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Updated: June 1, 2025
Roch with his dog and shells, St. John the Baptist in his sheepskin, and, most ridiculous of all, poor Vincent de Paul carrying three naked children in his arms, like a midwife's advertisement. This frightful exhibition, which was of the nature of the Tussaud Museum or a masquerade, positively frightened Amedee.
"Do you think my hands are too big?" she ventured presently he could just hear the whisper. Peer felt a pang of pity. He had noticed already how ill the red swollen hands matched her pale clear-cut face, and he knew that in the country, when any one has small, fine hands, people call them "midwife's hands." "We'll manage it somehow, I daresay," said Peer, turning round to the wall.
The next day she found on a shelf in the sitting-room a heap of old silver pieces and clippings, which it is to be supposed the Troll had brought her. Apart from the need of human aid, common to all the legends with which we are dealing, the two points emphasized by these Swedish tales are the midwife's refusal of food and the gratitude of the Troll.
Confining our attention for the moment to the refusal of food, it would seem that the Earthman's apology in the foregoing narrative is, as too many human apologies are, a mere excuse. The real reason for the midwife's abstention was not that fairy food was distasteful, but that she durst not touch it, under penalty of never again returning to the light of day.
I will see if I can see. See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end. They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the other's gamp poked in the beach.
But neither the midwife's lore nor the caudlelectures saved him from the archons of Sinn Fein and their naggin of hemlock. But Ann Hathaway? Mr Best's quiet voice said forgetfully. Yes, we seem to be forgetting her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.
"If they go together," she observed, "it's right to fear God, no doubt; but that's no raison why they shouldn't pay respect to thim that can sarve thim or otherwise." "Nobody says aginst that, Mrs. Moan," replied the other; "it's all fair, an' nothin' else." "A midwife's nuttin' in your eyes, we suppose," rejoined Mrs. Moan; "but maybe's there's thim belongin' to you could tell to the contrary."
All this, it is true, does not constitute full proof of your guilt, but it makes one tremble for your innocence." "What cause have I to tremble?" "What cause! Why a false witness, easily enough hired for a little money, might swear with impunity that he saw you come from the opera together; and a coachman in the same way might swear he had taken you to the midwife's.
You must put your best foot foremost!" he called in a low voice. "The midwife's here!" "What in the world does she want? It's a story, you old fool!" And the sound of milk squirting into the pail began again. "A story, is it? No, but you must come in and go to bed; she says it's high time you did. You are keeping up much too long this year.
Orient and immortal wheat standing from everlasting to everlasting. Two old women fresh from their whiff of the briny trudged through Irishtown along London bridge road, one with a sanded tired umbrella, one with a midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled. The whirr of flapping leathern bands and hum of dynamos from the powerhouse urged Stephen to be on. Beingless beings. Stop!
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