OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Magic Flutes/My Little Thumb

MY LITTLE THUMB (In Rabbit School, Bunny Bright is reading this lesson from a Primer.)
Alas, there were hunters behind the pasture. They stalked us from the barnyard to the woods. Death already was inscribing our Rabbit names in her black book.
With dread I saw that my name also was written there. In a fright I raced homeward across the stubble. But a bullet overtook me. My poor thumb was shot off.
When my little paw saw its loss, it was in despair. It wept crimson tears for the vanished thumb. “Don’t cry, little one,“ said I. “We Rabbits have a hospital in the forest yonder. There you will get a bandage, and perhaps—who knows?—even a new thumb.“
The dear sun was making ready his bed in the red evening sky, when I knocked at the Doctor’s gate. The ​
Doctor took me in and washed my poor paw. He made a salve for it out of a bit of everything, but, alack, in his little stock he had no extra thumb to give me.
Hardly had he comforted me and smilingly tucked me into a little bed, that outside—thud!thud!—someone was knocking.
All manner of little Rabbits stood at the door. They had come from far and near. They were all wounded, bleeding. Each bore a sad mark showing where the finger of Death had touched him.
The Doctor worked until midnight to wash and stitch and bandage their hurts. Sometimes he wept in sympathy, again he spoke words of cheer. Before day was fully light, the pains had all been eased and even my poor paw slept for a quiet minute.
Now that our wounds were healing, the Doctor tried to cheer us with jokes and laughter.
He invited us to a concert, and when we came in, we found the third Mouse son there. He began to play, and as his flute sounded high above the cornet, salves, slings, and stitches fell from us all! Our wounds were gone—none knew where! Only health and merriment shone from our eyes.
And my little paw rejoicing in it happiness crowed to the crowded room: “What good fortune! What a wonder! I have got back my thumb again!“ Full of pride and pleasure, my paw scratched me behind the ear, saying: “Look at the thumb! Give it a pat, the little darling!“
I patted, I flattered, but when I tried to stop its running away, I could not. With a bound my feet had left concert and hospital behind!
​Again, the whole country is my garden. The whole world is my friend. Joy calls me from every field and meadow. I know no more pain. You see it was in vain that big-toothed Death wrote my name in her black record. With my thumb I run and in my joy I shout:
Hopsa! Heysa! Tra-la-la!
# The Magic Flutes/The Nut

THE NUT
In a leafy grove, beneath a cliff, the Squirrels, counselling among themselves decided to give a circus. So their chief hopped upon a stump and trumpeted the news far and wide:
“Today will be held_ a remarkable performance to which we respectfully invite the whole forest. A company of my sons and daughters will make such leaps from bough to bough as can only be seen once in a hundred years! At the end, the master-jumper will climb to the top-most branch of yonder ash, and boldly, as if for a wager, he will sail down on his tail. Such a flight, such a wonder of wonders no one has ever seen in his life! And the price ​to view all this is only one nut.”
A Kid, who came from a poor Goat family, heard this announcement, but alack-a-day, he had no nut. His legs and he decided to run down the slope to the brook, where a hazel sapling stood. At its top waved a cluster of nuts.
“Bend down to me, O hazel sapling,“ begged the Kid. “I can’t reach your nuts so high in the air. If you will give me just one, I shall skip—with joy!“
The sapling laughed: “No, no! My nuts are still too green.“
Next a Rabbit came from the glade and offered to trade his slice of bread for a nut. Then a Lamb ran up from the clearing with a small loaf to exchange for one. And lastly a darling Fawn came from the grove with a muffin. But the little shoot repeated to them all: “No, no! My nuts are still too green.“
The Kid bleated: “Maa, maa, maa. Then we shall bend you to the ground!“ And the animals, enraged at the sapling’s selfishness, pulled at its slender trunk. But the Kid ​ pulled to the right, the Rabbit to the left, the Lamb to the front; and the Fawn to the back! Each one tried to pull it a different way. And the sapling stood unshaken, rattling its muts with mirth.
“Maa, maa, maa!“ bleated the Kid again, “we’ll ask the Mouse’s son for help!“
The fourth Mouse son was passing by. “If you would succeed,“ he said, “you must all pull together as if you were one!“
On his flute the Mouse son played a tune and, hearing it, the youngsters ran to the tree and pulled with one accord, straight to the front.
At once the sapling began to bend. Down it came, lower and lower, until the nuts were within reach.
The friends each took one. Whistling gaily, they ran up the slope as fast as the wind and raced each other to the show.
The Kid, not slowing his pace, threw-his nut on the admission plate and dropped down in the shade of ​ ​an ash tree glancing proudly around him, like a lord. Turning to the Squirrel actors he said haughtily: “Gentlemen, kindly begin your stunts.“
The trumpets resounded from the cliff. The Squirrels bowed and smiled. Then they began to leap and fly: a bird could have done no more!
The Kid hardly breathed. He gazed and gazed at them. Secretly he thought: “Gracious me, at home I’ll try all that, too! I’ll leap heels-over-head over every stump and beam and fence I find. And when I equal you gentlemen, I, too, will join a circus.“
# The Magic Flutes/Christmas in the Woods

CHRISTMAS IN THE WOODS
A road ran through the oak-wood. On every side, snow lay deep. O Mouse Son, where will you spend the night?
“I shall not spend the night in the moss or in a bush; I shall visit Rabbit Whitetooth and play we’re poor together.“
The fifth Mouse son knocked at the little door. Rabbit Whitetooth greeted his playmate. He was very happy to see him. His face shone with smiles as he recalled all their frolics together in the grassy meadows of spring and early summer. How they played like children, scampering everywhere trying to catch each other at tag! At night, how slyly they stole out for carrots and peas! They pretended that frogs and birds were bogies, and raced away, and played hide-and-seek and peek-a-boo with them.
“But, ah, me,“ continued White​tooth sadly, „the snows of winter have come and filled in all our hiding-places. It is a sorrowful life we live now among our oak trees. The dog prowls by day and the fox by night. Death alone comes here.
“From babyhood a fawn had lived by the brook amid the saplings. A cruel hunter came—a shot rang out—and she sank dead. Yonder you see a maple twig with snow gleaming white upon it. There an owl tore a mouse and his life-blood stained the reeds. That hollow stump above the ravine still stands as witness where my own brother gave up his soul in the claws of a night-bird.
“And so it goes, my friend. Grave above grave is filling. There is no love under heaven, only steps of blood.“
The Mouse son was heavy-hearted to find his old chum so sad. He wanted to comfort him. “It is always brightest after the storm,“ ​
he said; „It is then one sees the rainbow. Just think—tonight is Christmas Eve! Every heart holds holiday. All creatures under heaven know that they are God’s own children. The Christ Child brings peace and love.
“I shall tune up my flute. Come, let us rejoice! Let us be merry!“
The Mouse son stept outdoors with Whitetooth. He began to play his sweetest song. All the animals of the oak-wood hastened out from their retreats to hear it.
The Horned Owl came from the cliff carrying acorns in her kerchief. Little Squirrels from near and far ran up to share the treat. The Night-Bird seated himself on the bank and offered the Hedgehog some beech-nuts. Old Hedgehog sat on a stump and took the littlest Rabbit on his knee. He bounced her up and down, smiling with satisfaction.
The Fox invited Mother Rabbit ​ ​and her little ones for a race. He gave them each a new sled as fine as if it were intended for a prince.
They raced down the hillside like shots! A nut tree stept forth from the grove, holding a barrel-organ. He played them a tune.
Even Whitetooth took a spin on a sled. In a jiffy he had won a prize: a load of hay. He gave a sheaf to the Fawn and a sheaf to the Stag.
When all the presents were given out, the stars were growing pale in the sky. “Play, Mouse Sonny,“ all the animals cry. “Play a farewell song. Play just once more.“
Sonny played for the last time. Already the sun was coming out of his golden gateway. The trees nodded to one another whispering, “Next year we shall all meet again!“
# The Magic Flutes/The Chain

THE CHAIN
Behind the mountains and beyond the water lies a little land. The people there haven’t an Emperor to rule over them. No, they have only a Rabbit King.
And how little they pay King Rabbit for that office! Only one row of parsley and one of lettuce. The King sits on a poor sort of throne. He hasn’t even a crown.
Instead of a crown his head is adorned with a pretty pair of ears. They are not just ordinary ears, for they have a rare gift. They hear every sigh of suffering or sorrows in the whole kingdom. If a tiny ant cries, they hear it. Even when they are asleep, they hear.
“The Starling comes here for lettuce and the Blackbird steals berries, and chained as I am, I can do nothing. If I were only free, every country lad bent on stealing would fare badly! But as it is, even if a robber came to carry off your royal self, I could do nothing to prevent it.
“Ah, King Rabbit, you and your kingdom will perish if we are ruled over by the ball and chain!“
At this King Rabbit dropped his ears in grief. He lay awake until midnight thinking: “What can I do? When at last he fell asleep, he heard in his dreams the clank of fetters and chains. He was hardly able to breathe.
Right at dawn, he had Parliament called. Every member of the village who had four feet, had one vote in it. King Rabbit walked sadly towards the Hall of Sessions. He did not know how to rid his land of slavery.
At the gate, whom should he meet but the sixth Mouse son. Mousie was playing a fanfare on his flute. At once the good King felt better. He pricked up his ears, gave a joyous skip.
Hurrah, he knows it now: how to do away with chains.
Strike off the accurséd shackles from every neck they weigh,“ rang out his words to the Assembly. “Bury them deep in the ground. I’ll set an army to guard the tomb so that they will never be seen again.“
All the members of Parliament greatly applauded their King. They promptly ordered the Mole to bring a Spade and hoe.
The Mole dug down and down to three full fathoms under ground. There he laid the fetters. Hardly had he done so, than the guardian army came in sight. True, there were only three soldiers in the army, but they were led by a General. Together they were quite enough to see that the chains should rust there for ever and ever.
How happy everyone was to know that slavery was at an end! The whole nation flocked to a glorious Fair. Candies and pastries scented the air. Old and young stuffed their mouths with the dainties, and ​ ​carried home cornucopias filled with good things to eat.
When King Rabbit returned, he was presented by his subjects with three seeds of parsley and three seeds of lettuce, as a mark of their appreciation.
He planted the seeds in his land of liberty.— —Little Rabbit, may you harvest a big crop!
# The Magic Flutes/At the End of Day

AT THE END OF DAY
It was the first night in May. The air was full of fragrance; overhead, the sky was crowded with stars. In a glade near a rose tree a little fire burned, casting its ruddy glow into the darkness.
The eight Mouse sons were seated around it. They were watching the dancing flames and thinking about an old legend. It is said on this night alone, in all the year, the ferns by the spring under the cliffs, unfold a golden blossom. This shining fernflower has a magic power. ​
Whoever plucks it at midnight on the first night of May, will be served for a whole year by all the woodland elves.
They will open for him the rocky caverns in which treasures lie hidden. If he loses his way in the forest, they will lead him safely out again. Everything he longs for, everything he wishes, will be granted him.
But the fairy flower can be seen only on this one night. Ah—lucky—a hundred times most lucky—he who picks it at the stroke of twelve!
Seven of the eight Mouse brothers spoke at once: “Come, we will seek this magic blossom!“ The seven nodded, but the eighth brother was still.
He gazed first into the fire, then into the distance. He raised his flute to his lips and played the song that he heard in his soul.
The first notes were full of sorrow. It seemed as though hearts wept at parting. Next, hope crept into the music. It was as if a pilgrim, returning from a long journey smiled as he neared his native hut. Lastly, the song rose like the spirit of a joyful child, who, after long absence, ​is enfolded again in his dear mothers arms.
The flute ceased. Midnight struck in the silence. Eight sons followed the song in their minds. They seemed to see gleaming in their distant birthplace, not the golden fern blossom, but another flower, tar more precious. It was the most beautiful flower ever to be found on earth. It blooms not only once a year, but blossoms every day; in all loyalty, it shields one from the cradle to the grave.
Eight hearts leapt to meet it, as the eight brothers sprang up from the moss and raced along a single path:
“Home—home—to Mother!“
# The Magic Flutes/The Return

THE RETURN
Open the door, Mother Mouse! Your eight sons are home from their wanderings. They can hardly carry all the gifts they have for you! They have groats as white as pearls, whole barrels of golden wheat, pieces of bacon and butter, and a storehouse full of gingerbread.
“Oh, look!“ exclaimed Mother Mouse in her happiness, “Look how gaily the fire burns! I think even my saucepan is happy! You, Father, must help prepare a glorious welcome. You must rush to hire a band. The whole village will gather beneath our little window to see our treasures. Won’t the gossips be jealous when they see what wonderful ​children we have! And what fine food!“
Father Mouse smoothed his whiskers as he listened. He raised his hand. “No, Mother, we don’t need a band. Our children play better than the musicians. Take your flutes, my sons; play a song at once. Your music will make pride and envy fall from all of us like yellow leaves from the linden tree.“
The flutes piped up merrily.
Immediately there was a great stir and bustle. From every chink and hole a Mouse ran out to swell the welcome. More and more came; the house was full.
But not one of the guests envied ​Mother Mouse. They all wished only good fortune to the family. In perfect harmony they sat down to eat their porridge and honey. They ate and ate—until at last the pan was empty!
That ended the banquet, and everyone extended good wishes! Father Mouse thanked all the company; then proposing a health to his eight sons he licked the saucepan clean!
# Czech Folk Tales

* related portals: Czech literature
* sister projects: Commons category, Wikidata item
CONTENTS
Page
The first two illustrations are copies of pictures by Joseph Manes; the others have been drawn by Mr. E. Staňek, who in some cases has adapted drawings by Mikuláš Aleš.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1933, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 91 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
# Caroling Dusk/The Close of Day

THE CLOSE OF DAY
# The Magic Flutes

From the Czech original Radovánky (1927)
All rights reserved. Printed in Czechoslovakia through Raf. D. Szalatnay, New York.
CONTENTS:
Into the World. By the Marsh. The Quarrel. My Little Thumb. A Nut.
Christmas in the Woods. The Chain. The Plum. At the End of Day. The Return.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Poems, in Two Volumes (Wordsworth, 1807)/Volume 1/It is not to be thought of that the Flood

16.
# It is not to be thought of that the Flood

An untitled sonnet, titled variously in different works.
* "It is not to be thought of that the Flood", in Poems, in Two Volumes (1807)
* "It is not to be thought of that the Flood", in Poems (1815)
* "Destiny" in Lyra Heroica (1891), edited by William Ernest Henley
* "It is not to be thought of that the Flood" in the Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900 (1931), edited by Arthur Quiller-Couch
* "It is not to be thought of that the Flood" in the Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918 (1940), edited by Arthur Quiller-Couch
# Caroling Dusk/Me Alone

ME ALONE
As I was going to town, I saw a King and a Queen. Such ringing of bells you never heard, The clerks ran out of the stores; You know how it was, Me alone. I was standing as the others were, “Oh! you little girl,” some one said, “The King wants you,” I became frightened Wondering what he had to say, Me alone. Here’s what he wanted: He wanted me to ride in his coach, I felt myself so much riding in a King’s coach, Me alone. }}
# Caroling Dusk/Lula Lowe Weeden

LULA LOWE WEEDEN
Lula Lowe Weeden was born in Lynchburg, Va., Feb. 4, 1918. Her mother, Mrs. Lula L. Weeden, herself a poet of ability, writes of this youngest of Negro singers: “She is a very close observer. Each flower in my garden she knows. Sometimes she counts each bloom, lingering over those she likes most.
“Each one of my children is very distinct in her make up. Lula is quiet, sweet and unselfish, a decided contrast to the second. This gives each a chance for moral develop- ​ment while trying to adjust her little mind to the other. A few nights ago, Iola the second child slapped Mary the baby. Lula said to Iola, ‘You are not being a good citizen when you strike back even if Mary did slap you.’ Another time, Iola was saying what her teacher had said about her. Lula remarked, ‘It is not what she says you do, it is what you do do.’ Neither statement meant much to Iola.
“I have always mixed my night time stories with ‘Home spun ones.’ All seem to like them best. I asked Lula since Christmas why she liked my stories. She said because they seemed to be true, and criticized fairy stories.
“I have emphasized racial stories for this reason—I was born on a big farm. There were many employed by my father, also tenants. With these we were not allowed to mingle. On the edge of the farm there was a white school. There was a barrier also. Those little girls with golden locks looked like little angels to me. How I wished to be like them with their shrill voices and laughter. They seemed so happy. I just thought of them as things apart. It took much to get this false conception out of me. They were just God sent. This I have tried not to have my children to fight. Now neither one wishes to be white or dislikes them. To them, they all seem like people.
“Lula does most of her writing at night. It is a privilege to remain a few minutes after the other children to finish something. Some nights she will write several. She mumbles them to herself before she begins to write and then keeps saying the words softly. She will finish this and will draw figures and flowers or people. This she does very well for a child until she says, ‘I am going to write something else.’ Interruptions don’t seem to bother her very much as the little ones are always saying something to make her laugh. I usually attempt to quiet them, ​but some of her best things are written with many around.
“When she shows them to me, she watches for a favorable expression. I always try to be pleased, but somehow she knows from my face that that was not so good, then remarks, ‘I am going to write something else.’
“The amusing part about it all is that she feels as she has begun to write at a mature age, but consoles herself with this statement, ‘Stevenson did not begin to write until he was fifteen and wrote very skillful things.’
“Lula is just a little girl and is very talkative if anyone appeals to her and will talk with her. You can’t explain anything too minutely for her—whether it is her Sunday school lesson or a star, it matters little.”
# 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Fullerton, Lady Georgiana Charlotte

See also Lady Georgiana Fullerton on Wikipedia; and our 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica disclaimer.
​FULLERTON, LADY GEORGIANA CHARLOTTE (1812–1885), English novelist and philanthropist, youngest daughter of the 1st Earl Granville, was born at Tixall Hall in Staffordshire on the 23rd of September 1812. In 1833 she married Alexander George Fullerton, then an Irish officer in the guards. After living in Paris for some eight years she and her husband accompanied Lord Granville to Cannes and thence to Rome. In 1843 ​her husband entered the Roman Catholic church, and in the following year Lady Georgiana Fullerton published her first novel, Ellen Middleton, which attracted W. E. Gladstone’s attention in the English Review. In 1846 she entered the Roman Catholic church. The death of her only son in 1854 plunged her in grief, and she continued to wear mourning until the end of her life. In 1856 she became one of the third order of St Francis, and thenceforward devoted herself to charitable work. In conjunction with Miss Taylor she founded the religious community known as “The Poor Servants of the Mother of God Incarnate,” and she also took an active part in bringing to England the sisters of St Vincent of Paul. Her philanthropic work is described in Mrs Augustus Craven’s work Lady Georgiana Fullerton, sa vie et ses œuvres (Paris, 1888), which was translated into English by Henry James Coleridge. She died at Bournemouth on the 19th of January 1885. Among her other novels were Grantley Manor (1847), Lady Bird (1852), and Too Strange not to be True (1864).
# The Mourning Bride/Act I

​THE
Mourning Bride.
ACT I. SCENE I.
A Room of State.
The Curtain rising slowly to soft Musick, discovers Almeria in Mourning, Leonora waiting in Mourning.
After the Musick ALMERIA rises from her Chair, and comes forward. -
Alm.Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast, To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak. I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd, And, as with living Souls, have been inform'd, By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound. What then am I? Am I more senseless grown Than Trees, or Flint? O force of constant Woe! 'Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs. Anselmo sleeps, and is at Peace; last Night, The silent Tomb receiv'd the good Old King; He and his Sorrows now are safely lodg'd Within its cold, but hospitable Bosom.
# Journal of the Straits Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society/Volume 40

STRAITS BRANCH ROYAL ASIATIC SOCIETY
[No. 40]
JOURNAL
June, 1904
Agents of the Society
London: Kegan Paul Trench, Trurner & Co.
PRINTED AT THE AMERICAN MISSION PRESS SINGAPORE
JOURNAL
of the
Straits Branch
of the
Royal Asiatic Society
JUNE 1904
SINGAPORE:
Printed at the American Mission Press
1904

## Errata.

| Page 5, bottom line | for "Subdived" | read "Subdivided." |
| Page 7, 6th line | for„ "Plate VI" | read„ "Plate VII." |
| Page 12, in foot note | for„ "Kenyah-Kyan" | read„ "Kelamantan." |
| Page 22, bottom line | for„ "Stopes" | read„ "Stops." |
| Page 32, 7th line | for„ "Plate VIII, figs. 11 and 21" | read„ read "Plate VIII, figs. 11 and 12." |
| Page 52, 14th line | for„ "Plate IV. fig. 11" | read "Plate IV, fig. 11." |
| Page 53, 8th line from bottom | for "tangkat krutak" | read "tongkat krutak." |
| Page 54, lines 13, 24 and 30 | for "finical" | read "finial." |
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