United States or Chad ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
He could well afford to offer salary beyond the dreams of the worker, to a rider who knew his horse and to whom the horse took so kindly. The engineer loved his engine, the engine which he had seen grow in the shop under his direction and which he had wholly erected. McAndrew's Song of Steam tells the story of the engineer's devotion to his engine, a song which only Kipling in our day could sing.
Here we have an almost unfailing test for determining the poetic fitness of words, a test which every true poet unconsciously, but withal unerringly, applies. Kipling has greatly delighted our generation. No one who admires the splendid vitality of "McAndrew's Hymn" is really troubled by the slang and lingo of the engine-room.
"What is it, dear?" she asked, as the middle-aged, slightly bent figure toiled up the steps exhaustedly. "Where is Gloria?" was Mr. McAndrew's reply, as he dropped with a sigh of relief into one of the piazza chairs. "Gone with Miss I can't think of her name the District Nurse. She would go you mustn't blame me. Ask about Ben if she wasn't the settest little thing!"
At Lucknow, paperchasing was nearly allied to steeplechasing, for the course was flagged, and there was no paper to disturb the galloping. Few ladies took part in those functions, but I enjoyed my gallop on Mr. McAndrew's pony, Suffolk Punch, which, after floundering a bit at the double, came down at the last fence, luckily without damaging either of us.
And so it runs, from McAndrew's Law, Order, Duty, and Restraint, to his last least line, whether of The Vampire or The Recessional. And no prophet out of Israel has cried out more loudly the sins of the people, nor called them more awfully to repent. "But he is vulgar, he stirs the puddle of life," object the fluttering, chirping gentlemen, the Tomlinsonian men. Well, and isn't life vulgar?
Her pen would have refused to trace the name she had found no, no, no, in very mercy it could not! Poor Gloria dear child! For already the District Nurse loved Gloria. No, she could not tell her who it was owned Dinney's home. Mr. McAndrew's law case concluded, that gentleman was minded to treat himself to a little recreation.
Hand over puckered hand they struggled up and wriggled out of the belts; stark naked they ducked through passageways and alleys, and stowed their damp and cringing forms between sheets. The Red Un served the Chief's breakfast the next morning very carefully. The Chief's cantaloupe was iced; his kipper covered with a hot plate; the morning paper propped against McAndrew's hymn.
For on its reverse side was another stanza from McAndrew's hymn: Ye know how hard an idol dies, An' what that meant to me E'en tak' it for a sacrifice Acceptable to Thee. The Red Un thrust it back into the drawer, with the lid. If she was dead what did it matter?
All thanks to Thee, Most High. And as he placed the menu, the Red Un repeated the words from McAndrew's hymn. It had rather got him at first; it was a new philosophy of life. To give thanks for life was understandable, even if unnecessary. But thanks for work! There was another framed card above the desk, more within the Red Un's ken: "Cable crossing! Do not anchor here!"
"Something is the matter or he would never have come home in this boiling sun." "What is it, dear?" she asked, as the middle-aged, slightly bent figure toiled up the steps exhaustedly. "Where is Gloria?" was Mr. McAndrew's reply, as he dropped with a sigh of relief into one of the piazza chairs. "Gone with Miss I can't think of her name the District Nurse. She would go you mustn't blame me.
Word Of The Day