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One afternoon Beulah sat holding him on her knee: he had fallen asleep, with one tiny hand clasping hers, and while he slept she read.
As I rather doubted his competency to do the latter, knowing that his peculiar turn lies in the lyric species of composition, I questioned George what English plays he had read. He never seemed even to have heard of Fletcher, Ford, Marlowe, Massinger, and the worthies of Dodsley's Collection; but he is to read all these, to prepare him for bringing out his "Parallel" in the winter.
Not a word had come to me from Sonoma in months, when Benjamin handed me the Union, and with horror I read the headlines to which he pointed: "TRAGEDY IN SONOMA. CHRISTIAN BRUNNER, AN OLD RESIDENT, SLAYS HIS OWN NEPHEW!" From the lurid details published, I learned that the Brunners had asked this nephew to come to them, and had sent him money to defray his expenses from Switzerland to California.
She relieved him from the embarrassing necessity of saying illuminative and eulogistic things about himself and his great work. The book, upon its first publication, was really read by appreciable numbers of persons; later, I think, "Festus Bailey" came to be, to the general mind, an amusing kind of appanage of his own work, which was now taken as read, but ceased to have readers.
Here were sown the seeds of those heroic virtues which have since leaped into luxuriant life, seeds of that irresistible power which fastened its grasp on Nature and forced her to unfold the secret of her creation, seeds of that far-reaching wisdom which in the light of the unveiled past has read the story of the unseen future. And still under Ivy's eye they grouped themselves.
The shops along Theobald's Road were wrecked, but in the heaps of broken glass in each show window were improvised signs such as, "Don't sympathize with us, buy something." The sign which was displayed oftenest read, "Business as usual." The first I noticed was in the window of a print shop, the owner a woman. I talked to her through the frame of the shattered glass.
Six years ago I began the planting of my garden, and at the same time my girlish habit of journal keeping veered into the making of a "Garden Boke," to be a reversible signal, crying danger in face of forgotten mistakes, then turning to give back glints of summer sunshine when read in the attic of winter days and blue Mondays. Now once again I am in the attic, writing.
"It has no more power than you give it, dearie," observed her mother, who saw that she did not at once open it. The girl thanked her with a smile, and instantly broke the seal. "It is from Jennie Wild, mamma," she said, as she turned to the signature on the last page. Then she read aloud: "DEAR MISS MINTURN: Auntie is gone, and it was all so sudden and awful I cannot realize it even yet.
During this time Madame Charvet was in correspondence with a friend of her husband, who was, I think, the courier of General Bonaparte; and the latter having opened and read these letters addressed to his courier, inquired who was this young woman that wrote such interesting and intelligent letters, and Madame Charvet well deserved this double praise.
The hammer is worked by a small electromagnet E, connected to the Morse instrument, and another battery b in what is called a "relay" circuit; so that after the Morse instrument marks a signal, the hammer makes a tap on the tube. As this tap has a bell-like sound, the telegraphist can also read the signals of the message by his ear.
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