United States or Ethiopia ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Most of the men in the trenches had become rather sleepy while listening to Jacob Free's story, but they began to freshen up a little when the first faint streaks of dawn appeared, for they knew full well that the enemy would be stirring ere long. And they were right. When day broke the Russians commenced firing, and every now and then a shell would pass roaring over the men's heads.
As Mr. Free's letter may be as great a curiosity to you as it has been to us, I enclose you a copy of it, which Hopeton obtained for me. It certainly places the estimable Mike in a strong light as a despatch-writer.
With this apology, therefore, I present Mr. Free's song: AIR, Na Guilloch y' Goulen. Oh, once we were illigint people, Though we now live in cabins of mud; And the land that ye see from the steeple Belonged to us all from the Flood. My father was then King of Connaught, My grand-aunt Viceroy of Tralee; But the Sassenach came, and signs on it, The devil an acre have we.
"Why, that's what made me give' up nussin' two year ago," she said, happily. "I wa'n't havin' no time at all. I couldn't live my proper life. I al'ays knew I should come to that, so I'd raked an' scraped, an' put into the bank, till I thought I'd got enough to buy me a mite o' flour while I lived, an' a pine coffin arter I died; an' then I jest set up my Ebenezer I'd be as free's a bird.
Free's aim failed him, and before he could arrest the progress of his victim, he had gained the corridor, and with one bound, cleared the first flight of the staircase, his pace increasing every moment as Mike's denunciations grew louder and louder, till at last, as he reached the street, Mr. Free's delight overcame his indignation, and he threw himself upon a chair and laughed immoderately.
I've figured up the balance perfectly sanely. The only thing is, you fellows can't understand. Have you ever been in a labor battalion? Have you ever had a man you'd been chatting with five minutes before deliberately knock you down? Good God, you don't know what you are talking about, you two.... I've got to be free, now. I don't care at what cost. Being free's the only thing that matters."
"Don' you see, Ben," she answered, "dat I don' belong to de Raymonds no mo', so I ain' Viney Raymond. Ain' you goin' change w'en you git free?" "I don' know. I talk about dat when I's free, and freedom's a mighty long, weary way off yet." "Evahbody dat's free has dey own name, an' I ain' nevah goin' feel free's long ez I's a-totin' aroun' de Raymonds' name."
Free's conversational gifts, however, his audience one by one dropped off in sleep, leaving him sole monarch of the watch-fire, and what he thought more of a small brass kettle nearly full of brandy-and-water. This latter, I perceived, he produced when all was tranquil, and seemed, as he cast a furtive glance around, to assure himself that he was the only company present.
Opposite him sat a short, puny, round-faced little gentleman with rolling eyes and a turned up nose. Numerous sheets of paper, pens, etc., lay scattered about; and he evinced, by his air and gesture, the most marked and eager attention to Mr. Free's narrative, whose frequent interruptions, caused by the drink and the oysters, were viewed with no small impatience by the anxious editor.
Richard Free's Seven Years Hard, to mention only two; but either the public mind was preoccupied with other amusements, or it had not recovered from the lassitude of the last philanthropic debauch. Nothing has roused that fury of charitable curiosity which accompanies a true social revival, and leaves its victims gasping for the next excitement.
Word Of The Day