OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 2/Bridal Veil Fall

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BRIDAL VEIL FALL
THE vast ravine of Yo Semite (Grizzly Bear), formed by tearing apart the solid Sierras, is graced by many water-falls raining down the mile-high cliffs. The one called Bridal Veil has this tale attached to it. Centuries ago, in the shelter of this valley, lived Tutokanula and his tribe—a good hunter, he, a thoughtful saver of crops and game for winter, a wise chief, trusted and loved by his people. While hunting, one day, the tutelary spirit of the valley—the lovely Tisayac—revealed herself to him, and from that moment he knew no peace, nor did he care for the well-being of his people; for she was not as they were: her skin was white, her hair was golden, and her eyes like heaven; her speech was as a thrush-song and led him to her, but when he opened his arms she rose lighter than any bird and vanished in the sky.
Lacking his direction Yo Semite became a desert, and when Tisayac returned she wept to see the corn lands grown with bushes and bears rooting where the huts had been. On a mighty dome of rock she knelt and begged the Great Spirit to restore its virtue to the land. He did so, for, stooping from the sky, he spread new life of green on all the valley floor, and smiting the mountains he broke a channel for the pent-up meltings of the snows, and the water ran and leaped far down, pooling in a lake below ​and flowing off to gladden other land. The birds returned, the flowers sprang up, corn swayed in the breeze, and the people, coming back, gave the name of Tisayac to South Dome, where she had knelt.
Then came the chief home again, and, bearing that the spirit had appeared, was smitten with love more strong than ever. Climbing to the crest of a rock that spires three thousand feet above the valley, he carved his likeness there with his hunting-knife, so that his memory might live among his tribe. As he sat, tired with his work, at the foot of the Bridal Veil, he saw, with a rainbow arching around her, the form of Tisayac shining from the water. She smiled on him and beckoned. His quest was at an end. With a cry of joy he sprang into the fall and disappeared with Tisayac. Two rainbows quivered on the falling water, and the sun went down.
# Midsummer

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Midsummer"
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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.
* "Midsummer", a poem by Frances Louisa Bushnell
* "Midsummer" by Franklin W. Fish in Littell's Living Age, 131 (1687)
* "Midsummer", a poem by Hattie Howard
* "Midsummer", a poem by Rebecca Queen Jordan
* "Midsummer", a poem by James Kenneth Stephen
* "Midsummer", a poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
# Midsummer (J.K.S.)

This Robert Browning parody was first published in the Eton Rambler, June 1880.
* "Midsummer" in Lapsus Calami (1st edition, April 1891)
* "Midsummer" in Lapsus Calami (4th edition, August 1891)
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 2/Standing Rock

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STANDING ROCK
THE stone that juts from one of the high banks of the Missouri, in South Dakota, gives its name to the Standing Rock Agency, which, by reason of many councils, treaties, fights, feasts, and dances held there, is the best known of the frontier posts. It was a favorite gathering place of the Sioux before the advent of the white man. The rock itself is only twenty-eight inches high and fifteen inches wide, and could be plucked up and carried ​away without difficulty, but no red man is brave enough to do that, for this is the transformed body of a squaw who was struck into stone by Manitou for falsely suspecting her husband of unfaithfulness.
After her transformation she not only remained sentient but acquired supernatural powers that the Sioux propitiated by offerings of beads, tobacco, and ribbons, paint, fur, and game—a practice that was not abandoned until the teachings of missionaries began to have effect among them. Soldiers and trappers think the story an ingenious device to prevent too close inquiry into the lives of some of the nobility of the tribe. The Arickarees, however, regard this stone as the wife of one of their braves, who was so pained and mortified when her husband took a second wife that she went out into the prairie and neither ate nor drank until she died, when the Great Spirit turned her into the Standing Stone. The squaws still resort to it in times of domestic trouble.
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 2/Banshee of the Bad Lands

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BANSHEE OF THE BAD LANDS
"HELL, with the fires out," is what the Bad Lands of Dakota have been called. The fearless Western nomenclature fits the place. It is an ancient sea-bottom, with its clay strata worn by frost and flood into forms like pagodas, pyramids, and ​terraced cities. Labyrinthine canyons wind among these fantastic peaks, which are brilliant in color, but bleak, savage, and oppressive. Game courses over the castellated hills, rattlesnakes bask at the edge of the crater above burning coal seams, and wild men have made despairing stand here against advancing civilization. It may have been the white victim of a red man's jealousy that haunts the region of the butte called "Watch Dog," or it may have been an Indian woman who was killed there, but there is a banshee in the desert whose cries have chilled the blood that would not have cooled at the sight of a bear or panther. By moonlight, when the scenery is most suggestive and unearthly, and the noises of wolves and owls inspire uneasy feelings, the ghost is seen on a hill a mile south of the Watch Dog, her hair blowing, her arms tossing in strange gestures.
If war parties, emigrants, cowboys, hunters, any who for good or ill are going through this country, pass the haunted butte at night, the rocks are lighted with phosphor flashes and the banshee sweeps upon them. As if wishing to speak, or as if waiting a question that it has occurred to none to ask, she stands beside them in an attitude of appeal, but if asked what she wants she flings her arms aloft and with a shriek that echoes through the blasted gulches for a mile she disappears and an instant later is seen wringing her hands on her hill-top. Cattle will not graze near the haunted butte and the cowboys keep aloof from it, for the word has never been spoken ​that will solve the mystery of the region or quiet the unhappy banshee.
The creature has a companion, sometimes, in an unfleshed skeleton that trudges about the ash and clay and haunts the camps in a search for music. If he hears it he will sit outside the door and nod in time to it, while a violin left within his reach is eagerly seized and will be played on through half the night. The music is wondrous; now as soft as the stir of wind in the sage, anon as harsh as the cry of a wolf or startling as the stir of a rattler. As the east begins to brighten the music grows fainter, and when it is fairly light it has ceased altogether. But he who listens to it must, on no account, follow the player if the skeleton moves away, for not only will it lead him into rocky pitfalls, whence escape is hopeless, but when there the music will intoxicate, madden, and will finally charm his soul from his body.
# Ivory in the Night

Maidens of star and of moon, born from the mists of the age, I thrill to the touch of your hands, in the night when the shadows are o'er me. Your eyes are like the gulfs of the night, your limbs are like ivory gleaming— But your lips are more red than is mortal, and pointed the nails of your fingers.
This work is from the United States and in the public domain because it was not legally published with the permission of the copyright holder before January 1, 2003 and the author died 88 years ago. This is a posthumous work and its copyright in certain countries and areas may depend on years since posthumous publication, rather than years since the author's death. Translations or editions published later may be copyrighted.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1936, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 87 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
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 2/How the Crime was Revealed

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HOW THE CRIME WAS REVEALED
IN 1853 a Hebrew peddler, whose pack was light and his purse was full, asked leave to pass the night at the house of Daniel Baker, near Lebanon, Missouri. The favor was granted, and that was the last seen of Samuel Moritz, although, when some neighbors shook their heads and wondered how it was that Baker was so well in funds, there were others who replied that it was impossible to keep track of peddlers, and that if Moritz wanted to start on his travels early in the morning, or to return to St. Louis for goods, it mattered to nobody. On an evening in 1860 when there was a mist in the gullies and a new moon hung in the west, Rev. Mr. Cummings, a clergyman of that region, was driving home, and as he came to a bridge near "old man" Baker's farm he saw a man standing on it, with a pack on his back and a stick in his hand, who was staring intently at something beneath the bridge. The clergyman greeted him cheerily and asked him if he would like to ride, whereat the man looked him in the face and pointed to the edge of the bridge.
​Mr. Cummings glanced down, saw nothing, and when he looked up again the man with the pack had disappeared. His horse at the same moment gave a snort and plunged forward at a run, so that the clergyman's attention was fully occupied until he had brought the animal under control again; when he glanced back and saw that the man was still standing in the bridge and looking over the edge of it. The minister told his neighbors of this adventure, and on returning with two of them to the spot next morning they found the body of old man Baker swinging by the neck from a beam of the bridge exactly beneath where the apparition had stood—for it must have been an apparition, inasmuch as the dust, damped though it had been with dew, showed no trace of footprint. In taking down the body the men loosened the earth on a shelving bank, and the gravel rolling away disclosed a skeleton with some bits of clothing on it that were identified as belongings of Samuel Moritz. Was it conscience, craziness, or fate that led old man Baker to hang himself above the grave of his victim?
# Jack Dempsey

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 1936, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 87 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
Wikipedia article about Jack Dempsey
Through the California mountains And many a wooded vale The wind from seaward whispers The name of the Nonpareil O'er many a peak snow covered O'er many a woodland fair The sea-breeze murmurs the wonderful tale Of the lad from County Clare. But never the wind from seaward And never the brooks of the vale Can speak the half of the glory, The due of the Nonpareil.
Champion of all Champions, Greatest in all times' bound, The lad who held Fitzsimmons For thirteen gory rounds. But the ring's red history passes To a swiftly roving tale, And there's few who now remember The name of the Nonpareil. But here's to the greatest of fighters, To a name that never shall fail, To the name of the first Jack Dempsey The wonderful Nonpareil.
# John Kelley

From a letter to Tevis Clyde Smith, ca. May 1932 (“Fear Finn: / Lo, friend, ...”); the third of “Three Sketches,” along with "Abe Lincoln" and "John Brown"; John Kelley was the prosecutor in the Massie case.
John Kelley
I hesitate to name your name,
John Kelley,
For I shrink from obscenity.
I hope you feel white,
After pilloring a child before a snarling pack
Of yellow-bellied swine, who after all,
Were whiter at heart than you, John Kelley.
You should feel proud, Honorable sir,
For the dung you have cast into the faces
Of the American people;
For the blow you have dealt at American womanhood,
And the woman-hood of your own color and race,
John Kelley.
You have betrayed the women of your race,
John Kelley,
And if you had the soul of a man instead of a hog,
Your dreams would be haunted by dim shapes
And quivering shadows,
By tear-dimmed eyes and pale faces and slender white hands,
By all the dim women down all Eternity,
Who suffered and passed through the red portals of Hell
To give you being, John Kelley.
This is my word to you,
And may you remember it.
It is my hope that your yellow-bellied pets
Will deal with you some day as you have dealt with your own
People;
That they will nail you into a barrel
Full of razor blades
And roll you down a hill into hell, John Kelley.
This work is from the United States and in the public domain because it was not legally published with the permission of the copyright holder before January 1, 2003 and the author died 88 years ago. This is a posthumous work and its copyright in certain countries and areas may depend on years since posthumous publication, rather than years since the author's death. Translations or editions published later may be copyrighted.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1936, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 87 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
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 2/The Spell of Creve Cœur Lake

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THE SPELL OF CREVE CŒUR LAKE
NOT far west of St. Louis the Lake of Creve Cœur dimples in the breezes that bend into its basin of hills, and there, in summer, swains and maidens go to confirm their vows, for the lake has an influence to strengthen love and reunite contentious pairs. One reason ascribed for the presence of this spell concerns a turbulent Peoria, ambitious of leadership and hungry for conquest, who fell upon the Chawanons at this place, albeit he was affianced to the daughter of their chief. The girl ​herself, enraged at the treachery of the youngster, put herself at the head of her band—a dusky Joan of Arc,—and the fight waged so furiously that the combatants, what were left of them, were glad when night fell that they might crawl away to rest their exhausted bodies and nurse their wounds. Neither tribe daring to invite a battle after that, hostilities were stopped, but some time later the young captain met the girl of his heart on the shore, and before the amazon could prepare for either fight or flight he had caught her in his arms. They renewed their oaths of fidelity, and at the wedding the chief proclaimed eternal peace and blessed the waters they had met beside, the blessing being potent to this day.
Another reason for the enchantments that are worked here may be that the lake is occupied by a demon-fish or serpent that crawls, slimy and dripping, through the underbrush, whenever it sees two lovers together, and listens to their words. If the man prove faithless he would best beware of returning to this place, for the demon is lurking there to destroy him. This monster imprisons the soul of an Ozark princess who flung herself into the lake when she learned that the son of the Spanish governor, who had vowed his love to her, had married a woman of his own rank and race in New Orleans. So they call the lake Creve Cœur, or Broken Heart. On the day after the suicide the Ozark chief gathered his men about him and paddled to the middle ​of the water, where he solemnly cursed his daughter in her death, and asked the Great Spirit to confine her there a punishment for giving her heart to the treacherous white man, the enemy of his people. The Great Spirit gave her the form in which she is occasionally seen, to warn and punish faithless lovers.
# John L. Sullivan (Howard)

First published in The Right Hook (vol. 1, #2), an amateur boxing magazine created by Howard and friends, 1925.
Bellowing, blustering, old John L. Fearing nothing 'tween sky and hell! Rushing, roaring, swinging his right. Smashing, crashing, forcing the fight. Battering foes until they fell, Tilt your glasses to old John L.!
Mitchell he knocked, from the ring clear out! Dropped Kilrain with a single clout! Laflin he beat and Burke he flayed, Knocked out the Maori Giant, Slade! Packed in each fist, damnation and hell! Tilt your glasses to old John L.!
Old John L.'s in town today He's hitting it down the Great White way. Look at his swallow tail coat, silk hat! Mustache too, say he's on a bat! Living it in, that you can tell, Tilt your glasses to old John L.!
He's cleaned out the roughest, toughest saloon, He's licked O'Rourke and Jem McClune, Sampled every saloon on the streets, Buying drinks for all he meets, He's taking the bowery in pell-mell! Tilt your glasses to old John L.!
Stick in your head in the grog-shop door, Look at him! Listen to his roar! "Set out eh whiskey. Jimmy, ye bum! Belly the bar, ye half bred scum! I can lick any guy from here to hell!" Tilt your glasses to old John L.!
The world moves on and the ring moves too Old fighters have long given way to new. But here;s a health to the olden days, To the wild old, mad old, bad old ways, When a fight was a fight and not a sell, And tilt your glasses to old John L.
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 1936, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 87 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
# Kid Lavigne is Dead

First published in The Ring, June 1928
Hang up the battered gloves; Lavigne is dead. Bold and erect he went into the dark. The crown is withered and the crowds are fled, The empty ring stands bare and lone—yet hark: The ghostly roar of many a phantom throng Floats down the dusty years, forgotten long.
Hot blazed the lights above the crimson ring Where there he reigned in his full prime, a king. The throngs’ acclaim roared up beneath their sheen And whispered down the night: "Lavigne! Lavigne!" Red splashed the blood and fierce the crashing blows. Men staggered to the mat and reeling rose. Crowns glittered there in splendour, won or lost, And bones were shattered as the sledges crossed.
Swift as a leopard, strong and fiercely lean, Champions knew the prowess of Lavigne. The giant dwarf Joe Walcott saw him loom And broken, bloody, reeled before his doom. Handler and Everhardt and rugged Burge Saw at the last his snarling face emerge From bloody mists that veiled their dimming sight Ere they sank down into unlighted night.
Strong men and bold, lay vanquished at his feet. Mighty was he in triumph and defeat. Far fade the echoes of the ringside’s cheers And all is lost in mists of dust-dead years. Cold breaks the dawn; the East is ghastly red. Hand up the broken gloves; Lavigne is dead.
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 1936, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 87 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 Kissing of Sal Snooboo

First published in The Tattler, the Brownwood High School newspaper, January 1925
A bunch of the girls were whooping it up In the old Lip-stick saloon, And the kid at the player-piano Was twanging a jazzy tune, When out of the night with perfume on his shirt And stacomb upon his hair, A young man staggered inside the door And meowed like a grizzly-bear. He kicked the kid off the piano stool And sat him down to play. The piano yowled like an old tom cat To the tune of "Hip! Hurray!" Says he, "Gals, you don’t know me, But, by gosh, I know you, And one of you is a classy dame, And that one is Sal Snooboo!"
She squawked and somebody turned the lights, Something went "Smack!" in the dark. There was nothing for anybody to do But to stand still and s****** and hark. Somebody turned the lights on, And Sally was standing there, But the stranger wasn’t; he was done, And Sal was arranging her hair.
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 1936, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 87 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
# Of W. W. (Britannicus)

This William Wordsworth parody was first published in the Pall Mall Gazette, 21 March 1883.
* "Of W. W. (Britannicus)" in Lapsus Calami (1st edition, April 1891)
* "Of W. W. (Britannicus)" in Lapsus Calami (4th edition, August 1891)
# Libertine

First published in The Collected Letters of Robert E. Howard, vol. 1 (2007), where it appears in a letter to Tevis Clyde Smith, June 23, 1926.
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This work is from the United States and in the public domain because it was not legally published with the permission of the copyright holder before January 1, 2003 and the author died 88 years ago. This is a posthumous work and its copyright in certain countries and areas may depend on years since posthumous publication, rather than years since the author's death. Translations or editions published later may be copyrighted.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1936, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 87 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 Maiden of Kercheezer

(First published in The Progress, February 1, 1924)
She was snoozing on her sweezer,  Many a goofish year ago, And a smile was on her beezer,  As she gently scratched her toe.
She, the Maiden of Kercheezer,  Hair as black as a harness tug, As is fluttered in the breezer,  O'er her lovely, girlish mug.
Evening dress of green and yeller,  What a shoulder she could shake And she had a nifty feller,  Hight the knight of Duckandrake.
He was knock-kneed, she was cross-eyed,  Oh, they were a lovely pair, How he'd fondly knock her hoss-eyed,  As she gently pulled out his hair.
And her folks didn't like his beezer,  But what difference did that make? And the maiden of Kercheezer, ever  Eloped with noble Duckandrake.
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 1936, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 87 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.
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