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Updated: May 10, 2025
It's a pleasure to serve him real gentleman REAL do you hear, Pawson? No veneer no sham no lies! Damn few such men, I tell you. Never met one before-never will meet one again. Gave up everything he had for a rattle-brain young scamp BEGgared himself to pay his debts not a drop of the fellow's blood in his veins either incredible inCREDible!
"I have blundered again, but I was so happy to think that I had met you here. I am not wholly a rattle-brain. What would you like to talk about?" and he looked so kindly and eager to please her that she cast down her eyes and contracted her brow in deepest perplexity. "Truly, Mr. Houghton, I should be on my way homeward, and you have so hedged me in that I cannot escape."
In the face of this stern fact do you suppose I am going to try to fish up some germs of manhood for your inspection? As you have suggested, I must do something, or I'm out of the race with you. I honestly believe, though, I am not such a fool as I have seemed. I shall always be something of a rattle-brain, I suppose, and if I were dying I could not help seeing the comical side of things."
Another madman, was my conclusion; and yet I was quickly compelled to modify it, for, thinking to play with a rattle-brain, I asked him what were the books up to half a hundredweight he carried, and what were the writers he preferred. His library, he told me, among other things included, first and fore-most, a complete Byron. Next was a complete Shakespeare; also a complete Browning in one volume.
Unmoved by his brother's raillery, Webb took the young girl's hand, and looked at her so earnestly with his dark, grave eyes, that hers drooped. "Sister Amy," he said, gently, "I was prepared to welcome you on general principles, but I now welcome you for your own sake. Rattle-brain Burt will make a good playmate, but you will come to me when you are in trouble;" and he kissed her brow.
But you know, Josey, that you are a bit of a rattle-brain." "Yes, well, I think that I may have heard that observation before," said Miss Josey. "However, I can live through it. Aunt, I will tell you why, by-and-bye when there is more time, but I have a reason, that may be one of life and death, for what I ask.
Ismene had a daughter herself just Xanthe's age, so it must probably have been true. Then why, in the name of all the gods, was Xanthe sad? Is any cause required to explain it? Must a maiden have met with misfortune, to make her feel a longing to weep? Certainly not. Nay, the gayest rattle-brain is the least likely to escape such a desire.
A poet is no rattle-brain, saying what comes uppermost, and, because he says everything, saying at last something good; but a heart in unison with his time and country. There is nothing whimsical and fantastic in his production, but sweet and sad earnest, freighted with the weightiest convictions and pointed with the most determined aim which any man or class knows of in his times.
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