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Updated: June 24, 2025
What riches of story has not York to browbeat withal the storyless New-Yorker who visits her!
"You don't know much of Ireland, my boy, or you wouldn't ask that question. We bought cattle that had been raised by a farmer on land from which a defaulting tenant had been evicted. Men have been shot in these parts for less than that." "Pleasant state of affairs," remarked the New-Yorker. "I don't much care," Jack went on, lightly.
He saw Stover laughing, and beheld the white teeth of Carara, the Mexican, who said: "Perhaps the Senor is sleepy!" Finding himself the object of what seemed to him a particularly senseless joke, the New-Yorker crept forth, his face suffused with anger. Strangely enough, he still retained the pipe in his fingers. "Say, are youse guys tryin' to kid me?" he demanded, roughly.
In this picture we have it; no spectral cloud-pile, but a real Chimborazo, with the hoar of eternity upon its scalp, looks down upon the happy New-Yorker in his first May perspiration. And as the wind sets east, no yellow hint at something warming, but whole dales and plains still in the real sunshine, take the chill from off his heart.
He was a middle-aged man, a New-Yorker, intelligent and of a social disposition, and I had found him a very pleasant companion. To my amazement, I perceived that he was smoking a cigar. "If I were you," said he, "I would not go in that boat. It is horribly crowded, and the captain and second officer have yet to find places in it." "That's all the more reason," said I, "why we should hurry.
There was a fire in the monumental fireplace, and as he entered, a log was just breaking in the middle and spluttering, across the tall, richly wrought French dog-irons. It was the room of the successful New-Yorker who delights in giving himself all the indulgences of taste of which his youth has been deprived.
The New-Yorker who steps on board the Fulton ferry-boat about ten o'clock on Sunday morning finds himself accompanied by a large crowd of people who bear the visible stamp of strangers, who are going to Henry Ward Beecher's church. You can pick them out with perfect certainty.
It couldn't be like anybody, or anything that flies in the air, or creeps upon the earth, or swims in the waters under the earth. I wonder where in the world she's from; she's no New-Yorker; even we can see that; and she's not quite a country person, either; she seems like a person from some large town, where she's been an aesthetic authority.
But being a minister is but an incident, so to speak. The important thing is not that he is a minister, but that he is himself! Recently I heard a New-Yorker, the head of a great corporation, say: "I believe that Russell Conwell is doing more good in the world than any man who has lived since Jesus Christ." And he said this in serious and unexaggerated earnest.
"Let us go back and 'ecraser l'infame' by paying him a year's rent in advance and taking immediate possession. Nothing else can soothe my wounded feelings. You were not having your boots blacked: why shouldn't he have supposed you were a New-Yorker, and I a country cousin?" "They always know. Don't you remember Mrs.
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