OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection)/Biographical Sketch

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
FROM THE MAGAZINE OF POETRY
Clarence Hawkes, better known as the "Blind Poet of New England," was born in Goshen, Mass., December 16th, 1869. When nine years of age, he met with an accident while returning from school, which culminated in the amputation of one leg. When thirteen years of age while out hunting he was accidentally shot by his companion and both eyes were injured.
After undergoing several severe operations in hopes of regaining his sight, this hope was abandoned and at the age of fifteen he entered the Perkins Institution for the Blind. Here in addition to the regular course, he studied music and piano tuning, and was graduated after four years, taking the last two years' work in one. The following year he returned to the school for a post-graduate course, and at the same time began the study of law and oratory with teachers from Boston Colleges. After six months of arduous study his health gave way beneath the strain and he returned home to his parents, then located at Cummington, Mass.
One year was then spent in recruiting, and at the age of twenty-one Mr. Hawkes went upon the platform as a public lecturer, and at the same time began writing short stories and poems for local newspapers. Since that time he has written three hundred poems and over fifty short stories and sketches, ​and lectured in nearly all parts of New England. He is at present a contributor to over a score of the high class periodicals. Mr. Hawkes travels alone on his lecture trips and gets about with the greatest ease. He is a base-ball and football enthusiast, a skillful fisherman and an accomplished chess player, while one of his chief amusements is to visit a picture gallery.
# Pebbles and Shells

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Pebbles and Shells."
* 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.
* Pebbles and Shells (1895), a poetry collection by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (A beggar asked for alms beside the palace gate), a poem by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (Calling its plaintive note from post and tree), a poem by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (Even the little waves that idly dance), a poem by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (Happy is he who takes life as it seems), a poem by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (Hate is a dagger in the human heart), a poem by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (I would not live upon one changeless plain), a poem by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (Only a little pebble on a rocky strand), a poem by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (Only a ripple on the sea of time), a poem by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (Out of the garden came a little breeze), a poem by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (The stars are as bright in the heavens to-night), a poem by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (Thou may'st not ever lift thy voice in song), a poem by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (Time is a bird that wings with ceaseless flight), a poem by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (When thou art near it matters not to me), a poem by Clarence Hawkes
* "Pebbles and Shells" (Why talk of wondrous miracles of yore), a poem by Clarence Hawkes

## See also

* Pebbles
* Shells
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 1/Satan and his Burial-Place

Layout 2
SATAN AND HIS BURIAL-PLACE
SATAN appears to have troubled the early settlers in America almost as grievously as he did the German students. He came in many shapes to many people, and sometimes he met his match. Did he not try to stop old Peter Stuyvesant from rowing through Hell Gate one moonlight night, and did not that tough old soldier put something at his shoulder that Satan thought must be his wooden leg? But it wasn't a leg: it was a gun, loaded with a silver bullet that had been charged home with prayer. Peter fired and the missile whistled off to Ward's Island, ​where three boys found it afterward and swapped it for double handfuls of doughnuts and bulls' eyes. Incidentally it passed between the devil's ribs and the fiend exploded with a yell and a smell, the latter of sulphur, to Peter's blended satisfaction and alarm. And did not the same spirit of evil plague the old women of Massachusetts Bay and craze the French and Spaniards in the South? At Hog Rock, west of Milford, Connecticut, he broke up a pleasant diversion:
One of the first buildings to be put up in Ipswich, Massachusetts, was a church built on a ledge above the river, and in that church Satan tried to conceal himself for purposes of mischief. For this act he was hurled from the steeple-top by some unseen instrument of righteousness with such force that his hoof-mark was stamped into a solid stone near by. This did not deter him from mounting to the ridge-pole and assuming a defiant air, with folded arms, when Whitefield began to preach, but when that clergy-man's tremendous voice was loosed below him he bounced into the air in terror and disappeared.
The Shakers report that in the waning of the eighteenth century they chased the evil one through ​the coverts of Mount Sinai, Massachusetts, and just before dawn of a summer morning they caught and killed and buried him. Shakers are spiritualists, and they believe their numbers to have been augmented by distinguished dead, among whom they already number Washington, Lafayette, Napoleon, Tamerlane, and Pocahontas. The two first named of these posthumous communists are still seen by members of the faith who pass Satan's grave at night, for they sit astride of white horses and watch the burial spot, lest the enemy of man arise and begin anew his career of trouble. Some members of the brotherhood say that this legend typifies a burial of evil tendencies in the hearts of those who hunted the fiend, but it has passed down among others as a circumstance. The Shakers have many mystic records, transmitted verbally to the present disciples of "Mother Ann," but seldom told to scoffers "in the world," as those are called who live without their pure and peaceful communes. Among these records is that of the appearance of John the Baptist in the meeting-house at Mount Lebanon, New York, one Sunday, clothed in light and leading the sacred dance of the worshippers, by which they signify the shaking out of all carnal things from the heart.
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 2

Layout 2
Myths and Legends of Our Own Land
Manitou
See page 200
Myths & Legends of Our Own Land
By Charles M. Skinner
Vol. II.
Philadelphia & London J. B. Lippincott Company
Copyright, 1896, by J. B. Lippincott Company.
Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A.
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
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 1/Nix's Mate

Layout 2
NIX'S MATE
THE black, pyramidal beacon, called Nix's Mate, is well known to yachtsmen, sailors, and excursionists in Boston harbor. It rises above a shoal, all that is left of a fair, green island which long ago disappeared in the sea. In 1636 it had an extent of twelve acres, and on its highest point was a gallows where pirates were hanged in chains. One night cries were heard on board of a ship that lay at anchor a little way off shore, and when the watch put off, to see what might be amiss, the captain, named Nix, was found murdered in his bed. There was no direct evidence in the case, and no motive could be assigned for the deed, unless it was the expectancy of promotion on the part of the mate, in case of his commander's death.
It was found, however, that this possibility gave significance to certain acts and sayings of that officer during the voyage, and on circumstantial evidence so slight as this he was convicted and sentenced to death. As he was led to execution he swore that he was not guilty, as he had done before, and from the scaffold he cried aloud, "God, show that I am innocent. Let this island sink and prove to these people that I have never stained my hands with human blood." Soon after the execution of his sentence it was noticed that the surf was going higher on the shore, that certain rocks were no longer uncovered at low tide, and in time the island ​wasted away. The colonists looked with awe on this manifestation and confessed that God had shown their wrong.
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 1/The Loss of Weetamoo

Layout 2
THE LOSS OF WEETAMOO
WINNEPURKIT, sagamore of the coast settlements between Nahant and Cape Ann, had married Weetamoo, daughter of Passaconaway, king of the Pennacooks, and had taken her to his home. Their honeymoon was happy, but old ties are strong, and after a little time the bride felt a longing to see her people again. When she made known this wish the husband not only consented to her visit, but gave her a guard of his most trusty hunters who saw her safe in her father's lodge (near the site of Concord, New Hampshire), and returned directly. Presently came a messenger from Passaconaway, informing his son-in-law that Weetamoo ​had finished her visit and wished again to be with her husband, to whom he looked for an escort to guide her through the wilderness. Winnepurkit felt that his dignity as a chief was slighted by this last request, and he replied that as he had supplied her with a guard for the outward journey it was her father's place to send her back, "for it stood not with Winnepurkit's reputation either to make himself or his men so servile as to fetch her again."
Passaconaway returned a sharp answer that irritated Winnepurkit still more, and he was told by the young sagamore that he might send his daughter or keep her, for she would never be sent for. In this unhappy strife for precedent, which has been repeated on later occasions by princes and society persons, the young wife seemed to be fated as an unwilling sacrifice; but summoning spirit to leave her father's wigwam she launched a canoe on the Merrimack, hoping to make her way along that watery highway to her husband's domain. It was winter, and the stream was full of floating ice; at the best of times it was not easy to keep a frail vessel of bark in the current away from the rapids, and a wandering hunter reported that a canoe had come down the river guided by a woman, that it had swung against the Amoskeag rocks, where Manchester stands now, and a few moments later was in a quieter reach of water, broken and empty. No more was seen of Weetamoo.
# Mister Fox

* related portals: Children's literature.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category.
And he begg'd of the moon to give him light, For he'd many miles to trot that night
And first he came to a farmer's yard,
Where the ducks and geese declared it hard That their nerves should be shaken and their rest be marr'd
He took the great goose by the sleeve, Says he, "Madam Goose, and by your leave I'll take you away without reprieve,
He seized the black duck by the neck, And swung her all across his back, The black duck cried out, "quack! quack! quack!" With her legs hanging dangling
Then old Mrs. Slipper-slopper jump'd out of bed, And out of the window she popp'd her head,— "John, John, John, the gray goose is gone,
Then John he went up to the hill, And he blew a blast both loud and shrill, Says the fox, "this is very pretty music—still
At last the fox got home to his den;
To his dear little foxes, eight, nine, ten, Says he, "you're in luck, here's a good fat duck, With her legs hanging dangling down, O!"
​He then sat down with his hungry wife, They did very well without fork or knife, They never ate a better goose in all their life, And the little ones picked the bones, O!
[Advertisements]
And he begg'd of the moon to give him light, For he'd many miles to trot that night
And first he came to a farmer's yard,
Where the ducks and geese declared it hard That their nerves should be shaken and their rest be marr'd
He took the great goose by the sleeve, Says he, "Madam Goose, and by your leave I'll take you away without reprieve,
He seized the black duck by the neck, And swung her all across his back, The black duck cried out, "quack! quack! quack!" With her legs hanging dangling
Then old Mrs. Slipper-slopper jump'd out of bed, And out of the window she popp'd her head,— "John, John, John, the gray goose is gone,
Then John he went up to the hill, And he blew a blast both loud and shrill, Says the fox, "this is very pretty music—still
At last the fox got home to his den;
To his dear little foxes, eight, nine, ten, Says he, "you're in luck, here's a good fat duck, With her legs hanging dangling down, O!"
​He then sat down with his hungry wife, They did very well without fork or knife, They never ate a better goose in all their life, And the little ones picked the bones, O!
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
# Looking Backward, 2000-1887/Preface

PREFACE.
Historical Section Shawmut College, Boston December 28, 2000.
Living as we do in the closing year of the twentieth century, enjoying the blessings of a social order at once so simple and logical that it seems but the triumph of common sense, it is, no doubt, difficult for those whose studies have not been largely historical to realize that the present organization of society is, in its completeness, less than a century old. No historical fact is, however, better established than that till nearly the end of the nineteenth century it was the general belief that the ancient industrial system, with all its shocking social consequences, was destined to last, with possibly a little patching, to the end of ​time. How strange and wellnigh incredible does it seem that so prodigious a moral and material transformation as has taken place since then could have been accomplished in so brief an interval! The readiness with which men accustom themselves, as matters of course, to improvements in their condition, which, when anticipated, seemed to leave nothing more to be desired, could not be more strikingly illustrated. What reflection could be better calculated to moderate the enthusiasm of reformers who count for their reward on the lively gratitude of future ages!
The object of this volume is to assist persons who, while desiring to gain a more definite idea of the social contrasts between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, are daunted by the formal aspect of the histories which treat the subject. Warned by a teacher's experience that learning is accounted a weariness to the flesh, the author has sought to alleviate the instructive quality of the book by casting it in ​the form of a romantic narrative, which he would be glad to fancy not wholly devoid of interest on its own account.
The reader, to whom modern social institutions and their underlying principles are matters of course, may at times find Dr. Leete's explanations of them rather trite,—but it must be remembered that to Dr. Leete's guest they were not matters of course, and that this book is written for the express purpose of inducing the reader to forget for the nonce that they are so to him. One word more. The almost universal theme of the writers and orators who have celebrated this bi-millenial epoch has been the future rather than the past, not the advance that has been made, but the progress that shall be made, ever onward and upward, till the race shall achieve its ineffable destiny. This is well, wholly well, but it seems to me that nowhere can we find more solid ground for daring anticipations of human development during the next one thousand years, than by ​"Looking Backward" upon the progress of the last one hundred...
That this volume may be so fortunate as to find readers whose interest in the subject shall incline them to overlook the deficiencies of the treatment, is the hope in which the author steps aside and leaves Mr. Julian West to speak for himself.
# Looking Backward, 2000-1887

Looking Backward From 2000 to 1887 is a utopian novel by Edward Bellamy, a lawyer and writer from western Massachusetts, and was first published in 1888. It was written in reaction to the disillusionment with an increasingly competitive and industrial society. Looking Backward sold more than 1 million copies.
Layout 2
LOOKING BACKWARD
2000-1887
by
EDWARD BELLAMY
Author of "Miss Ludington's Sister"; "Dr. Heidenhoff's Process" "A Nantucket Idyl," &c., &c.
THIRTY-FIFTH THOUSAND.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK:
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY.
The Riverside Press, Cambridge.
1889.
Copyright, 1888
By Ticknor and Company
All rights reserved
* Preface
* Chapter 1
* Chapter 2
* Chapter 3
* Chapter 4
* Chapter 5
* Chapter 6
* Chapter 7
* Chapter 8
* Chapter 9
* Chapter 10
* Chapter 11
* Chapter 12
* Chapter 13
* Chapter 14
* Chapter 15
* Chapter 16
* Chapter 17
* Chapter 18
* Chapter 19
* Chapter 20
* Chapter 21
* Chapter 22
* Chapter 23
* Chapter 24
* Chapter 25
* Chapter 26
* Chapter 27
* Chapter 28
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
# United States v. Google/Appendix

Layout 2
APPENDIX
I. TRIAL WITNESSES
       A. Fact Witnesses
       B. Expert Witnesses
# Poems on Several Occasions

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Poems on Several Occasions."
* 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.
* Poems on Several Occasions by Nicholas Amhurst
* Poems on Several Occasions by Samuel Boyce
* Poems on Several Occasions by William Broome
* Poems on Several Occasions by William Davenant
* Poems on Several Occasions by John Dunlop
* Poems on Several Occasions by Christopher Smart

## See also

* Poems
# Poems (Dudley)

Published by
THOMAS S. GRAY,
104 Wisconsin Street,
MILWAUKEE, WIS.
TO
Matilda Goddard,
THE BENEDICTION OF WHOSE FRIENDSHIP FALLS LIKE DEW UPON MY LIFE;
WHOSE CHARITY IS IMMORTAL IN SPIRIT,
AS SELF-SACRIFICING IN OBSERVANCE;
AND
WHOSE HEART IS PURE AS HER INTELLIGENCE IS FINE,
I Dedicate these Poems.
Milwaukee, December, 1885.
Copyright 1885.
By Marion V. Dudley.
CRAMER, AIKENS & CRAMER.
INDEX.
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
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 1/Aunt Rachel's Curse

Layout 2
AUNT RACHEL'S CURSE
ON a headland near Plymouth lived "Aunt Rachel," a reputed seer, who made a scant livelihood by forecasting the future for such sea-going people as had crossed her palm. The crew of a certain brig came to see her on the day before sailing, and she reproached one of the lads for keeping bad company. "Avast, there, granny," interrupted another, who took the chiding to himself. "None of your slack, or I'll put a stopper on your gab." The old woman sprang erect. Levelling her skinny finger at the man, she screamed, "Moon cursers! You have set false beacons and wrecked ships for plunder. It was your fathers and mothers who decoyed a brig to these sands and left me childless and a widow. He who rides the pale horse be your guide, and you be of the number who follow him!"
That night old Rachel's house was burned, and she barely escaped with her life, but when it was time for the brig to sail she took her place among the townfolk who were to see it off. The owner of the brig tried to console her for the loss of the house. "I need it no longer," she answered, "for the narrow house will soon be mine, and you wretches cannot burn that. But you! Who will console you for the loss of your brig?"
"My brig is stanch. She has already passed the worst shoal in the bay."
​"But she carries a curse. She cannot swim long."
As each successive rock and bar was passed the old woman leaned forward, her hand shaking, her gray locks flying, her eyes starting, her lips mumbling maledictions, "like an evil spirit, chiding forth the storms as ministers of vengeance." The last shoal was passed, the merchant sighed with relief at seeing the vessel now safely on her course, when the woman uttered a harsh cry, and raised her hand as if to command silence until something happened that she evidently expected. For this the onlookers had not long to wait the brig halted and trembled—her sails shook in the wind, her crew were seen trying to free the cutter—then she careened and sank until only her mast-heads stood out of the water. Most of the company ran for boats and lines, and few saw Rachel pitch forward on the earth—dead, with a fierce smile of exultation on her face. The rescuers came back with all the crew, save one—the man who had challenged the old woman and revengefully burned her cabin. Rachel's body was buried where her house had stood, and the rock—before unknown—where the brig had broken long bore the name of Rachel's Curse.
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 1/Mother Crewe

Layout 2
MOTHER CREWE
MOTHER CREWE was of evil repute in Plymouth in the last century. It was said that she had taken pay for luring a girl into her old farm-house, where a man lay dead of small-pox, with intent to harm her beauty; she was accused of blighting land and driving ships ashore with spells; in brief, she was called a witch, and people, even those who affected to ignore the craft of wizardry, were content to keep away from her. When the Revolution ended, Southward Howland demanded Dame Crewe's house and acre, claiming under law of entail, though primogeniture had been little enforced in America, where there was room and to spare for all. But Howland was stubborn and the woman's house had good situation, so one day he rode to her door and summoned her with a tap of his whip.
"What do you here on my land?" said he.
"I live on land that is my own. I cleared it, built my house here, and no other has claim to it."
"Then I lay claim. The place is mine. I shall tear your cabin down on Friday."
"On Friday they'll dig your grave on Burying Hill. I see the shadow closing round you. You ​draw it in with every breath. Quick! Home and make your peace!" The hag's withered face was touched with spots of red and her eyes glared in their sunken sockets.
"Bandy no witch words with me, woman. On Friday I will return." And he swung himself into his saddle. As he did so a black cat leaped on Mother Crewe's shoulder and stood there, squalling. The woman listened to its cries as if they were words. Her look of hate deepened. Raising her hand, she cried, "Your day is near its end. Repent!"
"Bah! You have heard what I have said. If on Friday you are not elsewhere, I'll tear the timbers down and bury you in the ruins."
"Enough!" cried the woman, her form straightening, her voice grown shrill. "My curse is on you here and hereafter. Die! Then go down to hell!"
As she said this the cat leaped from her shoulder to the flank of the horse, spitting and clawing, and the frightened steed set off at a furious pace. As he disappeared in the scrub oaks his master was seen vainly trying to stop him. The evening closed in with fog and chill, and before the light waned a man faring homeward came upon the corpse of Southward Howland stretched along the ground.