this the way you welcome a man home after a long absence? The ploughman stared, and said he did not know him. 'Do you know, rejoined the corporal with a trembling voice and anxious countenance 'do you know Lucy Fennel? 'Of course I do, returned Roger; 'everybody knows her, and, if I may make so bold, loves her too!
Ichabod never returned to Tarrytown, and when Brom Bones, a stout young ploughman and taphaunter, married Katrina, people made bold to say that he knew more about the galloping Hessian than any one else, though they believed that he never had reason to be jealous of Ichabod Crane.
I must not however omit a Ploughman, who lived in the farther Part of the Country, and being very lucky in a Pair of long Lanthorn-Jaws, wrung his face into such a hideous Grimace that every Feature of it appeared under a different Distortion.
I'll speak to my old man, and if I bring him round, then you can find out the girl's real feeling with regard to you." Germain promised, and the week passed without Père Maurice saying a word to him in private or giving any sign that he suspected anything. The ploughman tried hard to seem tranquil, but he was paler and more perturbed than ever.
Scarcely a month after the arrival of the official dispatch, a corporal of dragoons was seen trespassing on Farmer Modbury's fields, by crossing them in great haste without any regard to the footpaths. An old ploughman roughly warned him off, threatening personal ejection.
Suffice it to know, that Jane and her ploughman William had four children, three sons and one daughter; of whom William, the second son, married an honest man's daughter, whose name was Alice Gryse, and whose children were living in 1490, when this chronicle was written. Return we now to the puissant lord, Sir Mighell, Earl of Suffolk.
Go, ploughman, plough The mearing lands, The meadow lands: The mountain lands: All life is bare Beneath your share, All love is in your lusty hands. Up, horses, now! And straight and true Let every broken furrow run: The strength you sweat Shall blossom yet In golden glory to the sun. In 1917 Mr.
He tells the ploughman that, after confession on Shrove Tuesday, he may go and thresh the fat hen, and if he is blindfold, kill her, and then dine on fritters and pancakes. At other times, seed-cakes, wafers, and other light confections.
"Great God, that's so!" said the ploughman; "and if we can feel round and find a little dead wood, we can succeed in drying and warming ourselves." "That's not hard to do," said little Marie; "the dead wood cracks under your feet wherever you step; but give me the saddle first." "What are you going to do with it?"
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