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Updated: May 26, 2025
This was no parade; this was a new giant coming up to test its strength. And all up and down the brown columns the giant was singing as it came.... "Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parlez vous, Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parlez vous, Mademoiselle from Armentieres Hasn't been kissed for forty years, Hinkey Dinkey Parlez vous!" Slush, slog!
Instead of sitting down at my desk with nothing in my mind but my day's work to slog through, I hear her voice and I have to say to myself, 'Go to. I am a genius. I mustn't write like any common fellow. I must produce the work of a genius. It really plays the devil with me." He walked excitedly about the library, flourishing a cigar and scattering the ash about the carpet.
Slog Villum I mean; how are you? Come along. Vell, I am glad to see you, for, d'you know, arter you failed me that day at the Black Bull, I have bin givin' you a pretty bad character, an' callin' you no end o' bad names." "Is that what your `angel' teaches you, Robin?" "Vell, not exactly, but you'll hear wot she teaches for yourself to-night, I 'ope. Come, I'm right glad to see you, Villum.
He had gone out with the reputation of a downright John Bull fighter, who would take punishment or give it, but slog his way through without wincing. There was no reason for attributing any particular strategical ability to him.
The torture of the heavy pack nearly killed him; but in time, as his muscles developed, he was able to slog along under the burden. He even learned to dig. That was the worst and most back-breaking art of all. Now and then Phineas McPhail and himself would get together and walk into the little seaside town.
'Slog and take a slogging; shake hands and no bad blood' that's their way. The fine old British way, after all." Mr. Silk puffed his cheeks and blew. "You have been discussing me with Lady Caroline?" "Yes," he answered flatly. "Yes," he repeated, and rolled his eyes. "All for your good, you know. Of course she started by calling you names and taking the worst for granted.
In baseball there are but two strokes for the batter: either the "swipe," or "slog," as we call it, where he uses all his might, or the "bunt," usually a sacrificial effort; in cricket there are scores of strokes, before the wicket, behind it, and at every angle to it.
Now, you listen to your uncle. My medicine's good. When I get a hunch it's sure right. An' we're in wrong on this stampede. Let's turn back an' hit the sleep." "You'd better save your breath if you intend to keep up," Smoke retorted gruffly. "Huh! My legs is short, but I slog along slack at the knees an' don't worry my muscles none, an' I can sure walk every piker here off the ice."
Poor, gallant soldier, we thought such worlds of him. Wilson could only answer "slog on, just slog on."
On the other hand, if we sow the wild oats of cricket in other words, if we risk everything for the fleeting satisfaction of a blind "slog" we shall be bowled, stumped, or caught out for a moral certainty. It is only a matter of time.
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