OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Boys' Life of Mark Twain/Chapter 67

LXVII
the death of jean
CLARA CLEMENS was married that autumn to Ossip Gabrilowitsch, the Russian pianist, and presently sailed for Europe, where they would make their home. Jean Clemens was now head of the house, and what with her various duties and poor health, her burden was too heavy. She had a passion for animal life of every kind, and in some farm-buildings at one corner of the estate had set up quite an establishment of chickens and domestic animals. She was fond of giving these her personal attention, and this, with her house direction and secretarial work, gave her little time for rest. I tried to relieve her of a share of the secretarial work, but she was ambitious and faithful. Still, her condition did not seem critical.
I stayed at Stormfield, now, most of the time—nights as well as days—for the dull weather had come and Mark Twain found the house rather lonely. In November he had an impulse to go to Bermuda, and we spent a month in the warm light of that summer island, returning a week before the Christmas holidays. And just then came Mark Twain's last great tragedy—the death of his daughter Jean.
The holidays had added heavily to Jean's labors. ​Out of her generous heart she had planned gifts for everybody—had hurried to and from the city for her purchases, and in the loggia set up a beautiful Christmas tree. Meantime she had contracted a heavy cold. Her trouble was epilepsy, and all this was bad for her. On the morning of December 24, she died, suddenly, from the shock of a cold bath.
Below, in the loggia, drenched with tinsel, stood the tree, and heaped about it the packages of gifts which that day she had meant to open and put in place. Nobody had been overlooked.
Jean was taken to Elmira for burial. Her father, unable to make the winter journey, remained behind. Her cousin, Jervis Langdon, came for her.
It was six in the evening when she went away. A soft, heavy snow was falling, and the gloom of the short day was closing in. There was not the least noise, the whole world was muffled. The lanterns shone out the open door, and at an upper window, the light gleaming on his white hair, her father watched her going away from him for the last time. Later he wrote:
From my window I saw the hearse and the carriages wind along the road and gradually grow vague and spectral in the falling snow, and presently disappear. Jean was gone out of my life, and would not come back any more. The cousin she had played with when they were babies together—he and her beloved old Katy—were conducting her to her distant childhood home, where she will lie by her mother's side once more, in the company of Susy and Langdon.
# The Boys' Life of Mark Twain/Chapter 69

LXIX
the return to redding
I SPENT most of each day with him, merely sitting by the bed and reading. I noticed when he slept that his breathing was difficult, and I could see that he did not improve, but often he was gay and liked the entire family to gather about and be merry. It was only a few days before we sailed that the severe attacks returned. Then followed bad nights; but respite came, and we sailed on the 12th, as arranged. The Allen home stands on the water, and Mr. Allen had chartered a tug to take us to the ship. We were obliged to start early, and the fresh morning breeze was stimulating. Mark Twain seemed in good spirits when we reached the Oceana, which was to take him home.
As long as I remember anything I shall remember the forty-eight hours of that homeward voyage. He was comfortable at first, and then we ran into the humid, oppressive air of the Gulf Stream, and he could not breathe. It seemed to me that the end might come at any moment, and this thought was in his own mind, but he had no dread, and his sense of humor did not fail. Once when the ship rolled ​and his hat fell from the hook and made the circuit of the cabin floor, he said:
"The ship is passing the hat."
I had been instructed in the use of the hypodermic needle, and from time to time gave him the "hypnotic injunction," as he still called it. But it did not afford him entire relief. He could remain in no position for any length of time. Yet he never complained and thought only of the trouble he might be making. Once he said:
"I am sorry for you, Paine, but I can't help it—I can't hurry this dying business."
And a little later:
"Oh, it is such a mystery, and it takes so long!"
Relatives, physicians, and news-gatherers were at the dock to welcome him. Revived by the cool, fresh air of the North, he had slept for several hours and was seemingly much better. A special compartment on the same train that had taken us first to Redding took us there now, his physicians in attendance. He did not seem to mind the trip or the drive home.
As we turned into the lane that led to Stormfield he said:
"Can we see where you have built your billiard-room?"
The gable of the new study showed among the trees, and I pointed it out to him.
"It looks quite imposing," he said.
Arriving at Stormfield, he stepped, unassisted, from the carriage to greet the members of the household, and with all his old courtliness offered each his ​hand. Then in a canvas chair we had brought we carried him up-stairs to his room—the big, beautiful room that looked out to the sunset hills. This was Thursday evening, April 14, 1910.
# The Boys' Life of Mark Twain/Chapter 70

LXX
the close of a great life
MARK TWAIN lived just a week from that day and hour. For a time he seemed full of life, talking freely, and suffering little. Clara and Ossip Gabrilowitsch arrived on Saturday and found him cheerful, quite like himself. At intervals he read. Suetonius and Carlyle lay on the bed beside him, and he would pick them up and read a page or a paragraph. Sometimes when I saw him thus—-the high color still in his face, the clear light in his eyes'—I said: "It is not reality. He is not going to die.'
But by Wednesday of the following week it was evident that the end was near. We did not know it then, but the mysterious messenger of his birth year, Halley's comet, became visible that night in the sky.
On Thursday morning, the 21st, his mind was still fairly clear, and he read a little from one of the volumes on his bed. By Clara he sent word that he wished to see me, and when I came in he spoke of two unfinished manuscripts which he wished me to "throw away," as he briefly expressed it, for his words were few, now, and uncertain. I assured him ​that I would attend to the matter and he pressed my hand. It was his last word to me. During the afternoon, while Clara stood by him, he sank into a doze, and from it passed into a deeper slumber and did not heed us any more.
Through that peaceful spring afternoon the life-wave ebbed lower and lower. It was about half-past six, and the sun lay just on the horizon, when Dr. Quintard noticed that the breathing, which had gradually become more subdued, broke a little. There was no suggestion of any struggle. The noble head turned a little to one side, there was a fluttering sigh, and the breath that had been unceasing for seventy-four tumultuous years had stopped forever.
In the Brick Church, New York, Mark Twain—dressed in the white he loved so well—lay, with the nobility of death upon him, while a multitude of those who loved him passed by and looked at his face for the last time. Flowers in profusion were banked about him, but on the casket lay a single wreath which Dan Beard and his wife had woven from the laurel which grows on Stormfield hill. He was never more beautiful than as he lay there, and it was an impressive scene to see those thousands file by, regard him for a moment, gravely, thoughtfully, and pass on. All sorts were there, rich and poor; some crossed themselves, some saluted, some paused a little to take a closer look.
That night we went with him to Elmira, and next day he lay in those stately parlors that had seen his wedding-day, and where little Langdon and Susy ​had lain, and Mrs. Clemens, and then Jean, only a little while before.
The worn-out body had reached its journey's end; but his spirit had never grown old, and to-day, still young, it continues to cheer and comfort a tired world.
the end
# The Annotated The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes/A Bundle of Life/Chapter 10

"Arden Lodge,
"Near Wensley,
"Mertford.
"Your affectionate wife,
"CHARLOTTE TWACORBIE.
"P.S.—Spalding has just been in to say that he and Danby wish to get married this day month! What could be more tiresome? I begged him to reconsider it, but he said it was too late. He had made up his mind.
"P.S. No. 2.—Ventry has given me to understand that he proposed to Teresa this afternoon, and that she seemed quite annoyed. He is furious, and blames ME. I dare not tell him about Wiche."
The Annotated The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes/A Bundle of Life - Chapter X
# The Annotated The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes

The Annotated 'Tales of John Oliver Hobbes' by John Oliver Hobbes
A Wikisource annotation project
* Introduction to the Annotated Version
* CONTENTS
** Some Emotions and a Moral
** The Sinner's Comedy
** A Study in Temptations
** A Bundle of Life
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Boys of Columbia High on the River

* related portals: Children's literature.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Third book in the Boys of Columbia High series
THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA
HIGH ON THE RIVER
OR
The Boat Race Plot That Failed
BY
GRAHAM B. FORBES
AUTHOR OF "THE BOYS ON COLUMBIA HIGH," "THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE DIAMOND," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
"HERE, QUIT THAT, YOU!" SHOUTED THE ASTONISHED BOY.
Boys of Columbia High on the River.—Page 21.
CONTENTS
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Boss of Wind River

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Commons category, Wikidata item.
[New York: Doubleday, Page & co., 1911. First published 1910 by Street & Smith (Probably in Popular Magazine). ] Incidentally, the Grosset & Dunlap (1911) edition contains an additional chapter at the end. You can find this on the Talk page or at Project Gutenberg.
THE GIRL CAUGHT JOE’S ARM. “IT’S GOING OUT, JOE! IT’S GOING OUT! OH, SEE IT PULL!”
THE BOSS OF WIND RIVER
THE BOSS OF WIND RIVER
BY A. M. CHISHOLM
ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRANK TENNEY JOHNSON
Garden City New York DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1911
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, I910, BY STREET & SMITH

### ILLUSTRATIONS

* The girl caught Joe's arm. “It's going out, Joe! It's going out! Oh, see it pull!” Frontispiece
* Miss Crooks came down the walk to meet him … “I'm so glad to see you, Joe. I've been looking for you for days” 32
* Haggarty and Rough Shan, locked in a deadly grip, fought like bulldogs 188
* “There's the line. Cross it to-night or try to scrap with McCane's crew before I tell you to, and I'll shut down” 214
* Chapter 1 3
* Chapter 2 17
* Chapter 3 29
* Chapter 4 48
* Chapter 5 59
* Chapter 6 74
* Chapter 7 93
* Chapter 8 107
* Chapter 9 122
* Chapter 10 135
* Chapter 11 167
* Chapter 12 190
* Chapter 13 209
* Chapter 14 224
* Chapter 15 236
* Chapter 16 250
* Chapter 17 270
* Chapter 18 279
* Chapter 19 293
* Chapter 20 306
* Chapter 21 321
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1960, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 63 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/Love in Disguise

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
LOVE IN DISGUISE
I mourned beneath the willow tree, When shrouded came a nymph to me And slid her hand in mine. Her boldness I did much upbraid, And said: “Begone, thou wanton maid; I seek no love of thine!
“Nor do I hope to wake again My heart all stricken with disdain. And drive it forth to woo. No! no! Forlorn I sit and sigh, And call on Death to let me die. Since Phyllis is untrue.”
“Ah!” cried the maid, “why therefore chide, Since I indeed am fitting bride For one so pale and wan?” She held me in a close embrace, Nor could I see her hidden face, And still I cried: “Begone!”
“If thou art Love, thy labour's vain; I hold thy boldness in disdain, I care no more to woo. But be thou Death, for whom I cry. Thy lover then indeed am I, Since Phyllis is untrue.”
“Oh! I am Love,” she whispered low, “And fain I too with Death would go; My lover—cold is he, Who bids me fly the trysting-place.” She raised the veil from off her face— My Phyllis smiled on me!
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/Love in My Arms Lies Sleeping

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
LOVE IN MY ARMS LIES SLEEPING
Roses red for the fair young head to weave a crown, Let them be half blown, For a rose in June it will fade too soon to gold and brown. For thee my own The fairest blossoms in all love's land, for that small hot hand, And a bird to sing all the sweet day through, Lest fear should wake in the heart of you, And I hear my own heart's beating; Wild roses red for the fair gold head, Love in my arms lies sleeping.
Lilies fair for the wind-blown hair, It were better so Than a blossom dead. And a rose's thorn; but the fresh glad morn brings breath of snow. Hath summer fled? Hath winter come when I dreamt it spring? Is my sweet bird dead that he does not sing? I hear but my heart's sad weeping. Loose and cold is thy soft hands' hold; Love in my arms lies sleeping.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/Monica

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
MONICA
Pardon give to Monica, She is so very fair— Though soft eyes give promises Rosy lips forswear. From the shy droop of her head. You a hope might take; In the hiding cheek, beware, The dainty dimples wake. Pardon give to Monica.
Pardon give to Monica, The havoc of her eyes. Yours they will not shun or seek,— There the mischief lies. If the flirting lashes thus Make your day and night, Would the loosing of your bonds Give your heart respite? Pardon give to Monica.
Pardon give to Monica, She is so very fair. What those cruel lips may say, Roguish eyes forswear. What knight's heart amid ye all Were not glad to break, That the Ups with pity droop. While eyes their laughter take? Pardon give to Monica.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/Lady Kathleen

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
LADY KATHLEEN
Fair Lady Kathleen in her tower Bowed her head like a wounded flower; She wept the weary night away: “Here I spin for a year and a day, But 'tis for love's sweet sake” she said, “My heart must break and I were dead. The nettle I've pulled when the moon was bright And brought it home in the dark of night— I've trod it soft 'neath my naked feet To make a cloak for thy rescue, sweet!” The Lady Kathleen wept full sore: “Oh, misery mine for a year and more!”
Day after day, and a promised spring Bloomed into a summer of blossoming. A thrush was carolling, mad with glee, On the topmost bough of the rowan-tree; He sang to fair Kathleen in her tower. But the maiden heeded nor bird nor flower. The daisies white and the sweet wild rose Clad mead and hedge in their summer snows. Fair Lady Kathleen wept alway: “Oh, misery mine for a year and a day!”
A ghostly moon in a steel cold sky, A dance of leaves by the wind swept by, Like the mirthless rushing of phantom feet. But the Lady Kathleen murmured: “Sweet! Love keeps a woman's summer young.”
She sped without fear in the awe of night, Though the shuddering shadows would stay her flight With the thought of a horror unknown, Or a streamlet would laugh 'neath the hedge unshown But the Lady Kathleen wept no more : “Oh, joy is mine, for my trial's o'er!”
To the white thorn-tree on the fairy rath The Lady Kathleen quick took her path. Till she stood in the midst of the elfin host, Like a lily pale or a fair white ghost Loud the fairies laughed in their mad retreat. As she found her love with a whispered “Sweet! It were no sorrow to lose for you Youth's golden days or weep long nights through.” But he said: “My love she had golden hair— Her hands, her feet, they were lily-fair: So you can never be love of mine.”
“O Love!” she cried, “if I am not thine. My hands grew hard as they wove for thee The magic cloak that hath set thee free. My face grew sad, and my hair grew white, In the silent horror of many a night. And what shall I now that hope's beacon-glow Is quenched, and my heart sinks with gloom and woe? Thy love,” she cried, “be she lily-fair As the fruit-tree's bloom that may never bear. Thou hungeredst—to fruit the blossom came: Thus youth was lost and thus beauty slain. Thy sweet was fair as the page unwrit Till Love's strong hand traced his name on it Then, O my dear, if thou canst not see This sorrow cometh from love of thee. Be blind awhile with a rising tear. And thou wilt find that thy love is here.” But ah, for woman whose heart is strong To weary never and love too long! And what is life to a heart denied? Fair Lady Kathleen drooped and died.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/Little White Rose

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
LITTLE WHITE ROSE
Little white rose that I loved, I loved, Roisin ban, Roisin ban! Fair my bud as the morning's dawn. I kissed my beautiful flower to bloom. My heart grew glad for its rich perfume— Little white rose that I loved!
Little white rose that I loved grew red, Roisin rua, Roisin rua! Passionate tears I wept for you. Love is more sweet than the world's fame— I dream you back in my heart the same, Little white rose that I loved!
Little white rose that I loved grew black. Roisin duv, Roisin duv! So I knew not the heart of you. Lost in the world's alluring fire, I cry in the night for my heart's desire, Little white rose that I loved!
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/King and Father

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
KING AND FATHER
Mountains and vales, how ye quake 'neath His tread— Wake from your slumbers, He calls, O ye dead! Tremble, great trees, bowing down 'neath His breath; Lay by thy scythe, at His bidding. King Death! The sun in the heavens grows pale at His wrath, And the stars, at a glance, disappear from their path. God, at Thy feet, then, awe-stricken we fall— Lord of the universe. Maker of all!
Earth's secret treasures lie bare to Thy sight, Nor hidden from Thee the dark deeds of the night; The lion grows timid, fawns low at Thy feet; The waves from the shore at Thy bidding retreat. Thou speakest—the monarch's proud ruling is o'er; His power and his riches avail him no more, Endless Thy greatness — of Thee are all things; Endless Thy glory, O King of all Kings!
When mountains belched forth their red flames to the sky, And Heaven's forked tongues thundered back in reply; When the sun, in his horror, recoiled at the sight. And earth hid her brow in the darkness of night; When stars into dust fell, and vanished in space, And but man, in his blindness, laughed up in Thy face— Endless Thy mercy, Thy strong hand was still— O Crucified Lord upon Calvary's hill!
Yet, Thou forgettest all, Father above. Remembering nought but Thine infinite love: Stretching those wounded Hands out to our aid; Telling us tenderly, “Be not afraid!” Ready to help us, if only we call — Nothing too weak for kneel nothing too small; Ready to hear, when we kneel on the sod; Thou our Redeemer, our Father, our God!
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/Love

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
LOVE
Deep in the moving depths Of yellow wine, I swore I'd drown your face, love of mine; All clad in yellow hue, So fair to see, You crouched within my cup And laughed at me.
Twice o'er a learned page I turned and tossed, For would I not forget The love I lost? All stern and robed in gloom, You read it too; I could not see the words— Saw only you.
Within the hungry chase I thought to kill You, love, who haunted thus Without my will; But in the gentle gaze Of fawn and deer, Your eyes disarmed my hand, And shook my spear.
Beneath a maid's dark lash I swore you'd drown, Sink in the laughing blue— Give in, go down: But no! you bathed there Right joyously, And from her liquid eyes You laughed at me.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/Last Eve

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
LAST EVE
Last eve as I leaned from my lattice, looked out at the night Where the grey of the sea misted into the grey of the skies, Came with quick beating of wings and long sorrowful cries Beautiful birds, and I wept, being blind with their white.
How the wind's strong invisible hands beat on doorway and pane, And the sea seemed to writhe and roar in an anguish of thought! How the moon's frightened face looking down seemed to shun what she sought, Hid so pale in cloud fingers to weep in a passion of rain!
They had come in the night and the storm, winging back to my breast, These hopes that were hopeless, these dreams that were ever as dreams; Rending my heart with sharp beaks and their passionate screams, Leashing my soul with the storm from its haven of rest.
Night long did I put them away, did they turn again, Till the tumultuous waves bore them out in their creepy recess, Tossed them back on the reef with a deadly pretence of caress; Flung up by the hand of the sea, beaten back by the lash of the rain.
White birds, it is over and done, your last passion has paled; The world has no place for your flight nor my heart for your screams. O hopes that were hopeless, sweet dreams that were ever as dreams, Let go! get back to your graves, you have fought and have failed.
# The Collected Works of Theodore Parker/Volume 02

Notice. By the Editor. Ten Sermons of Religion Theodore Parker's Prayers
THE
COLLECTED WORKS
OF
THEODORE PARKER
MINISTER OF THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CONGREGATIONAL SOCIETY AT BOSTON, U.S.
CONTAINING HIS
THEOLOGICAL, POLEMICAL, AND CRITICAL WRITINGS, SERMONS, SPEECHES, AND ADDRESSES, AND LITERARY MISCELLANIES.
EDITED BY
FRANCES POWER COBBE.
VOL. II.
SERMONS OF THEISM, ATHEISM, AND THE POPULAR THEOLOGY.
Second Edition.
LONDON:
N. TRÜBNER & CO., 60, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1867.
# The Bell System Technical Journal/Volume 1/Number 1

The Bell System Technical Journal
Devoted to the Scientific and Engineering Aspects of Electrical Communication
EDITORIAL BOARD
J. J. Carty Bancroft Gherardi F. B. Jewett E. B. Craft L. F. Morehouse O. B. Blackwell H. P. Charlesworth E. H. Colpitts R. W. King—Ec/ffor Published quarterly by the AmericanTe'ephone andTelegraph Company, through its Information Department, in behalf of the Western Electric Company and the Associated Companies of the Bell System Address all correspandcnce to the Editor Information Department AMERICAN TELEPHONE AND TELEGRAPH COMPANY 195 BROADWAY. NEW YORK, N. Y. Copyright, 1922. Application for Second Class Matter Pending
* Foreword
* A New Type of High Power Vacuum Tube, by William Wilson
# The Bell

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Bell."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The Bell" by Hans Christian Andersen
* "The Bell" by Karel Sudimír Šnajdr
* "The Bell" by Arthur Stringer

## See also

* The Bells