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Updated: May 23, 2025
It was dated Monday, the 11th November only a day old. The headline ran: "No Armistice yet." So Sunday's demonstration had been a sham and a fraud! I rejoined the others. They, too, had heard that no Armistice had been signed by Sunday midnight from a despatch rider who had, however, added that signature was expected every minute. We were back in camp.
The towns were compact, in about equal proportions, of bright new wooden houses and great and growing forest trees; and the chapel bell on the engine sounded most festally that sunny Sunday, as we drew up at one green town after another, with the townsfolk trooping in their Sunday's best to see the strangers, with the sun sparkling on the clean houses, and great domes of foliage humming overhead in the breeze.
Turnbull, sitting opposite in an oaken armchair, regarded him with an expression which would have shocked Iago. "We were just thinking of having a blow down by the water," he said, as Blundell entered. "What! a hot day like this?" said Venia. "I was just thinking how beautifully cool it is in here," said the sergeant, who was hoping for a repetition of the previous Sunday's performance.
"Can't you give us a story?" "Oh, I've got a kind of a yarn you can run if you like," answered Condy, his week's depression at its very lowest. "A Victory Over Death" was published in the following Sunday's supplement of the "Times," with illustrations by one of the staff artists. It attracted not the least attention.
How sincerely this curious student longed for improvement is manifested in the following entry in his Journal, written, I presume, on a Monday morning when it was thought that some relaxation of his studies following a Sunday's services would be advantageous: "Monday. Visited the British Museum.
On all the other mornings of the week this question never occurred to him: on Sunday he never allowed a thought of the bank to cross his mind: from Sunday to Saturday he was firmly settled in the usual rut, and never dreamed of tearing himself out of it. But Sunday's break was unsettling: there was always an effort in starting afresh on Monday. The striking of St.
Hooker came so wet, so weary, and weather-beaten, that he was never known to express more passion, than against a friend that dissuaded him from footing it to London, and for finding him no easier an horse, supposing the horse trotted when he did not; and at this time also, such a faintness and fear possessed him, that he would not be persuaded two days' rest and quietness, or any other means could be used to make him able to preach his Sunday's Sermon; but a warm bed, and rest, and drink proper for a cold, given him by Mrs.
"That is a curious psychological problem, William." "Gee! is it as bad as that? I hope it ain't fatal." Whimple smiled. "No," he said, slowly, "and yet, my boy, there is only one way to build up a good reputation. Do you go to Sunday school?" "Well not reg'lar. Sunday's the busy time for me." "Busy! Why?" "Sure I take the kiddies out if it's fine, and maybe we don't have the bully times.
"We are listening," said the Chairman, with statesmanlike dignity, "for the voice of the people, and so far we haven't heard a peep. It looks as if they don't want you fellows to run Sunday's, don't it?" The spokesman of the Exhibitors cleared his throat. "Statistics prove that every Sunday, an average of six thousand people " "That's all right. We've seen your petition. And Mr. Mutt and Mr.
The million are devoid of sentiment, and care as little for you or me as if we belonged to the moon. We live the week over in the Sunday's paper, or are decently interred in some obituary at the month's end! It is not surprising that we are forgotten so soon after we quit this mortal stage; we are scarcely noticed while we are on it.
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