OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The New International Encyclopædia/Irwin, May

Edition of 1905. See also May Irwin on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
​IRWIN, May (1862—). An American actress, best known in ‘farce-comedy’. She was born at Whitby, Ont., and made her appearance on the stage at Buffalo early 1876. Coming to New York, she played for several years at Tony Pastor's Theatre; then became a member of Daly's company, with which she remained until 1887. More recently as a star she has appeared in The Widow Jones; The Belle of Bridgeport; Madge Smith, Attorney; Kate Kip, Buyer; and other light pieces. Consult: Strang, Famous Actresses of the Day in America (Boston, 1899); Hapgood, The Stage in America, 1897-1900 (New York, 1901).
# Compensation

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### Poetry

* "Compensation", a poem by Florence Earle Coates. ("When Winter's sovereignty complete")
* "Compensation", a poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter Jr. ("I plucked a rose from out a bower fair")
* "Compensation", a poem by Emily Dickinson. ("For each ecstatic instant")
* "Compensation", a poem by Arthur Conan Doyle ("The grime is on the window pane")
* "Compensation", a poem by Gladys Cromwell
* "Compensation", a poem by Julia Caroline Dorr
* "Compensation", a poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar. ("Because I had loved so deeply")
* "Compensation", a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson ("Why should I keep holiday")
* "Compensation", a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson ("The wings of Time are black and white")
* "Compensation", a poem by Richard Watson Gilder. ("The Angel of Life stood forth on the threshold of Birth")
* "Compensation", a poem by Rebecca Queen Jordan
* "Compensation", a poem by Eliza Jane Stephens. ("There's many a wreath for the conqueror bold")
* "Compensation", a poem by Agnes Louisa Storrie
* "Compensation", a poem by Sara Teasdale ("I should be glad of loneliness")

### Prose

* "Compensation", an essay by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
* "Compensation", a short story by C. V. Tench.
# Krilof and His Fables/Demian's Fish Soup

Demian's Fish Soup.
"Neighbour, light of my eyes! do eat a little more."
"Dear neighbour. I am full to the throat."
"No matter; just a little plateful. Believe me, the soup is cooked gloriously."
"But I've had three platefuls already."
"Well, what does that matter? If you like it and it does you good, why not eat it all up? What a soup it is! How rich! It looks as if it had been sprinkled over with amber. Here is bream; there is adump of sterlet. Take a little more, dear, kind friend. Just another spoonful! Wife, come and intreat him."
Thus does Demian feast his neighbour Phocas, not giving him a moment's breathing-time. Phocas feels the moisture trickling down his forehead; still he takes one more plateful, attacks it with all the strength he has left, and somehow manages to swallow the whole of it.
"That's the sort of friend I like!" cries Demian. "I can't bear people who require pressing. But now, dear friend, take just one little plateful more!"
But, on hearing this, our poor Phocas, much as he liked fish soup, catching hold of his cap and sash, runs away home ​without looking behind him. Nor from that day to this has he crossed Demian's threshold.
[There was a meeting one day, at the house of the poet Derjavine, of the members of the "Society of the Lovers of Russian Literature." Krilof had promised to attend, and to read one of his new and, as yet, unpublished fables; but he did not appear till very late. When he arrived, some one was reading an exceeedingly long poem, which went on and on until the audience was utterly worn out. At last, however, it came to an end. Then Krilof was asked to read his poem; so he put his hand in his pocket, produced a piece of paper, and read "Demian's Fish Soup." It is easy to imagine how thoroughly it was appreciated by an audience which had just been suffering tortures at the hands of a literary Demian—one of those authors who, when they have once secured a hearing, never know when it is time to leave off.]
# Remembrance

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* "Remembrance", a poem by Charlotte Allen
* "Remembrance", a poem by Emily Brontë ('Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee')
* "Remembrance", a poem by George Gordon Byron ('Tis done!—I saw it in my dreams')
* "Remembrance", a poem by Julia Caroline Dorr
* "Remembrance", a poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter Jr.
* "Remembrance", a poem by Martha Lavinia Hoffman
* "Remembrance", a song by Anne Hunter ('While I behold the moon's pale beam')
* "Remembrance", a poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon ('That Portrait! aye, it was a lovely face')
* "Remembrance", a poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon ('Love taketh many colours, and weareth many shapes')
* "Remembrance", a poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon ('Pale Memory sits lone, brooding o'er the past')
* "Remembrance", a poem by Mary Hunt McCaleb Odom
* "Remembrance", a poem by Alexandr Pushkin ('When the loud day for men who sow and reap')
* "Remembrance", a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke ('Expectant and waiting you muse')
* "Remembrance", a sonnet (Sonnet 30) by William Shakespeare ('When to the sessions of sweet silent thought')
* "Remembrance", a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley ('Swifter far than summer's flight')
* "Remembrance", a poem by Clark Ashton Smith ('Memory has in fee')
* "Remembrance" (Ah, well do I remember,—), a poem by Martha A. Smith
* "Remembrance" (Ah, well do I remember,), a poem by Martha A. Smith
* "Remembrance", a poem by Celia Thaxter
* "Remembrance", a poem by John Greenleaf Whittier ('Friend of mine! whose lot was cast')
* "Remembrance", a poem by Lilian Wooster Greaves ('There is a dear and distant grave')
* "Remembrance", a poem by Albert Henry Wratislaw ('There is a thought to Mem’ry dear')
* "Remembrance", a poem by Thomas Wyatt ('They flee from me that sometime did me seek')
# Krilof and His Fables/The Division

The Division.
Certain honest merchants, who had their dwelling and their counting-house in common, made a heap of money. Having wound up their business, they wish to divide their gains. But how can a division take place without squabbling? They have begun to quarrel about the money and the stock, when suddenly there is a cry that the house is on fire.
"Quick, quick, save the goods and the house!" shouts one of them. "Come along; we will settle our accounts afterwards!"
​"Give me another thousand first!" screams a second, "or I will not stir from the spot."
"You have given me two thousand too little!" exclaims a third; "but here are my accounts, all perfectly straight."
"No, no; we protest against such an idea. How, for what, and why, do you claim that?"
Forgetting that the house was on fire, these strange fellows went on squabbling where they were, till they were suffocated by the smoke, and they and their goods were all burnt up together.
[This fable is said to refer to the squabbles which took place among the Russian generals at the time of the French invasion. Count Rostopchin, for instance, withdrew from the Moscow Volunteer Committee simply because it was made dependent on the Volunteer Committee of St. Petersburg. In many cases what was much worse than squabbling took place, some of the officials being charged with having, even at that critical period, "stolen all that could be stolen, the very clothes, the very food of the recruits, of the volunteers, of the prisoners."]
# Krilof and His Fables/The Crow and the Hen

The Crow and the Hen.
When the Prince of Smolensk, using skill as a weapon against insolence, laid a snare for the modern Vandals, and left them Moscow for their ruin, then all its inhabitants, old and young, assembled together without loss of time, and departed from the city, like a swarm of bees leaving their hive. On all the disquiet which then took place a Crow looked down tranquilly from a housetop, whetting its beak the while.
"What! are not you ready to start, gossip?" cried a Hen to it from a passing cart. "Why, they say the enemy is at our very gates.
​"What is that to me?" replied the bird of omen. "I shall remain here quietly. You and your sisters can do as you please. But people don't boil crows, or roast them either; so I shall have no difficulty in living on good terms with the new-comers. It may even happen, perhaps, that I may get some cheese from them, or a stray bone, or something or other. Farewell, my fowl! a happy journey to you."
The Crow really did stay; but, instead of its gaining anything by doing so, when the time came in which the Prince of Smolensk began to starve his guests, it was itself seized by them, and turned into soup.
[This fable was printed in the magazine called "The Son of the Fatherland," in November, 1812. Towards the end of September in that year, news began to reach St. Petersburg of the miserable state of Napoleon's army. "Eye-witnesses assert," said the preceding number of the magazine, "that the French go out to shoot crows every day, and cannot sufficiently praise their soupe aux corbeaux." In the same number appeared a caricature, styled "French crow-soup," representing four grenadiers, wounded, ragged, and emaciated, one of whom is plucking a crow, while the others are getting ready a carving-knife and a saucepan. When Murat's travelling kitchen fell into the hands of the Russians, the saucepans were full of horse and cat flesh. Later on in the retreat, a time came when some of the starving soldiers actually preyed on the dead bodies of their comrades.]
# Krilof and His Fables/The Pebble and the Diamond

The Pebble and The Diamond.
A Diamond, which some one had lost, lay for some time on the high road. At last it happened that a merchant picked it up. By him it was offered to the king, who bought it, had it set in gold, and made it one of the ornaments of the royal crown. Having heard of this, a Pebble began to make a fuss. The brilliant fate of the Diamond fascinated it; and, one day, seeing a Moujik passing, it besought him thus:
"Do me a kindness, fellow-countryman, and take me with you to the capital. Why should I go on suffering here in rain and mud, while our Diamond is, men say, in honour there? I don't understand why it has been treated with such respect. Side by side with me here it lay so many years; it is just such a stone as I am—my close companion. Do take me! How can one tell? If I am seen there, I too, perhaps, may be found worthy of being turned to account."
The Moujik took the stone into his lumbering cart, and conveyed it to the city. Our stone tumbled into the cart, thinking that it would soon be sitting by the side of the Diamond. But a quite different fate befell it. It really was turned to account, but only to mend a hole in the road.
# Krilof and His Fables/The Miser

The Miser.
A certain Goblin used to keep watch over a rich treasure buried underground. Suddenly, he was ordered by the ruler of the demons to fly away for many years to the other side of the world. His service was of such a nature, that he was obliged to do as he was bid, whether he liked it or not. Our Goblin fell into a terrible perplexity, wondering how he should preserve his treasure in his absence—who there was to take charge of it. To build a treasure-house, and hire a guardian—that would cost much money. To leave it to itself—that way it might be lost. Impossible to answer for it for a day. Some one might dig it up, and steal it: people are quick at scenting out money. ​He worried himself; he pondered over it; and at last an idea came into his head. The master of the house to which he was attached was a terrible Miser. The Goblin, having dug up the treasure, appeared to the Miser, and said,
"Dear master, they have ordered me to go away from your house to a distant land. But I have always been well disposed towards you, so don't refuse to accept this treasure of mine, as a parting token of affection. Eat, drink, and be merry, and spend it without fear; only, when you die, I am to be your sole heir. That is my single stipulation. As for the rest, may destiny grant you health and long life."
He spoke, and was off.
Ten—twenty years went by. Having completed his service, the Goblin flies home to his native land. What does he see? О rapturous sight! The Miser, dead from starvation, lies stretched on the strong box, its key in his hand; and the ducats are all there intact. So the Goblin gets his treasure back again, and rejoices greatly to think that it has had a guardian who did not cost him a single farthing.
[Krilof's remark at the end of this fable is—
"When a miser has money, and yet grudges to pay for food and drink, is he not treasuring up his ducats for a goblin?"
M. Parfait, the author of an excellent French translation of the fables, observes that the same idea has been expressed by a popular French poet, Pierre Dupont, who is not very likely to have read Krilof:
The goblin of the fable is the domovoi, or domestic spirit, in whom the Russian peasant has great faith. It is, probably, a near relation of the lubber-fiend which, in Milton's country house,
and of the well-known Scotch bogle, which, when its weary landlord was flitting in order to get rid of it, exclaimed, from the centre of the furniture-laden cart, "And I'm flittin', too."]
# Krilof and His Fables/The Pike and the Cat

The Pike and the Cat.
A conceited Pike took it into its head to exercise the functions of a cat. I do not know whether the Evil One had plagued it with envy, or whether, perhaps, it had grown tired of fishy fare; but, at all events, it thought fit to ask the Cat to take it out to the chase, with the intention of catching a few mice in the warehouse. "But, my dear friend," Vaska says to the Pike, "do you understand that kind of work? Take care, gossip, that you don't incur disgrace. It isn't without reason that they say, 'The work ought to be in the master's power.'"
"Why really, gossip, what a tremendous affair it is! ​Mice, indeed! Why, I have been in the habit of catching perches!"
"Oh, very well. Come along!"
They went; they lay each in ambush. The Cat thoroughly enjoyed itself; made a hearty meal; then went to look after its comrade. Alas! the Pike, almost destitute of life, lay there gasping, its tail nibbled away by the mice. So the Cat, seeing that its comrade had undertaken a task quite beyond its strength, dragged it back, half dead, to its pond.
[The Pike, in this fable, represents Admiral Tchichakof, who, although a naval officer, was entrusted with the command of the troops intended to prevent Napoleon from crossing the Berezina during the retreat from Moscow. With this view he was stationed at Borisof; but the French surprised him there, and drove him out of the place, thereby securing the passage of the river. Sir Robert Wilson says the admiral was at dinner when the enemy broke in upon his rear-guard, captured the whole of his correspondence, and inflicted great loss on his troops.
In the Public Library at St. Petersburg is a collection of caricatures relating to the French invasion of Russia, one of which represents Kutuzof holding one end of a long net; Napoleon, in the form of a hare, is slipping out at the other end, which is held by Tchichakof, who is exclaiming, "Je le sauve."
Tchichakof is said to have been "an Englishman in character;" he had learnt navigation in England, and had married ​an English woman. "To a sailor's bluntness he added the English reserve;" and this made his countrymen dislike him from the first. After the affair of the Berezina, they despised him also.]
# Krilof and His Fables/The Ass and the Nightingale

The Ass and the Nightingale.
An Ass happened to see a Nightingale, one day, and said to it,
"Listen, my dear. They say you have a great mastery over song. I have long wished very much to hear you sing, and to judge as to whether your talent is really so great."
On this the Nightingale began to make manifest its art—whistled in countless ways, sobbed, sustained notes, passed from one song to another; at one time let her voice die away, and echoed the distant murmur of the languishing reed; at another, poured through the wood a shower of tiny notes. Then all listened to the favourite singer of Aurora. The breezes died away; the feathered choir was hushed; the cattle lay down on the grass. Scarcely breathing, the shepherd revelled in it, and only now and then, as he listened to it, smiled on the shepherdess.
At length the singer ended. Then the Ass, bending its head towards the ground, observed,
"It's tolerable. To speak the truth, one can listen to you without being bored. But it 's a pity you don't know our Cock. You would sing a great deal better if you were to take a few lessons from him."
Having heard such a judgment, our poor Nightingale took to its wings and flew far away.
[It is said that Krilof wrote this fable after an interview with some great man (Count Razumofsky or Prince A. N. Galitzin, perhaps), who had asked him to read him some of his fables. After hearing them, the noble patron of letters said, "That is very good; but why don't you translate, as Dmitrief does?" "I cannot," modestly answered the poet, who returned home, and straightway wrote down the grandee an ass.
M. Fleury ranks this piece among the imitations; and it is true that the same subject has been admirably treated by Diderot. But the idea may easily have occurred to Krilof without his having read Diderot's excellent fable.]
# Krilof and His Fables/The Hop-Plant

The Hop-Plant.
A Hop-plant had made its way to the edge of a garden, and had begun to wind itself around a dry stake in the fence. Now, in the open field beyond stood an oaksapling.
"What use is there in that stunted creature, or, indeed, in any of its kind?" Thus about the oak the Hop used to whisper to the stake. "How can it even be compared with you? You, simply by your erect carriage, look like a perfect lady in its presence. It is true that it is clothed with foliage; but how rough it is! what a colour it has! Why ever does the earth nourish it?"
Meanwhile, a week had scarcely passed, before the owner broke up that stake for firewood, and transplanted the young oak into his garden. His care resulted in full success, and the oak flourished, extending vigorous shoots. Remarking this, our Hop-plant wound itself about it, and now its voice is entirely devoted to the oak's glory and honour.
# Krilof and His Fables/Trishka's Caftan

Trishka's Caftan.
Trishka's caftan was out at elbows. Why should he ponder long over it? He took to his needle, cut a quarter off each sleeve; so mended the elbows. The caftan was all right again, only his arms were bare for a quarter of their length. That is no great matter; but every one is always laughing at Trishka. So Trishka says,
"As I'm no fool, I'll set this affair straight also. I'll make the sleeves longer than they were before. Oh! Trishka is no common-place fellow."
So he cut off the skirts of his caftan, and used them to lengthen his sleeve. Then Trishka was happy, though he had a caftan which was as short as a waistcoat. In a similar way have I sometimes seen other embarrassed people set their affairs straight. Take a look at them as they dash away. They have all got on Trishka's caftan.
[An allusion to the ruinous shifts to which the Russian proprietors used to have recourse when their affairs became at all embarrassed. They are beginning to be less ​improvident now; but, at the time when Krilof wrote the fable, they used to be notorious for their readiness to adopt any means which would afford them a temporary relief. It may easily be imagined how the unfortunate peasants must have suffered whenever their masters were seized by one of these reckless fits.]
# Krilof and His Fables/Canine Friendship

Canine Friendship.
Under a kitchen window lay Barbos and Polkan, bask­ing in the sunshine. It would have been more fitting in them to have been guarding the house at the gate in front of the courtyard. But they had eaten till they were satiated, and, besides, polite dogs do not bark at any one in the day­ time. So they indulged in a discussion about all sorts of things—about their doggish service, about good and evil, and finally about friendship.
"What," says Polkan, "can be pleasanter than to live heart to heart with a friend?—in everything to offer mutual service; not to sleep or eat without one's friend, and to defend his ​body with all one's force; finally, for friends to look into one another's eyes, and each to think that only a fortunate hour in which he could please or amuse his friend, and to place all his own happiness in his friend's good fortune! Suppose, for instance, you and I were to contract such a friendship. I venture to say, we should not be able to tell how quickly time was flying."
"That is true. So be it," replies Barbos. "Long has it been grievous to me, my dear Polkan, that we, who are dogs of the same yard, cannot spend a single day without quar­relling: and why is it? Thanks to our master, we are neither closely pent nor scantily fed. Besides, it really is scandalous. From the earliest times the dog has been the type of friendship; yet you scarcely ever see any more friend­ ship among dogs than among men."
"Let us make manifest an instance of it to our own times," says Polkan.
"Your paw!"
"There it is."
Straightway the new friends begin to caress and fondle each other. They know not, in their raptures, to what to liken themselves.
"My Orestes!"
"My Pylades!"
"Away with all quarrels, all envy, all malice!"
Unluckily, at this moment the cook tosses a bone out of the kitchen. Our new friends fling themselves upon it furiously. What has become of their harmonious alliance? Orestes and ​Pylades seize each other by the throat, so that their hair goes flying to the winds, and even torrents of water will scarcely separate them.
The world is full of such friendships. One would not be far wrong if one said of friends, as they are now-a-days, that they are almost all alike in respect to their friendship. To listen to them, you would imagine they were perfectly unanimous. But just throw them a bone; they will behave exactly like our dogs.