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Updated: June 15, 2025
Flanking that round and ruthless arbiter, which drove him day by day to stand up on feet whose time had come to rest, were the effigies of his past triumphs. On the one hand, in a papier-mache frame, slightly tinged with smuts, stood a portrait of the "Honorable Bateson," in the uniform of his Yeomanry.
Tell her I'm goin' goin' fast." He fell back, panting. Meynell gave him food and medicine. Then he went quickly downstairs, and knocked at the parlour door. After an interval of evident hesitation on the part of the occupant of the room, it was reluctantly unlocked. Meynell pushed it open wide. "Mrs. Bateson come to your husband he is dying!" The woman, deadly white, threw back her head proudly.
"Did you ever?" exclaimed Mrs. Bateson sotto voce; "a grown man like that, and not to know John the Baptist when he sees him! Forerunners and heralds indeed! Why, it's John the Baptist as large as life, and those as don't recognise him ought to be ashamed of theirselves." "Lucy Ellen would have known who it was when she was three years old," said Caleb proudly.
'Mark my words, I said, 'Miss Elisabeth Farringdon will remain Elisabeth Farringdon to the end of the chapter; she's too clever to take the fancy of the menfolk, and too pale. They want something pink and white and silly, men do." "Some want one thing and some another," chimed in Mrs. Bateson, "and they know what they want, which is more than women-folks do.
Bateson, with tears in her eyes. Mrs. Hankey sighed. "It is the sweetest flowers that are the readiest for transplanting to the Better Land," she said; and once again Christopher hated her. But Elisabeth was engrossed in the matter in hand. "What would he like?" she persisted "a new toy, or a book, or jam and cake?"
Bateson offers no explanation of this, but it obviously suggests that some trace of the original dimorphism of the sheep in this character was retained in both horned and hornless breeds.
Inspired with such an aim, common sense and sympathy will enable us to overcome the difficulties and avoid the pitfalls which undoubtedly beset the teaching of that most necessary, most delightful, but most elusive and imponderable subject, the appreciation of literature. By W. BATESON Director of the John Innes Horticultural Institution
There is Professor Burkett, the New Testament scholar of Cambridge, in charge of one of the huts; Professor Bateson, the great biologist of Cambridge, who has been lecturing on his subject, and who was swept off his feet by the response which he received from the troops.
I haven't seen him since. He and the village have been at loggerheads about the Institute, I believe. He wanted to turn out the dissenters. Bateson came to me, and we circumvented him, of course. But the man's an ass. Don't talk of him! Robert sighed a long sigh. Was all his work undone? It wrung his heart to remember the opening of the Institute, the ardour of his boys.
"I was looking at Mrs. Bateson feeding her fowls," said Elisabeth evasively; "and, I say, have you ever noticed that hens are just like tea-pots, and cocks like coffee-pots? Look at them now! It seems as if an army of breakfast services had suddenly come to life
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