United States or Democratic Republic of the Congo ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
It was no bird that had thus outwitted the hungry Asas: it was the giant Old Winter, clothed in his eagle plumage. Over the lonely woods, and the snow-crowned mountains, and the frozen sea, he flew, dragging the helpless Loki through tree-tops, and over jagged rocks, scratching and bruising his body, and almost tearing his arms from his shoulders.
It made my heart thump a little, but I kept on scratching away with my pen for hfe unt death. Then the drums stopped beating for a while, unt then they begun again. Then I heard a volley that made me shiver all over. Then the drums beat as the men were marched back to their camps. If I had had time to think I should have fainted. Towards evening I had got everything in first-class shape.
The forester, scratching himself, went back to his room without a word, and Mitya sat on the bench to “catch the favorable moment,” as he expressed it. Profound dejection clung about his soul like a heavy mist. A profound, intense dejection! He sat thinking, but could reach no conclusion. The candle burnt dimly, a cricket chirped; it became insufferably close in the overheated room.
The morning was hot, and at last he put down his spade and wiped his wet forehead, noticing, as he did so, that the animal was snuffling and scratching at a spot a little way off.
He buried himself again in his feather-bed, and the next morning, when they came to wake me, he was no longer in the room. He had left before daylight. One hot summer day I was coming home from hunting in a light cart; Yermolai sat beside me dozing and scratching his nose. The sleeping dogs were jolted up and down like lifeless bodies under our feet.
I was alone in my own room that evening when a gentle scratching on the window-crystal entreated admission. I answered without looking up, assuming that Eveena alone would seek me there. But hers were not the lips that were earnestly pressed on my hand, nor hers the voice that spoke, trembling and hesitating with stronger feeling than it could utter in words "I do thank you from my heart.
Did he come from Yellow Jacket Pass way?" asked Mr. Brewster, scratching his neck, thoughtfully. "The same! Wall, he died an' left Sary with nothing but funeral costs. She had to sell that measly ranch that Bill held a quarter interest in to pay bills, and now she hain't got nawthin' but her health. Better see Sary, Sam." It was the dawn of hope for Mr. Brewster.
Standing, or crouching, before the tent opening they formed a most offensive picture, vigorously scratching themselves, while particles of dead skin dropped in such quantity that after some minutes the ground actually showed an accumulation resembling snow. They were accompanied by a twelve-year-old daughter who, strange to say, had a perfectly clean skin.
Yer head's all powdered up like Squire Winkum's footman. It was only meal, yer know." "And now you can come and go without getting white, David," said Tom, moving a stool from under the newly put up shelves. "This is where the bureau is to go." "Is it now?" said David, scratching his head. "Why that's where the old bin used to be.
Sterling done it but I saw it nobody knows it, though." The words came in short, palpitating sentences that died away helplessly. Her listener hesitated for an instant, scratching the blonde plush of his cropped scalp with his lead-pencil. Then he stepped forward and kicked one of the double doors open, holding it with his automatic foot. "Bawb! oh, Bawb!" he called; "'m yer."
Word Of The Day