OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Peter Whiffle

His Life and Works
Books by Carl Van Vechten
Interpreters
In the Garret
The Merry-go-round
The Music of Spain
The Tiger in the House
Music and Bad Manners
Lords of the Housetops
Music After the Great War
Peter Whiffle: His Life and Works
* Peter Whiffle His Life and Works
* Carl Van Vechten
* New YorkAlfred · A · Knopf MCMXXII
Copyright, 1922, by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.
Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y. Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York, N. Y. Bound by the Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass.
Manufactured in the United States of America
To the memory of my mother, Ada Amanda Fitch Van Vechten
"'Tingling is the test,' said Babbalanja, 'Yoomy, did you tingle, when that song was composing?'
"'All over, Babbalanja.'"
Herman Melville: Mardi.
"We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion, and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art."
Dencombe: The Middle Years.
"Les existences les plus belles sont peut-être celles qui ont subi tous les extrêmes, qui ont traversé toutes les températures, rencontré toutes les sensations excessives et tous les sentiments contradictoires."
Remy de Gourmont: Le Chat de Misère.
"The man who satisfies a ceaseless intellectual curiosity probably squeezes more out of life in the long run than any one else."
Edmund Gosse: Books on the Table.
Edwin Ellis.
* Preface
* Chapter 1
* Chapter 2
* Chapter 3
* Chapter 4
* Chapter 5
* Chapter 6
* Chapter 7
* Chapter 8
* Chapter 9
* Chapter 10
* Chapter 11
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 1964, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 59 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
# Peter Rabbit and his Ma

* related portals: Children's literature.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
PETER RABBIT AND HIS MA.
By
Louise A. Field.
Illustrations by Virginia Albert
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
CHICAGO AKRON. OHIO NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1917
BY THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO.

### Contents

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8
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
# Peter Rabbit and his Ma/Chapter 5

A little further on a
wee Shrew-Mouse
popped her head
out of a hole right
ahead of him and
squeaked a shrill but good- natured greeting.
Peter sat down on his
haunches and had a
very pleasant half hour.
The Shrew-Mouse told
him her name was Susan, and advised him to throw
down the big turnip as it
was a heavy burden and, besides, he would be sure
to find plenty of nice things
to eat if he followed her instructions. Then she
wished him good luck and
vanished into her hole in
the
ground.
Accordingly he
dropped the load of
luncheon that had already
given him a backache.
AND trotted along much
more comfortably and
quickly.
Right around a turn in the road,
ran a clear
stream of blue
water with a
little wooden
bridge crossing it. And on the
very edge of the water
sat an old bullfrog
who croaked out:
"Look out or you
will fall into the
water!"
OW the warning sounded so funny that Peter, who had just started to cross the bridge, commenced to laugh, and laughed so hard that he lost his balance and tumbled straight into the water.
a very great joke and in his turn began to laugh loudly. It did not seem so comical to Peter, but luckily the water was so shallow that he quickly scrambled to dry ground, with no more inconvenience than a thorough wetting.
# Peter Rabbit and his Ma/Chapter 3

AT first he thought of taking Molly Cottontail along with him. Then he concluded that the twins would be very lonely without her.
Peter Rabbit was not a selfish bunny. At any rate,
he thought he would get on much faster alone.
HE began to make
his plans, and grew
so excited that he
found it impossible
to go to sleep at all.
He could hardly wait till
the first little smiling streak
of sunlight peeked in at
the door of the burrow.
It seemed to beckon him,
to offer all sorts of promises, and
to urge him to seek for the fun
about which he had been thinking
all night.
Very quickly and quietly he crept
out of bed and dressed,
pausing every now and
then to glance fearfully
toward the spot where
the other members of
the family lay curled up in little
furry balls, peacefully — and Mrs.
Rufus Rabbit audibly — sleeping.
Soon he was
quite ready, and
after one dreadful moment when
he felt quite sure
the whole family
was wide awake
and ready to
grab him as he crept past
on tiptoe, he found himself
outside the burrow and running for his life through the
soft spring sunshine.
# Peter Rabbit and his Ma/Chapter 4

HE ran without noticing in
what direction for some
time. Then, beginning to
feel tired, he slackened his
speed, and finally stopped quite still
and looked about him. A second
glance showed him a great field of
turnips only a few yards ahead of
him.
He was beginning to feel very
hungry. So in another moment he
was busily at work rooting up
A fine, juicy turnip.
ON this he feasted
until he could eat no more. Unwilling to
leave such a tempting meal, he finally dug up a second
fine plump turnip and carried it away, slung over his
shoulder. He thought it
might taste good for luncheon.
A robin red-breast flew across
his path and wished him
a cheery good-morning,
Peter gaily stopped for a few moments of chatter.
Already he felt a
little lonely and looked
after the robin rather
wistfully as it flew over
the bushes.
# Peter Rabbit and his Ma/Chapter 1

PETER RABBIT AND HIS MA
It all came about because Mrs. Rufus Rabbit had suddenly become very strict about the comings and goings of
PETER Rabbit and Molly Cottontail and Flopsy and Mopsy. (Mrs.Rufus Rabbit was Peter Rabbit's Ma.)
They must get up and go to bed at just such an hour, and ask permission every time they went out of the house.
Peter Rabbit was rather fond of having his
own way and he promptly made up his mind that while such rules were all very well for Molly Cottontail, who never had a mind of her own anyway, and for Flopsy and Mopsy,
as far as HE was
concerned, he
intended to go
to bed when he
liked and get up
    when
       he
          pleased.
# Peter Rabbit and his Ma/Chapter 2

THE more he thought of it, the crosser he became.
He had gone to bed very
much earlier than usual, and was not
a bit sleepy.
Visions of many, many nights when
he would have to go to bed when he was
not sleepy danced before his eyes.
Finally he decided
# Peter Rabbit and his Ma/Chapter 7

WITH many thanks to his kind little host, he put on the little red coat that was now quite dry and with a last good-bye started down the path at a good pace, feeling much rested and ​refreshed, but not knowing at all where he was going, for the field-mouse had been unable to give him much information as he had but lately come to that part of the country. When Peter Rabbit did not reach home
Mrs. Rufus Rabbit began to get very anxious. Having fed
Molly Cottontail and the twins, and put them to bed, she quickly dressed in her cloak and bonnet
that had belonged to Peter Rabbit's Pa ("For who knows but there may be bears in
​the woods?" she said to herself and not very far did she have to go. For without knowing it, Peter Rabbit had been traveling in a circle, and at the foot of a big oak tree,
she found him fast asleep.
# Peter Rabbit and his Ma/Chapter 6

A
S the bullfrog was not at all inclined to be friendly, he did not stop to dry himself, but trotted on for quite a while before he stopped in a sunny spot and ​T
OOK off the nice red coat his Ma had made for him and hung it on a sumac bush to dry.
He was beginning to feel ​ ​hungry and wondered where all the good things were that Susan Shrew-Mouse had
promised him. While wondering where he would find his luncheon, and wishing he
had not so hastily disposed of his nice turnip, he heard a funny little squeaking voice behind him. ​It seemed to be speaking as well as squeaking to him.
"How do you do, Peter Rabbit?" it said.
And turning around, Peter saw a plump little field-mouse sitting by the side of the path.
​M
Y cousin, Susan Shrew-Mouse, sent me word by the carrier pigeon that you were coming this way. Pray come and have luncheon with me,” it said.
delighted, for his little round tummy had started to give him some inside information, and it was of a kind that made him uncomfortable. He had never been hungry before, and he thought with regret of the good food his mother had always provided, and he began to see himself in the light of a very
SUPPOSE he never
found his way home
and never saw his
Ma and Molly Cottontail
and the twins again?
Two
large
tears
rolled
down his
long
nose at
the
dreadful
BUT the voice of Freddie
Field-Mouse broke in upon his gloomy reverie. Luncheon was all laid out on a large, flat stone under a shady green bush
and the two
furry friends
feasted
​on crisp green lettuce, fresh pink radishes and tempting yellow carrots. So long did they sit over the meal that Peter discovered, much to his dismay, that the sun was beginning to sink in the west.
# Peter Rabbit and his Ma/Chapter 8

​AND Peter Rabbit went nicely to sleep, very glad to be at home again and very much ashamed of himself for having run away from it. And the last thing he remembered after he had rolled over to get a look
feeling his Ma's soft muzzle rubbing against his face. For that is the way bunnies kiss one another good-night. ​
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/Another of the Same

Another of the Same
Say that I should say I love ye,
Would you say 'tis but a saying?
But if Love in prayers move ye,
Will ye not be moved with praying?
Think I think that Love should know ye,
Will you think 'tis but a thinking?
But if Love the thought do show ye,
Will ye loose your eyes with winking?
Write that I do write you blessed,
Will you write 'tis but a writing?
But if Truth and Love confess it,
Will ye doubt the true inditing?
No, I say, and think, and write it,
Write, and think, and say your pleasure;
Love, and truth, and I indite it,
You are blessed out of measure.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon

Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon
Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!),
Was never morn so fair.
There shone a sun, though not the sun
That shineth in the air.
For the earth, and from the earth,
(Was never such a creature!)
Did come this face (was never face
That carried such a feature).
Upon a hill (O blessèd hill!
Was never hill so blessèd),
There stood a man (was never man
For woman so distressed):
This man beheld a heavenly view,
Which did such virtue give ​As clears the blind, and helps the lame,
And makes the dead man live.
This man had hap (O happy man!
More happy none than he);
For he had hap to see the hap
That none had hap to see.
This silly swain (and silly swains
Are men of meanest grace):
Had yet the grace (O gracious gift!)
To hap on such a face.
He pity cried, and pity came
And pitied so his pain.
As dying would not let him die
But gave him life again.
For joy whereof he made such mirth
As all the woods did ring;
And Pan with all his swains came forth
To hear the shepherd sing;
But such a song sung never was,
Nor shall be sung again,
Of Phyllida the shepherds' queen.
And Corydon the swain.
Fair Phyllis is the shepherds' queen,
(Was never such a queen as she,)
And Corydon her only swain
(Was never such a swain as he):
Fair Phyllis hath the fairest face
That ever eye did yet behold,
And Corydon the constant'st faith
That ever yet kept flock in fold;
Sweet Phyllis is the sweetest sweet
That ever yet the earth did yield.
And Corydon the kindest swain
That ever yet kept lambs in field.
Sweet Philomel is Phyllis' bird.
Though Corydon be he that caught her,
And Corydon doth hear her sing.
Though Phyllida be she that taught her:
Poor Corydon doth keep the fields
Though Phyllida be she that owes them, ​And Phyllida doth walk the meads,
Though Corydon be he that mows them: The little lambs are Phyllis' love,
Though Corydon is he that feeds them,
The gardens fair are Phyllis' ground,
Though Corydon is he that weeds them.
Since then that Phyllis only is
The only shepherd's only queen;
And Corydon the only swain
That only hath her shepherd been,—
Though Phyllis keep her bower of state,
Shall Corydon consume away?
No, shepherd, no, work out the week,
And Sunday shall be holiday.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/Birds in May

Birds in May
As (woo'd by May's delights) I have been borne To take the kind air of a wistful morn Near Tavy's voiceful stream (to whom I owe More strains than from my pipe can ever flow), Here have I heard a sweet bird never lin To chide the river for his clam'rous din; There seem'd another in his song to tell, That what the fair stream did he liked well; And going further heard another too, All varying still in what the others do; A little thence, a fourth with little pain Conn'd all their lessons, and them sung again; So numberless the songsters are that sing In the sweet groves of the too-careless spring, That I no sooner could the hearing lose Of one of them, but straight another rose, ​And perching deftly on a quaking spray, Nigh tir'd herself to make her hearer stay. ..... Shrill as a thrush upon a morn of May. From Britannia's Pastorals.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/Corydon's Supplication to Phyllis

Corydon's Supplication to Phyllis
Sweet Phyllis, if a silly swain
May sue to thee for grace,
See not thy loving shepherd slain
With looking on thy face;
But think what power thou hast got
Upon my flock and me;
Thou seest they now regard me not,
But all do follow thee.
And if I have so far presumed,
With prying in thine eyes,
Yet let not comfort be consumed
That in thy pity lies;
But as thou art that Phyllis fair,
That fortune favour gives,
So let not love die in despair
That in thy favour lives.
The deer do browse upon the briar,
The birds do pick the cherries;
And will not Beauty grant Desire
One handful of her berries? ​If it be so that thou hast sworn
That none shall look on thee,
Yet let me know thou dost not scorn
To cast a look on me.
But if thy beauty make thee proud,
Think then what is ordain'd;
The heavens have never yet allow'd
That love should be disdain'd.
Then lest the fates that favour love
Should curse thee for unkind,
Let me report for thy behoof,
The honour of thy mind;
Let Corydon with full consent
Set down what he hath seen,
That Phyllida with Love's content
Is sworn the shepherds' queen.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/A Sweet Lullaby

A Sweet Lullaby
Come, little babe, come, silly soul,
Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,
Born as I doubt to all our dole,
And to thyself unhappy chief:
Sing lullaby and lap it warm,
Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.
Thou little thinkst, and less dost know
The cause of this thy mother's moan;
Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,
And I myself am all alone;
Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail,
And know'st not yet what thou dost ail?
Come, little wretch! Ah! silly heart,
Mine only joy, what can I more?
If there be any wrong thy smart.
That may the destinies implore,
'Twas I, I say, against my will—
I wail the time, but be thou still.
And dost thou smile? O thy sweet face!
Would God Himself He might thee see!
No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace,
I know right well, for thee and me,
But come to mother, babe, and play,
For father false is fled away.
Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance
Thy father home again to send,
If Death do strike me with his lance
Yet may'st thou me to him commend:
If any ask thy mother's name,
Tell how by love she purchased blame.
​Then will his gentle heart soon yield:
I know him of a noble mind:
Although a lion in the field,
A lamb in town thou shalt him find:
Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid!
His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.
Then may'st thou joy and be right glad,
Although in woe I seem to moan;
Thy father is no rascal lad:
A noble youth of blood and bone,
His glancing looks, if he once smile,
Right honest women may beguile.
Come, little boy, and rock a-sleep!
Sing lullaby, and be thou still!
I, that can do naught else but weep.
Will sit by thee and wail my fill:
God bless my babe, and lullaby,
From this thy father's quality.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/Autumn

Autumn
Autumn it was when droop'd the sweetest flow'rs, And rivers, swoll'n with pride, o'erlook'd the banks; Poor grew the day of summer's golden hours, And void of sap stood Ida's cedar-ranks. The pleasant meadows sadly lay In chill and cooling sweats By rising fountains, or as they Fear'd winter's wastfull threats.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/A Sweet Contention between Love, his Mistress, and Beauty

Love and my mistress were at strife
Who had the greatest power on me:
Betwixt them both, oh, what a life!
Nay, what a death is this to be!
​She said, she did it with her eye;
He said, he did it with his dart;
Betwixt them both (a silly wretch!)
'Tis I that have the wounded heart.
She said, she only spake the word
That did enchant my peering sense;
He said, he only gave the sound
That enter'd heart without defence.
She said, her beauty was the mark
That did amaze the highest mind;
He said, he only made the mist
Whereby the senses grew so blind.
She said, that only for her sake,
The best would venture life and limb:
He said, she was too much deceiv'd;
They honour'd her because of him.
Long while, alas, she would not yield,
But it was she that rul'd the roast;
Until by proof, she did confess,
If he were gone, her joy was lost.
And then she cried, "Oh, dainty love,
I now do find it is for thee,
That I am lov'd and honour'd both,
And thou hast power to conquer me."
But, when I heard her yield to love,
Oh! how my heart did leap for joy!
That now I had some little hope
To have an end to mine annoy!
But, as too soon, before the field
The trumpets sound the overthrow,
So all too soon I joy'd too much,
For I awaked, and nothing saw.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/A Sweet Pastoral

Nicholas Breton
A Sweet Pastoral
Good Muse, rock me asleep
With some sweet harmony:
The weary eye is not to keep
Thy wary company.
Sweet Love, begone awhile,
Thou knowest my heaviness:
Beauty is born but to beguile
My heart of happiness.
See how my little flock,
That loved to feed on high.
Do headlong tumble down the rock,
And in the valley die.
The bushes and the trees
That were so fresh and green,
Do all their dainty colour leese,
And not a leaf is seen.
The blackbird and the thrush.
That made the woods to ring.
With all the rest, are now at hush.
And not a note they sing.
Sweet Philomel, the bird
That hath the heavenly throat,
Doth now alas! not once afford
Recording of a note.
​The flowers have had a frost,
Each herb hath lost her savour;
And Phyllida the fair hath lost
The comfort of her favour.
Now all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
That how to hope upon delights
It is but mere deceit.
And therefore, my sweet Muse,
Thou know'st what help is best;
Do now thy heavenly cunning use
To set my heart at rest;
And in a dream bewray
What fate shall be my friend;
Whether my life shall still decay,
Or when my sorrow end.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/Aglaia: a Pastoral

Aglaia: a Pastoral
Sylvan Muses, can ye sing
Of the beauty of the Spring?
Have ye seen on earth that sun
That a heavenly course hath run?
Have ye lived to see those eyes
Where the pride of beauty lies?
Have ye heard that heavenly voice
That may make Love's heart rejoice?
Have ye seen Aglaia, she
Whom the world may joy to see? If ye have not seen all these,
Then ye do but labour leese;
While ye tune your pipes to play
But an idle roundelay;
And in sad Discomfort's den
Everyone go bite her pen;
That she cannot reach the skill ​How to climb that blessed hill
Where Aglaia's fancies dwell,
Where exceedings do excell,
And in simple truth confess
She is that fair shepherdess
To whom fairest flocks a-field
Do their service duly yield:
On whom never Muse hath gazèd
But in musing is amazed;
Where the honour is too much
For their highest thoughts to touch;
Thus confess, and get ye gone
To your places every one;
And in silence only speak
When ye find your speech too weak.
Blessèd be Aglaia yet,
Though the Muses die for it;
Come abroad, ye blessèd Muses,
Ye that Pallas chiefly chooses,
When she would command a creature
In the honour of Love's nature,
For the sweet Aglaia fair
All to sweeten all the air.
Is abroad this blessèd day;
Haste ye, therefore, come away:
And to kill Love's maladies
Meet her with your melodies.
Flora hath been all about.
And hath brought her wardrobe out;
With her fairest, sweetest flowers,
All to trim up all your bowers.
Bid the shepherds and their swains
See the beauty of their plains;
And command them with their flocks
To do reverence on the rocks;
Where they may so happy be
As her shadow but to see:
Bid the birds in every bush
Not a bird to be at hush:
But to sit, and chirp, and sing
To the beauty of the Spring: ​Call the sylvan nymphs together,
Bid them bring their musicks hither.
Trees their barky silence break,
Crack yet, though they cannot speak
Bid the purest, whitest swan
Of her feathers make her fan;
Let the hound the hare go chase;
Lambs and rabbits run at base;
Flies be dancing in the sun,
While the silk-worm's webs are spun;
Hang a fish on every hook
As she goes along the brook;
So with all your sweetest powers
Entertain her in your bowers;
Where her ear may joy to hear
How ye make your sweetest quire;
And in all your sweetest vein
Still Aglaia strike her strain;
But when she her walk doth turn,
Then begin as fast to mourn;
All your flowers and garlands wither
Put up all your pipes together;
Never strike a pleasing strain
Till she come abroad again.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/An Angler

An Angler
Now as an angler melancholy standing Upon a green bank yielding room for landing, A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook, Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook: Here pulls his line, there throws it in again, Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain, He long stands viewing of the curled stream; At last a hungry pike, or well-grown bream Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away, He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway, Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill. Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill; Then all his line he freely yieldeth him, Whilst furiously all up and down doth swim Th' insnared fish, here on the top doth scud, There underneath the banks, then in the mud, And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal, That each one takes his hide, or starting hole: By this the pike, clean wearied, underneath A willow lies. From Britannia's Pastorals.