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What a delight it would be to welcome one more the monthly visit of "Merry Museum and Parley's Magazine," to read the charming letters to "Billy Bump," and the adventures of Gilbert Go Ahead, and puzzle out the charades and enigmas which tested out youthful wits! It was Mr.
"You do look fer all the world like one o' the Salem witches in Peter Parley's history, Phoebe." With a light foot and a lighter heart for all its beating, Phoebe ran down the street unperceived from the house. "Bishopsgate!" she sang under her breath. "The missive named Bishopsgate. He'll meet me within the grove outside the city wall."
There were no boats left to the Malahini, and they watched him swim ashore and climb the tree. When he came back, they helped over the rail a young native girl of Parley's household. But first she passed up to them a battered basket. In it was a litter of blind kittens all dead save one, that feebly mewed and staggered on awkward legs. "Hello!" said Mulhall. "Who's that?"
I see he does not wish to hurt my master, he only wishes to serve me." As the hour of meeting, however, drew near, the master's orders now and then came across Parley's thoughts. For a moment his heart failed him. "If this admonition should be sent on purpose?" said he; but no, 'tis a bugbear. My master told me that if I went to the bounds I should get over the hedge.
You astonish them moreover with your stories of various parts of the world which they have never visited. They tell you of the haunts of rabbits, and great snake stories, as you sit in the dusk after supper under the old oaks; and you delight them in turn with some marvellous tale of South-American reptiles out of Peter Parley's books.
Flatterwell began, like a true adept in his art, by lulling all Parley's suspicions asleep; and instead of openly abusing his master, which would have opened Parley's eyes at once, he pretended rather to commend him in a general way, as a person who meant well himself, but was too apt to suspect others. To this Parley assented.
We go away on wheels, but the deep snow compels us to substitute runners twelve miles out. There are four passengers of us. We pierce the Wahsatch mountains by Parley's canyon. A snowstorm overtakes us as the night thickens, and the wind shrieks like a brigade of strong-lunged maniacs. Never mind. We are well covered up- our cigars are good.
He knew that Parley was vain, credulous, and self-sufficient; and he always apprehended more danger from Parley's impertinence, curiosity, and love of novelty, than even from the stronger vices of some of his other servants. The rest indeed, seldom got into any scrape of which Parley was not the cause in some shape or other.
And the rector would declare that he had been wrongly punished because the senate and the Roman people always declared that the men who did that had been wrongly punished. Those were the great men whose names were in Richmal Magnall's Questions. History was all about those men and what they did and that was what Peter Parley's Tales about Greece and Rome were all about.
"A cousin," I suggested, feeling a strange hatred spring up in my bosom for the unknown. "Well, I suppose you might call him a cousin for the present. He's going to marry little Nelly next summer." In one of Peter Parley's valuable historical works is a description of an earthquake at Lisbon.
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