Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 20, 2025
"What is it, Sam?" whispered Jonathan. "Look, see thar, Massa Zane," came the answer in a hoarse whisper from the negro and at the same time he pointed down toward the ground. Col. Zane put his head alongside Jonathan's and all three men peered out into the darkness. "Jack, can you see anything?" said Col. Zane. "No, but wait a minute until the moon throws a light." A breeze had sprung up.
Roger Low had become the father of Jonathan, and even Jonathan now had a boy Robert, for some fifty years had passed since Robert's grandfather had crossed the ocean to this land. The Portsmouth house in which the three lived had been the scene of Jonathan's boyhood and recalls the time when his little sister, Mary, cut off her father's hair. The winter months of 1675 had passed.
Pshaw! it's only the wind." "It's Jonathan Wild," returned the widow, endeavouring to alarm him. "I told you I was not unprotected." "He protect you," retorted Blueskin, maliciously; "you haven't a worse enemy on the face of the earth than Jonathan Wild. If you'd read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at Jonathan's door, and with reason too, as I can testify."
Little Jonathan's father and mother were English, but because he was born in Dublin, and because he spent a great deal of his life there, he has sometimes been looked upon as an Irishman. Jonathan's nurse was also an Englishwoman, and when he was about a year old she was called home to England to a dying friend.
Straw and other combustibles being collected, were placed in the middle of the audience-chamber. On these were thrown all the horrible contents of Jonathan's museum, together with the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard. The whole was then fired, and in a few minutes the room was a blaze.
The SUSANNA HAYES had entered Kingston Harbor that afternoon, and this was Jonathan's first night spent in those tropical latitudes, whither his fancy and his imagination had so often carried him while he stood over the desk filing the accounts of invoices from foreign parts.
In the obscurity in which it was now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan's fancy to make it resemble one as much as possible.
Up in the Franconia Notch, in a little hollow under White Face and below Bog Eddy, Joe had been known as "Jonathan's boy," Jonathan being the name his father went by, the last half never being used, there being but one "Jonathan" the one whom everybody loved.
Luke caught a sapling and held on. The doctor set Jonathan's wrist last, and Luke never knew it had been broken until the next day. It is one of the stories they tell you around the stove winter evenings. "Julluk the night Jonathan carried aout Luke," they say, listening to the wind howling over the ledges.
Adam caught up the lantern, and, turning it in the direction whence the voice came, found to his relief that the rays fell upon Jonathan's face. "Odds rot it, lad!" he exclaimed, "but you've gived me a turn! How the deuce did you get in here? and why didn't ye come inside to the house over there?"
Word Of The Day
Others Looking