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Updated: June 19, 2025
If those 'grand old masters, those 'bards sublime, who tell us in trumpet-tones of 'life's endless toil and endeavor, speak to you through my loved books, why should you 'long for rest'?" "An unfledged birdling cannot mount to the dizzy eyries of the eagle," answered Clara meekly. "One grows strong only by struggling with difficulties.
Then they have Whittier's trumpet-tones ringing in their ears, "'No slave hunt in our borders! no pirate on our strand! No fetters in the Bay State! no slave upon our land!" "How did Mr. Brick describe Mr. Fitzgerald's runaway slave?" inquired Flora. "He said he was tall and very black, with a white scar over his right eye." "That's Tom!" exclaimed she. "How glad Chloe will be!
Then all slept, as only wood-men sleep, save when for moments Cancut's trumpet-tones sounded alarums, and we others awoke to punch and batter the snorer into silence. In due time, bird and cricket whistled and chirped the reveille. We sprang from our lair. We dipped in the river and let its gentle friction polish us more luxuriously than ever did any hair-gloved polisher of an Oriental bath.
But above all rang the clear, trumpet-tones of Captain Ambrose, soon to sink in death: "To the boats to the boats! but save the women first the children as ye are Christian men! So help ye, mighty God!" I heard later how signally this noble charge was disregarded; how utterly self triumphed over generosity and duty; and how, in enforcing the example all should have followed.
She wore a superb Mandarin coat, of soft and ravishing tints, and her love for rich colors was reflected in the autumnal tones of her room and even in the vari-colored flames of her driftwood fire. To Louise these colors were as definite as mellow trumpet-tones. She had responded to them all her life. She was responding to them still, now that she lay dying among them.
Through the world they passed, the Poet and his mystic viol. It gathered to itself the melodies that fluttered over sea and land, songs of the mountains, and songs of the valleys, murmurs of love, and the trumpet-tones of war, bugle-blast of huntsman on the track of the chamois, and mother's lullaby to the baby at her breast.
The affected young dandy was extremely unpopular with every one. Besides which, he was clearly not blessed with much intelligence; for at garrison-drill more reproofs and reprimands were showered upon him alone than upon all the rest of the battery put together. Again and again would Wegstetten's trumpet-tones ring across the parade-ground: "Lieutenant Landsberg, you are not in your right place!"
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