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Updated: May 13, 2025
Clodd; "but when you really have finished, tell me what you think of me." "I beg your pardon," apologised the person at the desk. "I have got into a habit of staring at people. I know it's rude. I'm trying to break myself of it." "Tell me your name," suggested Mr. Clodd, "and I'll forgive you." "Tommy," was the answer "I mean Jane." "Make up your mind," advised Mr.
Clodd, he would have it you were growing to care for the fellow." "For Dick Danvers?" Tommy laughed. "Whatever put that into his head?" "Oh, well, there were one or two little things that we had noticed." "We?" "I mean that Clodd had noticed." I'm glad it was Clodd that noticed them, not you, dad, thought Tommy to herself. They'd have been pretty obvious if you had noticed them.
Raspall was heard to intimate that he had a nice warm spare room over the bakehouse doing nothing; and our principal butcher, Mr. Clodd, declared boldly that a man like that, who could amuse any company, and was fit for any company, was worth his meat anywhere at holiday-time. But we had all heard that Mr. De Montfort was about to leave.
Mr. Edward Clodd is the author of several handbooks of science 'The Story of Creation, 'A Manual of Evolution, and others. Clodd wrote about the Census: 'Thousands of persons were asked whether they had ever seen apparitions, and out of these some hundreds, mostly unintelligent foreigners, replied in the affirmative.
"If a Saturday morning 'appened to come round as 'e didn't pay up without me asking, I should know I'd made a mistake that it must be Friday. If I don't 'appen to be in at 'alf-past ten, 'e puts it in an envelope and leaves it on the table." "Wonder if his mother has got any more like him?" mused Mr. Clodd. "Could do with a few about this neighbourhood. What is it you want to say about him, then?
"Clodd's a good sort a good sort," said Peter Hope, who, having in his time lived much alone, had fallen into the habit of speaking his thoughts aloud; "but he's not the man to waste his time. I wonder." With the winter Clodd's Lunatic fell ill. Clodd bustled round to Chancery Lane. "To tell you the truth," confessed Mr. Gladman, "we never thought he would live so long as he has."
The last 'bus home on a wet night tells you whether a woman is capable of pushing her own way in the world. Tommy's the sort to get left on the kerb." "She's the sort," retorted Peter, "to make a name for herself and to be able to afford a cab. Don't you bully me!" Peter sniffed self-assertiveness from between his thumb and finger. "Yes, I shall," Clodd told him, "on this particular point.
No one could say no one ever did say that Clodd, under the circumstances, did not do his best. Perhaps, after all, nothing could have helped. The little old gentleman, at Clodd's suggestion, played at being a dormouse and lay very still. If he grew restless, thereby bringing on his cough, Clodd, as a terrible black cat, was watching to pounce upon him.
These were the days of his youth, the golden age of 'decadence. For is not decadence merely a fin de siecle literary term synonymous with the 'sowing his wild oats' of our grandfathers? a phrase still surviving in agricultural districts, according to Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr. Edward Clodd, and other Folk-Lorists. Mr.
Clodd adorns the title-page of his Life of Huxley with the words of Matthew Arnold: 'He saw life steadily and saw it whole. That sad shake of the head, and that passionate but melancholy exclamation about giving his right hand, prove that the tribute is not quite true. Huxley, as he himself more than half suspected, missed the best.
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