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Updated: August 11, 2024
You should pick by hand, rather than beat from the tree, all the olives which can be reached from the ground or from a ladder, because this fruit becomes arid when it has been struck and does not yield so much oil: and in picking by hand it is better to do so with the bare fingers rather than with a tool because the texture of a tool not only injures the berry but barks the branches and leaves them exposed to the frost.
Picking up the book, the priest forthwith went to Pizarro and reported the conduct of the Inca, saying, "It is useless to talk to this dog. At them at once; I absolve you." Immediately Pizarro raised his handkerchief for the preconcerted signal, the firing of a gun.
There was a silence: he was picking the little fine feathers from the bird, and the Englishman was watching the ants. "Mind you," the Colonial said at last, "I don't say that in this case the Captain was to blame; Halket made an awful ass of himself. He's never been quite right since that time he got lost and spent the night out on the kopje.
I am only beginning mine." The superficial person who has obtained a smattering of many things, but knows nothing well, may pride himself upon his gifts; but the sage humbly confesses that "all he knows is, that he knows nothing," or like Newton, that he has been only engaged in picking shells by the sea shore, while the great ocean of truth lies all unexplored before him.
"One day, an old man and his wife, taking two or three of their young children with them, for the purpose of picking up wood, strayed near the cave where Hatim was concealed; and began to gather fuel in that same forest. True it is, that a man without pity is not a human being, and he in whose heart there is no feeling is a butcher.
"What's to be done now?" asked Peterkin ruefully. "Make a fire, lad, and dry ourselves," replied Jack. "And here is material ready to our hand," said I, picking up a dried branch of a tree, as we hurried up to the woods. In about an hour after this mishap our clothes were again dried.
She put on her bonnet, and began to stroll listlessly about in front of the door, picking a few straggling leaves from the neglected lawn. Gradually she sauntered away in this manner to the head of the avenue, and then, taking one swift timid glance around, she slipped in among the trees, and made the best of her way, half walking, half running, down the dark winding drive.
It was donation party night and she had been cooking all day in preparation. "Surely, surely," said Jason's father, picking up the pile of magazines. "Jason can't get at them before the end of the week. Take them and welcome." Mr. Inchpin rode away. Jason came in with the milk pail and the family sat down to a hasty supper.
At the foot of the drive ran the big road, and when she came out upon it her trailing gown caught in a fallen branch, and she fell on her face. Picking herself up again, she sat on a loosened rock and looked about her. The strong night wind blew on her flesh, and she shivered in the moonlight, which felt cold and brazen.
There was an old sawhorse beside the door, and she sat down comfortably on that, while Bob, picking up a handy stick of wood, drew a knife from his pocket and began to whittle. The Indian was silent for a few minutes. Then he spoke slowly, his needle stabbing the heavy leather at regular intervals. "Wherever there is oil, there were Indians once," he announced.
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