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Updated: May 11, 2025
And as I sit by the light leaping blaze in my chamber, the scattered hail-drops beat upon my window, like the tappings of an OLD MAN'S cane. What is Gone. Gone! Did it ever strike you, my reader, how much meaning lies in that little monosyllable gone? Say it to yourself at nightfall, when the sun has sunk under the hills, and the crickets chirp, "gone."
Tell me not of it, friend when the young weep, Their tears are luke-warm brine; from your old eyes Sorrow falls down like hail-drops of the North, Chilling the furrows of our withered cheeks, Cold as our hopes, and hardened as our feeling Theirs, as they fall, sink sightless ours recoil, Heap the fair plain, and bleaken all before us. Old Play.
And the Lady answered, "Blessed be Saint Bridget and her morn, for these are the dark eyes and the falcon look of my slain lord; and thine shall be the inheritance of his widow." And she called for her waiting attendants, and she bade them clothe that maiden in silk, and in samite; and the pearls which they wove among her black tresses, were whiter than the frozen hail-drops.
The old gentleman from Trollhätta walked up and down in full contemplation; bent and swung himself about; crept on his knees, and stuck his head into corners and between the machines, for he would know everything so exactly; he would see the screw in the propelling vessels, understand their mechanism and effect under water and the water itself poured like hail-drops down his forehead.
The orphan by the oak was set, Her arms, her feet, were bare, The hail-drops had not melted yet, Amid her raven hair. "And, Dame," she said, "by all the ties That child and mother know, Aid one who never knew these joys, Relieve an orphan's woe." The Lady said, "An orphan's state Is hard and sad to bear; Yet worse the widow'd mother's fate, Who mourns both lord and heir.
Tell me not of it, friend when the young weep, Their tears are luke-warm brine; from your old eyes Sorrow falls down like hail-drops of the North, Chilling the furrows of our withered cheeks, Cold as our hopes, and hardened as our feeling Theirs, as they fall, sink sightless ours recoil, Heap the fair plain, and bleaken all before us. Old Play.
There was no blood that she could see; the man might not be dead, but stupefied or insensible. Oh, dear! it was Harry Jardine of Whitethorn; the hail-drops among his black curls, the sprigs of the heather dinted into his brown cheek. It darted into Joanna's mind like inspiration how the chance had occurred. She remembered Susan had said, yesterday, that she had met Mr.
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