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Updated: May 20, 2025
'It's no use wasting breath, replied William Morris. 'The master says he's bought the place from thy grandfather, lass; and he agreed to turn out by noon on Michaelmas Day.
"When is Michaelmas Day?" said Ann Veronica, a little abruptly. "Heaven knows!" said Mr. Manning; and added, "the twenty-ninth." "I thought it was earlier," said Ann Veronica. "Wasn't Parliament to reassemble?" He put out his hand and leaned against a tree and crossed his legs. "You're not interested in politics?" he asked, almost with a note of protest. "Well, rather," said Ann Veronica.
A forlorn hope of the disinherited, headed by John d'Eyville, established themselves about Michaelmas in the isle of Ely, where they made themselves the terror of all East Anglia, plundering towns so far apart as Norwich and Cambridge, maltreating the Jews, and holding the rich citizens to ransom.
The rooms had to be swept, the bread to be baked, the clothes to be washed, the pigs and chickens to be fed. Moreover, to-day was the first day of the Michaelmas fair, and things must be bought in to last till Christmas. The active work was finished by about seven o'clock. Dinner was now got ready. It consisted of two bowls of broth, then boiled dumplings, and lastly some stewed giblets.
And they never heard of either. I stood a little while talking, not asked to sit down, for that would be thought a liberty, and hearing how they had had potatoes and bacon for dinner, and how the eldest girl Bertha was going to be married at Michaelmas, and how well her baby was getting through its teething. "Her baby?" I echoed, "I have not heard of a baby?"
Michael, or Michaelmas, the tenants were in the habit of bringing presents of a fat goose to their landlord, in order to make him kind and lenient in the matters of rent, repairs, and the renewal of leases, and the noble landlords used to entertain their tenants right royally in the great halls of their ancestral mansions, roast goose forming a standing dish of the repast.
References given and required. Maybe the average man will not be her ideal husband. Each Michaelmas at a little town in the Thames Valley with which I am acquainted there is held a hiring fair. A farmer one year laid his hand on a lively-looking lad, and asked him if he wanted a job. It was what the boy was looking for. "Got a character?" asked the farmer.
They sent word to Mr. Casberd, their counsel, that they would send for him as soon as their jury were sworn; Mr. Tinney informing him that his attendance would be required only for a few minutes, as it would be a matter of form, merely to prove the fact, and direct the jury to give a shilling nominal damages. This was the Michaelmas sessions, 1807.
Being still without legitimate knives and forks, the absence of the latter article was supplied by small forked-sticks, cut from a neighbouring peppermint tree. The following day we had the swan skinned and roasted, but it certainly was not nearly so good as a Michaelmas goose. Nevertheless, it was a change from boiled pork, and we endeavoured to think it a luxury.
The guests drove off; the garden shivered into quiet. But Mrs. Crosby Knowlton sighed as she looked at a marble seat warm from five hundred summers of Amalfi. On the face of a winged sphinx which supported it some one had drawn a mustache in lead-pencil. Crumpled paper napkins were dumped among the Michaelmas daisies.
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