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She tossed her head a little. "Where did ye learn to talk like ye do?" "In another life," said he "before I became a stableman. Not in entire forgetfulness, but trailing clouds of glory did I come." For a moment she wrestled with this. Then a smile broke upon her face. "Sure, 'tis like a poetry-book! Say some more!" "O, singe fort, so suess und fein!" quoted Hal and saw her look puzzled.
She explained how she had searched the camp for new magic carpets, finding a "poetry-book" by Longfellow, and a book of American history, and a story called "David Copperfield," and last and strangest of all, another story called "Pride and Prejudice." A curious freak of fortune the prim and sentimentally quivering Jane Austen in a coal-camp in a far Western wilderness!
It was quite impossible for Henderson to be unemployed on some nonsense, and heedless of the fact that he was himself Bliss's companion in misfortune, he opened a poetry-book, and taking Lycidas as his model, sat unusually still, while he occupied himself in composing a "Lament for Blissidas," beginning pathetically
"Oh!" said Charteris rather blankly. "I hope you haven't made her think I'm like a brute in a poetry-book? Because if so, she'll be disappointed." "I can't help what she thinks," growled Gerrard. "I told her nothing that wasn't true." "I don't suppose you did. But it's the finishing touches that count in these things, my boy.
But instead of describing how the nests of our English birds are made, I will copy for you, out of Leslie's poetry-book, a little poem, which will help you to know where to search for the nests of different birds: "The skylark's nest among the grass And waving corn is found; The robin's in a shady bank, With oak-leaves strewed around.
Clare put down her poetry-book with a sigh, but said she would go, and they were soon sauntering over the meadows to Beehive Cottage, as it was called by the villagers. They found both sisters at home, and Deb was busy remaking two merino skirts for herself and Patty. ''Tis not very often I do dressmakin' at home, but we're gettin' rather shabby, and so I'm turnin' our Sunday bests.
Harry had a new poem before him, which he was tired of reading. The light and shadow played on both their faces. There was a likeness for those who could see it the same frank courage in their countenances, the same turn for reverie in their eyes. Harry felt lazy. The heat, the drowsy hum of bees in the vine-blossoms, and the poetry-book combined, had made him languid.
In a poetry-book presented to one of us by an aunt, there was a poem by one Wordsworth in which they stood out strongly with a picture all to themselves, too but we didn't think very highly either of the poem or the sentiment. Footprints in the sand, now, were quite another matter, and we grasped Crusoe's attitude of mind much more easily than Wordsworth's.
"This is a dress you will weave for yourself, Mary, out of the finest threads of your own nature out of courage and devotion and self-sacrifice." "Sure, 'tis the poetry-book again! But what is it ye're really meanin'?" He looked about him. "Is anybody here?" "Nobody." But instinctively he lowered his voice as he told his story.
But if you do remember how we used to walk from church, and the valentine, and the piece of poetry about Cupid's dart that I copied for you out of the poetry-book, you will come and meet me in the little ash copse, you know where.
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