OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 167

Meanwhile, in my home, my mother was awaiting my pleasure before making definite plans for herself for the summer, and I did not want to admit to myself as yet that I had failed to obtain substantial enough help from the Hardings to enable me to carry on and keep Elizabeth Ann. But I had to admit that it looked as though our little home would have to be disrupted and I would have to appeal once more to my sister to take Elizabeth Ann back.
​I had read somewhere about the coming services in connection with the laying of the cornerstone of The Harding Memorial in Marion, Ohio, and I had written to obtain a descriptive leaflet about it. I noticed that on the back of the leaflet were the officers and trustees of the Memorial, among whom appeared at least four names of men who, I knew, were acquainted, through Tim Slade, with part, if not all, of my story. These men were George B. Christian, Jr., Vice-President Charles G. Dawes, D. Richard Crissinger, and Hoke Donithen, all having been listed as officers for The Harding Memorial in some capacity—all reckoned friends of Mr. Harding.
I mailed Tim Slade this leaflet about the Memorial and the ceremony programs, and wrote him that I wished I could attend. If only I could obtain the necessary funds to make the trip, I would go to Marion, to be there for the services, and while there I would "round up" in some way the people who were attending and taking part in those ceremonies. These, combined with the Hardings themselves, who, I was sure, would be in attendance, I would ask in Warren Harding's name to listen to me, and to take some action in behalf of Warren Harding's child. And, so desperate was I, and so sick in mind and body, I even meditated upon interrupting the ceremony itself, speaking publicly for the child of her father, Warren Harding, whose memory could be better perpetuated by providing for her welfare than by building million-dollar memorials in his honor.
However, I did not have the necessary funds, and inasmuch as I heard nothing from Tim I knew he was unwilling to finance such a trip for me—although not to hear from Tim was an old story. Also, I was physically unfit to contemplate such a journey as that and the nervous strength it would demand. And so, while indignation and bitterness surged hot within me, I continued to hope, and, in less rebellious mood, to pray.
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 170

I haven't a great deal to add to my story. The futility of pressing the Hardings for recognition of their brother's child was clearly apparent to me. I gradually drew the sympathies of several men and women of standing, who felt that I had a distinct cause to sponsor, and their advices from then on have been for the most part followed.
Shortly after the departure of my sister and her husband and my child came a request from my landlady to vacate the apartment we had been occupying, because I had been unable to meet the full rent the previous month and could not promise a definite day of payment. I had been frank to tell her so.
My mother had found employment on Long Island for the summer. I was forced to take a single room again. This I did, being able to secure the same one-room-and-bath which I had occupied the previous summer, within walking distance from my office. However, I felt very badly about not being able to finish the payment of my rent, and once more, having this and many other obligations to meet, I wrote Tim Slade under date of June 26, 1926, as follows:
"This month finds me terribly in need of help. Many disappointing things have happened since you were here. I seem to be eternally slated for disappointments."
I heard nothing, however, from Tim, and determined then that I would never again approach him for help he was in no wise obligated to give. On July 2nd came another $40 from Daisy Harding, this time enclosed in an envelope with no accom​panying letter. It was in the form of a cashier's check from the Marion County Bank Company. I wrote to Miss Harding and thanked her sincerely for the check. I applied it upon "back bills" immediately.
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 169

But, in seeking the right method of solving Elizabeth Ann's problem for her, I realized that mere speed was impracticable where right motives prompted, and I was forced to admit to myself that nothing could be accomplished in time to enable me to keep Elizabeth Ann with me through the summer of 1926.
I was determined to write again to Elizabeth and Scott, but had not actually done so, when they dropped in upon us one Sunday afternoon, having motored through from Ohio. In view of existing circumstances, their appearance in New York seemed ​almost to indicate actual divination, and I was secretly grateful for whatever decisions had resulted in their making the trip East. They explained that they had given up the idea of going to Chicago for the summer and planned instead to go to the Willits farm in Illinois (Scott's people's farm), making use of the quiet and leisure there for music practice in preparation for their fall work.
I had not had up until then, and did not have after their arrival, any discussion with Elizabeth and Scott of my attempts to date to establish Elizabeth Ann's claim upon the Hardings, and they made ready to start back West, with my baby, after a few days' visit. Again I was left alone. Again I had been forced to give her up.
I had experienced many heart-breaks in having to part with my daughter, but up to that time they had been, like the black clouds of a thunder storm, mentally devastating to me only so long as I permitted myself to see only the clouds. When I saw beyond their obscuration, the sun, which was the glory of my child ultimately restored to me, then my heartaches, like the clouds, disappeared. Mental indecisions and temporary discouragements gave way to renewed purpose and heartfelt anticipation. I was a crusader of a great Right,—the right of every sane and loving mother to possess her own child.
But now, as I stood on the sidewalk, dry-eyed, waving goodbye to my child and answering the kisses which she blew to me through the small rear window of the motor car, I scarcely dared to think. Was I really a crusader after all? Was there aught to assuage the grief of a mother who had struggled against odds to hold her child and had failed? Was there a ray of hope to light the coming day? Must I return again to emptiness, to loneliness, to sorrow, to pain? Was it right that they, who had never known the glory of my sweetheart's smile as a father, should deny his daughter her birthright as a Harding? Did God give only to deprive? No! "Every mountain shall be made low and every valley shall be exalted." Wherefore, then, Pride? I must be humble. Resentment? I must forgive! Hatred? I must love. ​Retaliation? "Do good to them which despitefully use you." And even as I struggled to give these healing thoughts an abiding place in my consciousness, there came before me the face of him I love, and clearly I saw his lips move, and heard the incomparably sweet voice—"Courage, dearie!"
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 171

The work I was doing turned my thoughts toward literary effort, and I found myself once more attempting to write. The necessary funds were not forthcoming for a night summer course in literature at Columbia, and anyway the heat was not conducive to comfortable journeying uptown every third night. But I rented a typewriter and spent my evenings creatively at home. This was a great source of relaxation mentally, and on warm nights, when it seemed too sultry to retire, I would become oblivious to the heat and to fatigue as I sat before my typewriter, balancing this line and that, searching the dictionary for suitable synonyms, or turning to my beloved Keats for poetic atmosphere and delicacy of word manipulation.
Naturally the themes of my thoughts were my love for Warren Harding and my love for our child. It was upon such a night that I sat before my typewriter, reminiscently fondling my child and dwelling in the memory of her father, and wrote my visions into a poem. I had sat dreaming for hours before I touched the typewriter keys, but when I began to write at one o'clock in the morning, and lost myself in juggling lovingly the words which would best convey my thoughts, I felt, when a distant clock struck four, that I had really written some worth-while lines.
My belief was confirmed later by The New York Times poetry editor, who accepted and published the poem within ten days after I had made up my mind to send it to him. This was, however, not until late August. It was published in the Times of August 30th, 1926, under a partial nom de plume—"Ninon Britton." For this poem I received a check from the Times for $20 which I promptly had photostated, because it was the first ​money I had ever received for literary effort. The editor changed my title, "Her Eyes," to "The Child's Eyes." The lines follow:
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 173

Upon completion of the poem, "The Child's Eyes," before I had submitted it for publication, I sent Daisy Harding a copy, but I included no letter and made no comment. Under date of July 16th, 1926, I received a letter from her which in tone differed from some of her recent communications. It was more like the real Daisy Harding I know and love.
She wrote that as she finished reading my poem she both thought and said aloud, "beautiful!" "Perhaps it is in the full of poetry your talent lies. Real poetry must come through true ​inspiration and it is evident, very evident, in this one," she wrote. Other paragraphs were taken up with discussion of her doings, mainly, she wrote, in getting back her health. She said frankly that she was glad I appreciated the money she had been sending me each month because she denied herself to send it. The investments she had made had not turned out at all well and she and her husband were having "many blue hours" over them. Would I please send her Elizabeth's address? "I see where Alice Copeland has sued for divorce. Unfortunate," was a piece of information which interested me. Alice Copeland (Guthery) was a schoolmate of mine, daughter of a prominent Marion lawyer. She it was who said to me in November of 1920, when I went to Marion simultaneously with Mr. Harding's overwhelming-majority election, "Nan, do you remember when we were kids in school you used to say Warren Harding would be President?" Did I remember! . . . .
I was riding in Marion with this same Alice Copeland one day back in our Freshman high school days in 1910. Alice was driving the electric runabout which always identified her those days. We passed the Warren Harding home on Mt. Vernon Avenue. Alice observed my excitement with relish: Mr Harding sat with his wife on their front porch! Having passed the house once, she proceeded to turn around to pass it the second time. And, as Mr. and Mrs. Harding smiled again and waved, Alice said to me, "There he is, Nan! There's your hero! Look at him—quick! . . . . Nan, why don't you 'set your cap' for Mr. Harding anyway? You're so crazy about him . . . . and Mrs. Harding is sick most of the time!" Alice always meant these things to be amusing and we all accepted them in the spirit in which they were said. But I never forgot that, and one time I repeated it to Mr. Harding. He smiled and said, "Well, you 'got' me all right, you darling!"
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 176

It would have availed nothing to answer Daisy Harding's letter. Had there existed the slightest intention on the part of the Hardings to take up the problem left unsolved by their lamented brother, I would long before this have learned of their intentions. Nor would my failure to answer this last letter of Miss Harding's have debarred them from concluding whatever plans they were advancing toward the upkeep and maintenance of their niece.
Warren Harding's empty wallet, given me by his sister, Carrie Votaw, was indeed a symbol, unconscious and voiceless. But to me it spoke eloquently of the universal empty pity, empty sympathy, empty love.
My not answering Miss Harding's letter provided escape for all. So far as I was concerned the whole Harding attitude had been summed up in the last paragraph of Miss Harding's letter, "I should like to have sent you some money . . . but I couldn't . . . on account of bills I had to pay."
I would not have felt justified in ever approaching the Harding family had not that very source of income which had fallen, for the most part at least, into the hands of those who had not known it before his death, been the one from which Mr. Harding had drawn the monthly allowance which he gave into my hands for the care of our child. Surely my child and his had a title as clear as that of his brothers and sisters to the generosity he had shown in making his will—a title as clear as the worded legacies which bore Mr. Harding's signature.
I know nothing whatever about Mr. Harding's will as it actually stands. I have never inquired into it. I am ignorant also of what has gone on about me since the revelation of my story to certain individuals, except as I have stated it in this book. My fact-story is set down just as the events occurred. The intimate details of Mr. Harding's death are also shrouded in mystery ​except as the papers gave them forth. If I were to state my belief, I would say that his passing was entirely untimely, and could have been avoided as truly as could the necessity for this story have been avoided had the laws of the United States provided for the legal protection and social equalization of all children.
According to materia medica, Warren Harding died as the direct result of a cerebral hemorrhage and indirectly from ptomaine poisoning. But I, the mother of his only child, have never for one moment entertained such a thought. I believe that under the burden of fatherhood which he revered but dared not openly confess, combined with the responsibility of the welfare of the nation he loved, the twenty-ninth President of the United States truly laid down his life for his people. He died of a broken heart. And through the voice of the child he loved may there arise a diviner and more lasting memorial to his memory than any reared by human hands,—the answer to the plea from the heart of a mother,—social justice for all little children!
The End
# The Children of the Night (1921)/Her Eyes

HER EYES
Up from the street and the crowds that went, Morning and midnight, to and fro, Still was the room where his days he spent, And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow.
Year after year, with his dream shut fast, He suffered and strove till his eyes were dim, For the love that his brushes had earned at last,— And the whole world rang with the praise of him.
But he cloaked his triumph, and searched, instead, Till his cheeks were sere and his hairs were gray. "There are women enough, God knows," he said. . . . "There are stars enough—when the sun’s away."
Then he went back to the same still room That had held his dream in the long ago, When he buried his days in a nameless tomb, And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow.
And a passionate humor seized him there— Seized him and held him until there grew Like life on his canvas, glowing and fair, A perilous face—and an angel’s, too.
Angel and maiden, and all in one,— All but the eyes.—They were there, but yet They seemed somehow like a soul half done. What was the matter? Did God forget? . . .
But he wrought them at last with a skill so sure That her eyes were the eyes of a deathless woman,— With a gleam of heaven to make them pure, And a glimmer of hell to make them human.
God never forgets.—And he worships her There in that same still room of his, For his wife, and his constant arbiter Of the world that was and the world that is.
And he wonders yet what her love could be To punish him after that strife so grim; But the longer he lives with her eyes to see, The plainer it all comes back to him.
# Child's Eyes

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Child's Eyes"
* sister projects: 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 Child's Eyes" (also known as "Her Eyes"), a poem by Nan Britton ("Sometimes her eyes are blue as deep sea-blue")
* A Child's Eyes (1949), a nonfiction volume by Richard Gordon Scobee

## See also

* Her Eyes
* Child
* Eye
# Her Eyes

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Her Eyes"
* sister projects: 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.
* "Her Eyes" (also known as "The Child's Eyes"), a poem by Nan Britton ("Sometimes her eyes are blue as deep sea-blue")
* "Her Eyes", a poem by Helen Hunt Jackson ("That they are brown, no man will dare to say")
* "Her Eyes", a poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson ("Up from the street and the crowds that went")

## See also

* Eye
* Child's Eyes
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Her Eyes

Her Eyes
By Nan Britton
# Eye

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Eye"
* 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 Eye

* "The Eye", a poem by Robert Herrick
* "The Eye", a poem by Eliza Jane Stephens
* The Eye, a work by Donald Wandrei

## Eyes

* "Eyes" (1924), a short story by Galen C. Colin
* "Eyes" (1927), a short story by Herbert Ravenel Sass

## See also

* Her Eyes
* Child's Eyes
# The President's Daughter

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The President's Daughter"
* 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 President's Daughter (1927), a book by Nan Britton
* Clotel (1853), also known as The President's Daughter, a book by William Wells Brown
# Travelling Standing Still

GENEVIEVE TAGGARD
TRAVELLING STANDLING STILL
TRAVELLING
STANDING STILL
BOOKS BY
GENEVIEVE TAGGARD
For Eager Lovers 1922
Hawaiian Hilltop 1923
Words for the Chisel 1926
Travelling Standing Still 1928
GENEVIEVE TAGGARD
TRAVELLING STANDING STILL
POEMS
1918 1928
NEW YORK·ALFRED·A·KNOPF·1928
COPYRIGHT 1022, 1924, 1927, 1928 BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO
R. W.
CONTENTS
A NOTE ON THE TYPE
IN WHICH THIS BOOK IS SET
This book is set in Bodoni, so-called after its designer, Giambattista Bodoni (1740-1813) a celebrated Italian scholar and printer, who drew his letters with a mechanical regularity that is readily apparent on comparison with the less formal old style. Other characteristics that will be noted are the square serifs without fillet and the marked contrast between the light and heavy strokes.
SET UP AND PRINTED
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y.
PAPER FURNISHED BY JAPAN PAPER CO.,
NEW YORK
BOUND BY H. WOLFF ESTATE,
NEW YORK
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 1948, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 75 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
# Travelling Standing Still/There Was a Time

TRAVELLING
STANDING STILL
# Gregg Speed Studies/Speed Study 1

Layout 2
Drill 6
Between Reverse Curves.—When a circle occurs between reverse curves, the circle should join snugly, thus:
Right way: ??
It will be noted that if the circle were erased the curves would still retain their correct formation. If the joining has not been skillfully executed the outlines will have this appearance:
Wrong way: ? ?
Drill 7
Key: gale, lag, kale, lake, rig, gear, kill, gill, click, rag, leak, drag, wreck, trigger, caret, trick, league, racket, rake.
# The Knickerbocker Gallery

Layout 2
L. Gaylord Clark
The Knickerbocker Gallery
NEW YORK
Samuel Hueston. 348 Broadway.
M.D.CCC.LV.
THE
Knickerbocker Gallery:
A TESTIMONIAL
TO THE EDITOR OF THE
Knickerbocker Magazine
FROM ITS CONTRIBUTORS.
WITH FOURTY-EIGHT PORTRAITS ON STEEL, FROM ORIGINAL PICUTURES ENGRAVED ESPECIALLY FOR THIS WORK.
NEW YORK: SAMUEL HUESTON. 348 BROADWAY. MDCCCLV
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by
SAMUEL HUESTON,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.
John A. Gray, PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER 95 & 97 Cliff, cor. Frankfort.
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 Knickerbocker/Volume 1/Number 1/Monboddoniana

Layout 2
SAYINGS OF LORD MONBODDO.
The science of metaphysics must always keep, with the enlightened few, a rank above all those that treat of inferior subjects, to that greatest one of all, the operations of mind and spirit. He who has never studied the philosophy of his own mind, is as much inferior to him who understands it, as the lubberly passenger in a ship is to the enlightened navigator; neither, it is true, can control the winds, nor clear away clouds from the stars; but without any such visionary powers as these, there remains an immense difference between being driven through one's course ignorantly and incuriously by impulses of whose nature and limits we have no conception, and profiting by our intelligence of the same impulses, and when we cannot suit them to our purposes, accommodating our purposes to them—what matters it, so they are effected. Most of us walk in the dark in regard to every thing that concerns our own powers and better natures. We are lost in absolute fogs of ignorance, to the extent of not believing in the existence of knowledge, and of not appreciating it when others discover it. Yet the search should be made for its own sake, for the improvement and exercise it is fitted to give our perceptive faculties and reasoning powers, even if the benefit ended there. It would be easy to cite many examples of this effect. We shall content ourselves with one, which will put this matter in a striking point of view, as showing how one man's mind at least, has arrived at a pitch of acuteness, which most or all of our readers probably must be content to admire, and can scarcely hope to reach. We mean Lord Monboddo—from whose work, on the origin and progress of language, book 1, ch. 8, we take the following extract:—
"Plato said that the subject of opinion was neither the το ον, or the thing itself, nor was it the το μη ον or nothing, but something betwixt these two. This may appear, at first sight, a little mysterious and hard to be understood; but like other things of that kind in Plato, when examined to the bottom, it has a very clear meaning, and explains the nature of opinion very well. For, as he says, every man that opines must opine something. The subject of opinion, therefore, is not nothing—at the same time it is not the thing itself, but something betwixt the two."
Lord Monboddo says, he knows a man who would spend days together in reading music, without applying to it either voice or instrument, and took great delight in it. The music, Monboddo says, was intellectual.
# The Knickerbocker/Volume 1/Number 1/A Belle's Philosophy

Layout 2
A BELLE'S PHILOSOPHY.
FROM A LADY'S ALBUM.