OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/His Job

THE little cab driver who used to come for me when, on rainy days, I took a taxi to save myself from the inclement weather was a cheerful soul. He was always careful, always courteous, always on time, always considerate of my comfort. He met me late one especially stormy night when the thermometer was down and the wind was cutting like a razor through the heaviest garments.
"Don't you get sick and tired of this dog's life?" I asked as he tucked me snugly into the back seat.
"Oh, no," he replied smiling, "you see it's my job."
The memory of his cheerful face and his suggestive words has helped me often since. When the days have been long, and the callers irritating and the problems difficult to ​solve, when I might have grown discouraged over the honest effort which resulted only in failure, I have tried to take it cheerfully because it was my job.
I don't know what your job is, for the problem of no two men in this world is quite the same. It may be getting to class regularly every day, or keeping up your college work while you earn a precarious living. It may be pursuing a difficult study or teaching a stupid class that you do not enjoy, or leading a clean life when a thousand passions are urging you on to the rocks. It may be fighting homesickness or discouragement or despondency or moral temptations or mental lethargy. I don't know what it is, but you do.
Very likely yours is not an easy job or at all times a pleasant one, and there will be all sorts of temptations to slight it, to evade its responsibilities, to put off its unpleasant, disagreeable features, to complain because it is more galling and exacting than other ​men's jobs. Usually, if we could only know we should discover that every job has its difficulties to be overcome and the reason we think otherwise is because we have never done the job.
No matter how difficult your job is, you will find it half done if when it presents itself you go at it cheerfully, energetically. The work that is taken up with determination and enthusiasm loses half its difficulty. And the best part of it all is that having done one job well you are getting yourself ready for another. It is an old, tried proverb that nothing so succeeds as success; nothing so strengthens us as doing some difficult task well.
I met the little cab driver yesterday; he had a new job and a better one, probably a more exacting one, but he was meeting his new problem in just as happy and cheerful a way as ever. He gave me courage.
October
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/Looking Through the Fence

IT was an interesting crowd at the game; but those inside who filled the bleachers to the topmost row and followed the cheer leader in wild shouts were not more interesting than were those outside the field trying to see the game without paying the customary tribute to the gate keeper.
There were delivery boys perched on top of their wagons, middle-aged men on step ladders, out-of-town sight-seers standing on their Fords, and scores of the local riffraff swarming in the trees or looking through the fence in an endeavor to see the game without paying for it. Occasionally, more's the pity, one could detect a stray student, impecunious, or frugal, or improvident, whose face lighted up as Jack caught a difficult foul, and once I caught sight of a highbrowed instructor, stoop-shouldered from the ​heavy books he was carrying, crane his neck as he paused to satisfy his curiosity as to why Phil Armour was jumping into the air and waving his arms so frantically.
It is a popular sport, this trying to get something for nothing, but it has its dangers. A young chap who was balancing himself on the top of a motorcycle, unable to restrain his enthusiasm when the ump pronounced "Slip" safe on second, lost his equilibrium and in falling pulled the step ladder from under one of the middle-aged gentlemen, and they both fell in the dirt.
It has its dangers, I say, and it does not always win one's respect, whether it be the man looking through the fence at a ball game or the student getting a passing grade by copying from the neighbor's paper.
There are various ways of ldoking through the fence. The man who is always broke when it is his turn to pay, the fellow who borrows and forgets to return the amount, the student who accepts an office or an honor ​without assuming the accompanying responsibilities, the employee who loafs on his job are all watching the game through the fence.
"It is easy for the man to talk," you say, "who has the money to get into the game; but how about the fellow who is broke?" An old neighbor of mine never saw a baseball game nor held office,, yet he lived an honorable happy life and died respected. One can walk to Savoy or stay at home and read O. Henry or work in the garden. It is more honorable not to see any of these games of life at all than to see them through the fence.
May
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/Mac

WHEN "Mac", the janitor of the gymnasium, died all college exercises were suspended, and students and Faculty filled the Auditorium to show their respect for the simple-minded man, and to do honor to his memory.
Mac was a Civil War veteran who had settled down to a quiet life on the farm after he had left the ranks. Later he had moved into town, and picked up a job as general care taker at the gymnasium. He proved himself a faithful, unselfish laborer, who did his work well, and who came at the call of every student and instructor.
He met the exigencies of broken shoe strings and forgotten locker keys and torn paraphernalia with a quick and interested willingness that made him a necessity at evening practice, or when the fellows were ​preparing for a game; and he bore the overbearing treatment of the freshmen with the utmost patience. The long shrill whistle or the well-known cry of "Hey, Mac," would bring him running from the remotest corner of the gymnasium to any one in trouble.
But notwithstanding the fact that he was only a servant, when a jealous quarrel grew up between Roberts and Wilson, which threatened to disrupt the team, it was Mac who brought the fellows together. It was Mac who "discovered" Austen, the shy country boy who broke the intercollegiate record in the quarter mile; and when young Rockwood was fast going to the bad it was the quiet word that Mac spoke that brought him to his senses, and made him think. When Colvin was getting hopelessly down in his studies, it was Mac who put ambition into him, and got him to work. A look or a word from the old man would stop the loud talking, or stifle the coarse jest in the dressing rooms. He watched the games always ​on the home grounds and his encouragement in defeat, or his praise in victory, came to mean as much to the fellows as the words of the coach. In a thousand ways his influence was felt for good scholarship, and clean sport, and a clean life.
Even the young instructors respected his opinions, and told him their troubles, and asked his advice as they were getting into their gymnasium suits, or their tennis clothes, in the locker rooms. During the sixteen years that he had been about he had come to be looked upon as one of the college traditions, so that when strangers Visited the college no one felt that everything worth while had been seen until Mac had been pointed out.
His death came unexpectedly at the end of a hard day's work, and we were wholly unprepared for the shock. After the funeral ceremonies were over a number of us gathered in Fred Bernard's room in one of the dormitories to talk it over. We dwelt ​tenderly on his humble virtues, and a lump came into our throats as we thought of his willing services. Then Fred spoke—Fred who was senior society president; and the most influential man in college. "It isn't so much what a man's work is as what he is. It isn't a man's position, it's his influence that makes him great. What we get out of books is all right, but it's men that count, and Mac was a man."
January
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/Playing the Game

I HAVE always liked sport and sportsmen. I have never admired the man who goes into a game of any sort and who does not play it squarely and who does not take the results without whining and detailed explanation of how it all happened.
The man who takes a chance, or makes a bargain, or accepts a condition, or gives his word, and who then resorts to subterfuge or who shirks his obligations because the cards turn against him or conditions prove unpleasant or more strenuous than he had counted on, is a poor sportsman. He plays the game badly. It has seemed to me a not unimportant part of a man's training to learn to lose and not to snivel.
The fellow who calls a fault when his opponent's ball just cuts the line, the golfer who surreptitiously shoves his ball over ​with his foot to get a better lie or who slyly drops a stroke out of his score, the whist player who reneges or indicates in some way to his partner what is his best lead, the student at a class rush who tries by dirty tactics to injure his opponent or to put him out of business may be shrewd, perhaps, but he is no sportsman.
"This examination business is a game and a gamble" an upperclassman said to me yesterday. I could argue the negative of the proposition, but granted that his statement is correct, why not be a sportsman and play the game squarely?
Whether examination is mainly for mental discipline or merely for the assembling of curious or interesting facts matters little. It is a gentleman's game, and we should play it fairly.
The fellow who gets his data from another man's paper or from notes in his vest pocket, who smuggles a text-book into the class-room, or who whispers information (usually ​Playing the Game inaccurate) to his pals, who cribs his themes, or copies his home plates from some one else's work might possibly not break open a gym locker to steal a pocketbook or to secure a needed pair of running trousers, but even if he is not really a crook he is at least no sportsman. He is taking advantages of his opponent and is playing an unfair game.
"But a fellow has to pass," you say.
That is just what I am not willing to say any more than I can admit that one must always win at any cost. What one really has to do if he would get the most out of this educational game is to play according to rule, to be square and honest; to do his level best and take the consequences. There is a far worse thing than losing.
June
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/Keeping Cool

DURING the last few days while the sun has been pouring down upon us and the thermometer has been climbing up to the one hun dred mark no one has seemed willing to let his neighbor forget the weather.
"Is it hot enough for you?" the grocer's boy queries as he runs in with the day's provisions. "Pretty hot day," a professor ventures, mopping his dripping dome as he speaks. "Some weather," the student says as he makes his exit from the class room.
Keeping cool is quite as much a matter of temperament as of temperature; it is a state of mind as well as a condition of the weather. The people who stand the heat the worst are those who never allow themselves to forget it, who talk about it continually, who are never still, who rush from one place to another in a frenzy of desire to ​find a cool spot; who fuss and fume and fan until they are red in the face and running perspiration. The best way to keep cool is to go about your work methodically, be as quiet as you can, and forget the weather.
It is much the same way with the other worries of life. We grow hot over the slights and insults, we are agitated over our misfortunes as we talk of them, and let our minds dwell upon them, and exaggerate them. We are constantly tending the fires of anger or resentment or they would shortly burn themselves out.
The man who under stress, and irritation, and misrepresentation can keep his balance, can control his temper and his tongue, can subdue the rising emotions, has conserved his own strength, has made it possible for himself to do more and better work, and has more than half defeated the purposes of his opponent.
"How can you sit so calmly and say nothing?" I asked a friend of mine not long ago, ​who was the subject of a bitter, untruthful personal attack. "Because the cooler I keep, the hotter and the weaker his words become," was the answer.
So far as we can, we may better take the hot words and hot days quietly, without comment, without physical agitation. There is a force and a strength in keeping cool.
August
# The Siege of Valencia; The Last Constantine: with Other Poems

THE
SIEGE OF VALENCIA;
A DRAMATIC POEM.
THE LAST CONSTANTINE:
WITH
OTHER POEMS.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Hallò sola en Numancia todo quanto Debe con justo titulo cantarse, Y lo que puede dar materia al canto. Numancia Cervantes.
LONDON: JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.
1823.
LONDON: PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVIS0N, WHITEFRIARS.
CONTENTS.
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
# The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes/A Bundle of Life/Part 2 Chapter 8

VIII.
Sir Ventry Coxe had been educated in the belief that his cousin Teresa loved him madly. When he married Lady Susan Hoppe-Gardner, a chorus went up from all the members of his family. "What on earth will poor Teresa do?" She was present at the wedding, nevertheless, and seemed in the best possible spirits: the relations looked wise and murmured that it was impossible for the unhappy girl to deceive them. Ventry was particularly kind to her; he clasped her hand warmly when he started on his honeymoon and thanked her again and again with tears in his eyes, for her magnificent gift in the shape of a diamond necklace for his bride: every one said it was too touching for words, several ladies declared that Teresa grew as white as a sheet and would have swooned if Lord Twacorbie, with his ready tact, had not led her to the air.
A few years passed: Miss Warcop refused all offers; Lady Susan died. This, all the relations said, was Fate. Sir Ventry, remembering Teresa's rent-roll, thought so too. He decided to make her his wife when a decent period of mourning had elapsed; there was no hurry, she was there, ready, waiting, and willing, when he wanted her.
The day at last dawned when it seemed convenient to address her on the subject: he met her in the hall as she left the drawing-room after her scene with ​Lady Mallinger. She was greatly embarrassed, a fact which he easily attributed to her sudden encounter with himself. Smiling magnanimously, he waited until she had regained her composure.
"Shall we go into the garden?" he suggested.
No, she was feeling rather tired; she had a slight headache; he would find her a very dull companion.
"Do come," he said, in his most persuasive manner.
Teresa, who was always amused at his conceit, and who had a motherly, pitying affection for the weaknesses which did duty for his character, yielded the point and followed him. He began to talk of former days: he reminded her of his five-and-twentieth birthday, when she gave him a hunter and wore a black cloak lined with scarlet.
"You look awfully well in scarlet," he observed. She blushed: scarlet was Wiche's favourite colour. Sir Ventry, however, took the blush to himself.
"I always admired you, you know," he said; "there is not a woman in the family who has got such a complexion, and your eyelashes are so long!"
"It is very nice of you to say so," said Teresa: "I, myself, do not think they are bad. Once or twice I have thought I looked quite decent!"
He glanced at her sideways. Was she really so plain as all the women made out?
"I am awfully fond of you," he said suddenly.
Teresa was by no means dense. "My dear Ventry," she said, with rather a nipping air, "let us talk like reasonable beings."
"I am quite serious," he replied. "Will you marry me, Teresa?"
​"What?"
# The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes/A Study in Temptations

A STUDY IN TEMPTATIONS
# The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes/A Study in Temptations/Author's Note

Author's Note.
In the brief sketches of Farmer Battle and Miss Caroline Battle, the author's aim has been to suggest, not to reproduce, a dialect; and by so doing he ventures to think he is humbly following many great examples.
# The Village Blacksmith (Longfellow)

* "The Village Blacksmith", in Suggestive programs for special day exercises (1898), by Jason Elmer Hammond
* "The Village Blacksmith", in Poems That Every Child Should Know (1904), edited by Mary Elizabeth Burt
# The Village Pulpit

* Volume 1 (1881) (external scan) IA
* Volume 2 (1886)
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 1924, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 99 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Village (Crabbe)

The Village is a narrative poem by George Crabbe, published in 1783. The poem contrasts the traditional representation of the rural idyll in Augustan poetry with the realities of village life.Warning: template has been deprecated.
THE
VILLAGE:
A
POEM.
IN TWO BOOKS.
BY
THE REV$^D$. GEORGE CRABBE,
CHAPLAIN TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF RUTLAND, &c.
PRINTED FOR J. DODSLEY, PALL-MALL.
M.DCC.LXXXIII.
page
Book I Book II
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
# The Way of the Wild (Sass)

The Way of the Wild
Minton, Balch & Company New York1925
Printed in the United States of America by J. J. Little and Ives Company, New York
Foreword
The woods and the fields, the marshes and the waters are a vast theater where many dramas are enacted. Yet, for the most part, these are hidden from human eyes. Only now and then do we get a glimpse of a tragic climax; only rarely can we read in the sand the details of some perilous encounter. We have made the wild folk fear us. Hence, though they may be all around us, they hold themselves aloof and do not willingly permit us to follow from beginning to end the record of their lives.
Yet all who go into the woods know how dramatic those lives often are, how full of thrilling adventure. The careful naturalist, setting down only what he has actually seen of some wild animal, realizes at the end how inadequate, how incomplete his record is. It contains much of great value. It is all true. But it is a fragment or series of fragments. It omits much that undoubtedly happens, much of interest and importance. It is not a picture of that animal's life.
That is why the naturalist or student of wild nature may, without apology, make use of the form ​known as the animal story. He employs the animal story for precisely the same reason which induces the conscientious student of human nature to employ the human story—because, in many ways and upon many occasions, it is the best means of presenting the truth.
Thus, the animal story, properly conceived, has a legitimate and important place in the literature of nature. There is, moreover, one great practical consideration in its favor: namely, the fact that it has proved its power to awaken in thousands of men and women a keen and sympathetic interest in the wild folk who are our neighbors out-of-doors. If there were nothing else to be said for it, this alone would suffice.
This book is a book of animal stories. If there are errors in it, as doubtless there must be, the same thing is true of nearly all the books that man has written.
Contents
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published in 1925, before the cutoff of January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1958, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 65 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Vision (Burns)

Not to be confused with 'A Vision', another poem by Burns.
* "The Vision", in The Beauties of Burn's Poems (1819), a chapbook printed in Falkirk
* "The Vision", in The Poetical Works of Robert Burns (1887), edited by Alexander Smith
# The Vision of Almet

* The Vision of Almet (1803)
* The Vision of Almet (1827)
# The Vision

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Vision."
* 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.
* "The Vision", a poem by Olive Custance
* "The Vision", a poem by Lucretia Maria Davidson
* "The Vision", a poem by Robert Herrick
* "The Vision", a poem by Iole, i.e. Letitia Elizabeth Landon
* "The Vision", a poem by Ellen P. Laflin
* "The Vision", a poem by Shamrock, i.e. Richard D'Alton Williams

### See also

* A Vision
* Vision
# The Times/1913/Obituary/Henry Caldwell Lipsett

The Times, Tuesday, Jul 29, 1913; Issue 40276; pg. 11; col D — Mr. H. Caldwell Lipsett.
Mr. H. Caldwell Lipsett.
The death occurred in London on Friday of Mr. H. Caldwell Lipsett, journalist at the age of 44.
Mr. Lipsett was educated at Christ's Hospital, whence as a Grecian he proceeded with a scholarship to Lincoln College, Oxford, and took his degree in 1892. From the first he had made up his mind to become a journalist. After serving in the office of a Sheffield newspaper he became editor of the Civil and Military Gazette at Lahore. Upon his return to England he was, for about four years, assistant of the Daily Chronicle, and was afterwards connected with other publications. Marianne Caldwell, the actress, is Mr. Lipsett's sister. He leaves a widow and four children.
The funeral will take place at Wood Grange Park Cemetery, Forest-gate, to-morrow afternoon at 2 o'clock.
This work was published in 1913 and is anonymous or pseudonymous due to unknown authorship. It is in the public domain in the United States as well as countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 110 years or less since publication.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Times/1912/Public notice/George Knottesford Fortescue

Author:George Knottesford Fortescue (1847-1912) Source: Deaths, The Times, Tuesday, Oct 29, 1912; Issue 40042; pg. 9; col A
Layout 2
Mr. G. K. Fortescue
The funeral of Mr. G. K. Fortescue, Keeper of the Printed Books at the British Museum, will take place at St. Pancras Cemetery, Finchley, on Thursday. The first part of the service will be held at noon at St. George's Bloomsbury, where the Bishop of London will officiate. The Rev. C. O. Baumgarten, rector of St. George's, will officiate at the graveside.
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
# The Times/1912/Public notice/James Gairdner

James Gairdner (1828–1912) Source: Deaths. The Times, Thursday, Nov 07, 1912; Issue 40050; pg. 1; col A
Layout 2GAIRDNER.—On the 4th Nov., at West View, Pinner, James Gairdner, C.B., LL.D., late of Public Record Office, in his 85th year. No flowers.
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
# The Times/1912/Public notice/Arthur Edward Reade

Source: The Times, Monday, Jan 29, 1912; Issue 39807; pg. 1; col A — Deaths
Layout 2READE.—On the 26th inst., at Redeholme, Ambleside-avenus, Streatham, Arthur Edward Reade, youngest son of Edward Anderdon Reade, C.E., of Ipsden, aged 63. Funeral at Parish Church of Streatham, 11 a.m. Interment at West Norwood Cemetery, to-day (Monday), 29th.
This work is ineligible for copyright and therefore in the public domain, because it consists entirely of information that is common property and contains no original authorship.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse