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Updated: May 25, 2025
If I was on the moor now, after the plovers..." "Come, come; forget all that now, and set to work," interrupted Oliver. "If you wont call Spy to help, I will see whether he will mind me." Spy came, with some hesitation, in answer to a whistle which was like his master's, but not exactly the same. His master soon set him to work, and began to work himself, in a sort of desperation.
This seemed to him nothing less than an invitation, and he immediately sat down beside her on the settle, holding his cap in his hand, and began to ask her how she was called, and whether she lived in that place all the year round; and before long they were good friends, and were talking of plovers' eggs and kingfishers' nests, and of the time when they should each have a hawk of their own, and a horse, and each a hound and a footman.
The big cat was nearly eight feet long, including his tail, and was so heavy that Ned found skinning him a hard job. After he had finished he had to cut a stout stick for a lever, before he could get the carcass into the river. The bad luck of the hunters seemed to have run out, and game began to come to them. Ducks flew over the river beside the camp and plovers often lit on a bank near them.
"If he would but feed his guests," said Balbus, a little red-faced, choleric nobleman with yellow-shot angry eyes. "What had we? Upon my life, I have forgotten. Plovers' eggs, a mess of fish, some bird or other, and then his eternal apples." "Of which," said Flaccus, "he ate only the apples. Do him the justice to confess that he takes even less than he gives.
Patience's good butter and fresh eggs had come to be known in Bristol, and besides, Stead and Rusha used to find plovers' eggs on the common, for which the merchants' ladies would pay them, or later for wild strawberries and for whortleberries.
Percy sings a Spanish seguidilla, or a German lied, or a French romance, or a Neapolitan canzonet, which, I am bound to say, excites very little attention. Mrs. Ridley is sending in coffee at this juncture, of which Mrs. Sherrick partakes, with lots of sugar, as she has partaken of numberless things before. Chicken, plovers' eggs, prawns, aspics, jellies, creams, grapes, and what-not. Mr.
The sun rose red and angry through broken clouds; his disk flamed behind the tall, slender columns of the palms, and lit the waste fields of papyrus. The black monkeys howled mournfully. The birds awoke. Macaws, parrots, parakeets screamed at us and chattered at us as we rode by. Ibis called with wailing voices, and the plovers shrieked as they wheeled in the air.
The supper itself, absolutely the best of its kind, from the caviare and plovers' eggs to the marvellous ices, and served in one of the handsomest rooms in London, was really beyond criticism.
Ever it turns over on itself, over and over and around and around. And the times and seasons of weather and life turn with it. What is, has been before. What has been, will be again. The time of the breadfruit and the mango ever recurs, and man and woman repeat themselves. The robins nest, and in the springtime the plovers come from the north. Every spring is followed by another spring.
White cranes, the ibis, geese, native companions, and plovers, were very numerous; and the large ant-hills scattered through the forest at the foot of the hills, looked like so many wigwams. From one of the ranges I had another view of the north-west range, and we started for it, leaving the primitive country behind us.
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