OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Faith in God

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 129–130
FAITH IN GOD
Have faith in God. For whosoever lists To calm conviction in these days of strife, Will learn that in this steadfast stand exists The scholarship severe of human life.
This face to face with doubt! I know how strong His thews must be who fights and falls and bears, By sleepless nights and vigils lone and long, And many a woeful wraith of wrestling prayers.
Yet trust in Him! Not in an old man throned With thunders on an everlasting cloud, But in that awful Entity enzoned By no wild wraths nor bitter homage loud.
When from the summit of some sudden steep Of speculation you have strength to turn To things too boundless for the broken sweep Of finer comprehension, wait and learn
That God hath been "His own interpreter" From first to last. So you will understand The tribe who best succeed, when men most err, To suck through fogs the fatness of the land.
One thing is surer than the autumn tints We saw last week in yonder river bend— That all our poor expression helps and hints, However vaguely, to the solemn end
​That God is truth; and if our dim ideal Fall short of fact—so short that we must weep— Why shape specific sorrows, though the real Be not the song which erewhile made us sleep?
Remember, truth draws upward. This to us Of steady happiness should be a cause Beyond the differential calculus Or Kant's dull dogmas and mechanic laws.
A man is manliest when he wisely knows How vain it is to halt and pule and pine; Whilst under every mystery haply flows The finest issue of a love divine.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Ghost Glen

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 72–73
GHOST GLEN
"Shut your ears, stranger, or turn from Ghost Glen now, For the paths are grown over, untrodden by men now; Shut your ears, stranger," saith the grey mother, crooning Her sorcery runic, when sets the half-moon in.
To-night the north-easter goes travelling slowly, But it never stoops down to that hollow unholy; To-night it rolls loud on the ridges red-litten, But it cannot abide in that forest, sin-smitten.
For over the pitfall the moon-dew is thawing, And, with never a body, two shadows stand sawing— The wraiths of two sawyers (step under and under), Who did a foul murder and were blackened with thunder!
Whenever the storm-wind comes driven and driving, Through the blood-spattered timber you may see the saw striving— You may see the saw heaving, and falling, and heaving, Whenever the sea-creek is chafing and grieving!
And across a burnt body, as black as an adder, Sits the sprite of a sheep-dog (was ever sight sadder?) For, as the dry thunder splits louder and faster, This sprite of a sheep-dog howls for his master.
"Oh, count your beads deftly," saith the grey mother, crooning Her sorcery runic, when sets the half-moon in. And well may she mutter, for the dark, hollow laughter You will hear in the sawpits and the bloody logs after.
​Ay, count your beads deftly, and keep your ways wary, For the sake of the Saviour and sweet Mother Mary. Pray for your peace in these perilous places, And pray for the laying of horrible faces.
One starts, with a forehead wrinkled and livid, Aghast at the lightnings sudden and vivid; One telleth, with curses, the gold that they drew there (Ah! cross your breast humbly) from him whom they slew there:
The stranger, who came from the loved, the romantic Island that sleeps on the moaning Atlantic, Leaving behind him a patient home, yearning For the steps in the distance—never returning;
Who was left in the forest, shrunken and starkly, Burnt by his slayers (so men have said, darkly), With the half-crazy sheep-dog, who cowered beside there, And yelled at the silence, and marvelled, and died there.
Yea, cross your breast humbly and hold your breath tightly, Or fly for your life from those shadows unsightly, From the set staring features (cold, and so young, too), And the death on the lips that a mother hath clung to.
I tell you—that bushman is braver than most men Who even in daylight doth go through the Ghost Glen, Although in that hollow, unholy and lonely, He sees the dank sawpits and bloody logs only.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Daniel Henry Deniehy

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 143–144
DANIEL HENRY DENIEHY
Take the harp, but very softly for our brother touch the strings: Wind and wood shall help to wail him, waves and mournful mountain-springs. Take the harp, but very softly, for the friend who grew so old Through the hours we would not hear of—nights we would not fain behold! Other voices, sweeter voices, shall lament him year by year, Though the morning finds us lonely, though we sit and marvel here: Marvel much while Summer cometh, trammelled with November wheat, Gold about her forehead gleaming, green and gold about her feet; Yea, and while the land is dark with plover, gull, and gloomy glede, Where the cold, swift songs of Winter fill the interlucent reed.
Yet, my harp—and oh, my fathers! never look for Sorrow's lay, Making life a mighty darkness in the patient noon of day; Since he resteth whom we loved so, out beyond these fleeting seas, Blowing clouds and restless regions paved with old perplexities, In a land where thunder breaks not, in a place unknown of snow, Where the rain is mute for ever, where the wild winds never go: Home of far-forgotten phantoms—genii of our peaceful prime, Shining by perpetual waters past the ways of Change and Time: Haven of the harried spirit, where it folds its wearied wings, Turns its face and sleeps a sleep with deep forgetfulness of things.
His should be a grave by mountains, in a cool and thick-mossed lea, With the lone creek falling past it—falling ever to the sea. His should be a grave by waters, by a bright and broad lagoon, Making steadfast splendours hallowed of the quiet, shining moon. ​There the elves of many forests—wandering winds and flying lights— Born of green, of happy mornings, dear to yellow summer nights, Full of dole for him that loved them, then might halt and then might go, Finding fathers of the people to their children speaking low— Speaking low of one who, failing, suffered all the poet's pain, Dying with the dead leaves round him—hopes which never grow again.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Euroclydon

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 76–78
EUROCLYDON
On the storm-cloven Cape The bitter waves roll, With the bergs of the Pole, And the darks and the damps of the Northern Sea: For the storm-cloven Cape Is an alien Shape With a fearful face; and it moans, and it stands Outside all lands Everlastingly!
When the fruits of the year Have been gathered in Spain, And the Indian rain ​Is rich on the evergreen lands of the Sun, There comes to this Cape To this alien Shape, As the waters beat in and the echoes troop forth, The Wind of the North, Euroclydon!
And the wilted thyme, And the patches past Of the nettles cast In the drift of the rift, and the broken rime, Are tumbled and blown To every zone With the famished glede, and the plovers thinned By this fourfold Wind— This Wind sublime!
On the wrinkled hills, By starts and fits, The wild Moon sits; And the rindles fill and flash and fall In the way of her light, Through the straitened night, When the sea-heralds clamour, and elves of the war, In the torrents afar, Hold festival!
From ridge to ridge The polar fires On the naked spires, With a foreign splendour, flit and flow; And clough and cave And architrave Have a blood-coloured glamour on roof and on wall, Like a nether hall In the hells below!
The dead, dry lips Of the ledges, split By the thunder fit And the stress of the sprites of the forkèd flame, Anon break out, With a shriek and a shout, ​Like a hard, bitter laughter, cracked and thin, From a ghost with a sin Too dark for a name!
And all thro' the year, The fierce seas run From sun to sun, Across the face of a vacant world! And the Wind flies forth From the wild, white North, That shivers and harries the heart of things, And shapes with its wings A chaos uphurled!
Like one who sees A rebel light In the thick of the night, As he stumbles and staggers on summits afar— Who looks to it still, Up hill and hill, With a steadfast hope (though the ways be deep, And rough, and steep), Like a steadfast star—
So I, that stand On the outermost peaks Of peril, with cheeks Blue with the salts of a frosty sea, Have learnt to wait, With an eye elate And a heart intent, for the fuller blaze Of the Beauty that rays Like a glimpse for me—
Of the Beauty that grows Whenever I hear The winds of Fear From the tops and the bases of barrenness call; And the duplicate lore Which I learn evermore, Is of Harmony filling and rounding the Storm, And the marvellous Form That governs all!
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Evening Hymn

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 26–27
EVENING HYMN
The crag-pent breezes sob and moan where hidden waters glide; And twilight wanders round the earth with slow and shadowy stride, The gleaming clouds, above the brows of western steeps uphurled, Look like the spires of some fair town that bounds a brighter world. Lo, from the depths of yonder wood, where many a blind creek strays The pure Australian moon comes forth, enwreathed with silver haze. The rainy mists are trooping down the folding hills behind, And distant torrent-voices rise like bells upon the wind. The echeu's songs are dying, with the flute-bird's mellow tone, And night recalls the gloomy owl to rove the wilds alone; Night, holy night, in robes of blue, with golden stars encrowned, Ascending mountains like to walls that hem an Eden round.
Oh, lovely moon! oh, holy night! how good your God must be, When, through the glories of your light, He stoops to look at me! Oh, glittering clouds and silvery shapes, that vanish one by one! Is not the kindness of our Lord too great to think upon? ​If human song could flow as free as His created breeze, When, sloping from some hoary height, it sweeps the vacant seas, Then should my voice to heaven ascend, my tuneful lyre be strung, And music sweeter than the winds should roam these glens among, Go by, ye golden-footed hours, to your mysterious bourne, And hide the sins ye bear from hence, so that they ne'er return. Teach me, ye beauteous stars, to kiss kind Mercy's chastening rod, And, looking up from Nature's face, to worship Nature's God.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Dedication

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 65–67
LEAVES FROM AUSTRALIAN FORESTS
DEDICATION
To her who, cast with me in trying days, Stood in the place of health and power and praise; Who, when I thought all light was out, became A lamp of hope that put my fears to shame; Who faced for love's sole sake the life austere That waits upon the man of letters here; Who, unawares, her deep affection showed By many a touching little wifely mode; Whose spirit, self-denying, dear, divine, Its sorrows hid, so it might lessen mine— To her, my bright, best friend, I dedicate This book of songs—'t will help to compensate For much neglect. The act, if not the rhyme, Will touch her heart, and lead her to the time Of trials past. That which is most intense Within these leaves is of her influence; And if aught here is sweetened with a tone Sincere, like love, it came of love alone.
# The Pirate City

Frontispiece.
LOADING THE BIG GUN.
THE PIRATE CITY.
An Algerine Tale.
BY R. M. BALLANTYNE,
AUTHOR OF "POST HASTE;" "IN THE TRACK OF THE TROOPS;" "THE SETTLER AND THE SAVAGE;" "UNDER THE WAVES;" "RIVERS OF ICE;" "BLACK IVORY;" "THE NORSEMEN IN THE WEST;" "THE IRON HORSE:" "THE FLOATING LIGHT;" "ERLING THE BOLD;" "FIGHTING THE FLAMES;" "SHIFTING WINDS;" "DEEP DOWN;" "THE LIGHTHOUSE;" "THE LIFEBOAT;" "GASCOYNE;" "THE GOLDEN DREAM," ETC. ETC.
With Illustrations.
ELEVENTH EDITION.
LONDON: JAMES NISBET & CO., 21 BERNERS STREET.
[All rights reserved.]
PREFACE.
In this book I have attempted to present a true picture of life and events in the Pirate City of Algiers, as exhibited about the first quarter of the present century.
Without claiming to be absolutely correct in every trivial detail, I may perhaps venture to hope that, having spent a winter in Algiers, and made a careful examination of the most interesting and authentic records obtainable, error in fact and colouring has been avoided.
My best thanks are due to Colonel Playfair, Consul-General at Algiers, and to several other friends, for their kindness in furnishing me with the books and some of the material out of which my tale has been constructed.
R. M. BALLANTYNE.
CONTENTS.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
| LOADING THE BIG GUN (p. 12), | Frontispiece |
| VIGNETTE TITLE. |
| BACRI VISITS THE BAGNIO, | Facing page 60 |
| TED FLAGGAN UNHORSES AN ARAB, | Facing page„  73 |
| MARIANO ESCAPES, | Facing page„ 182 |
| IN THE CAVE, | Facing page„ 266 |
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 New York Times/1925/12/14/Horse Smashes Door; Saves Two at Fire

A bungalow fire at Canarsie Landing shortly before midnight destroyed three in a row of five bungalows and made fifteen people homeless, two of whom barely escaped with their lives.
Orion Bogart and his wife, Anna, in whose home the fire was started by the explosion of a lamp, owe their lives to the speed and strength of Recount, the police horse ridden by Patrolman John Leonard. Leonard saw the flames when he was half a mile away. He galloped to the bungalows, arriving before the firemen. Jumping down, he tried the door of the Bogart home, which was nearly enveloped in flames. He could not open it. Quickly he turned Recount until the horse's hips were against the door.
"Back," he ordered, and Recount crashed through the door.
Leonard leaped inside and found the Bogarts just waking up and choking in the smoke. He seized and hurried them out to safety. Then the policeman awakened George Hoffman, his wife, and nine children in the next bungalow and got them out. From the third bungalow Conrad Smith and James McGreery were rescued by firemen who arrived under Battalion Chief Michael Shanahan from a grass fire a mile away in the Canarsie marshes, where they had been engaged since early in the evening.
# The New York Times/1925/12/14/Miner's Family Starving

SHAMOKIN, Pa., Dec. 13—That farmers are as charitable as others was manifested here when an Irish Valley man was approached by a striking miner's wife who had always purchased her Winter potatoes from him and was asked for credit until the close of the strike. All the woman sought was a lone bushel of the tubers and the farmer, appreciative of her patronage of the past, granted the request.
When he carried the potatoes into the home, five wan and peaked children rushed to the tub in which he had emptied them and proceeded to chew upon the raw potatoes as if they were the most juicy of fruits. It was then that the agriculturalist learned that the family was without the bare necessities of life.
After disposing of his load of potatoes the farmer returned to his house, loaded additional potatoes, apples and meats into a touring car and proceeded back to the home. In addition he gave the family cash to assist in tiding it through the strike period. He likewise volunteered future assistance in the event that the strike continues for any length on time.
Poor relief orders for food are being issued regularly here to strikers' families, it was said today.
# The New York Times/1925/12/14/Mother of 14 Tries to End Life by Gas

A forty-four-year-old Staten Island woman, who has borne fourteen children, nine of whom are living, attempted suicide by gas last night because of the inability of her husband to supply enough money to make the struggle for existence bearable. The quick work of a patrolman probably saved her life, but after she had been revived she said she would make another attempt to take her life.
The woman was Mrs. Ida Baldwin of 45 Canal Street, Stapleton. Her husband, Robert, is a longshoreman, but has worked infrequently in the past few years. Mrs. Baldwin quarreled with her husband during the afternoon and he left. Then, according to the woman, overcome with despondency, she turned on the gas jet in her bedroom after having closed the windows and the door.
Her nine children, the youngest of whom is 2 years old and the oldest is 14, were playing in an apartment below. When the eldest child, Ida, came into her own apartment and smelled the gas, she became frightened and ran to a police booth around the corner and told Patrolman Abraham Johnson.
The patrolman ran back to the house, burst into the room and throwing open the windows, used first aid methods on the unconscious woman. When Dr. A. R. Solidini of 342 Van Duzer Street arrived the woman was out of danger. The doctor said that the patrolman's swift work had saved the woman's life.
Mrs. Baldwin told her troubles to the doctor and the patrolman, who suggested that she go to a hospital. She insisted on remaining at home, and as the pair left she made the remark about another attempt at death.
Ill health caused David Greenfield, 50 years old, an engraver, to end his life in the morning by inhaling gas through a tube attached to a chandelier in the kitchen of his home at 9,418 121st Street, Richmond Hill, Queens.
Gas escaping from a heater accidentally killed Edward Johnson, 55 years old, in a furnished room at 163 East 104th Street. Thomas Hollinger, 45 years old, was also accidentally killed by gas in his room at 2,943 Richmond Terrace, Mariners Harbor, S. I.
A disagreement with his wife, according to his twelve-year-old son, Max, caused Abraham Cohen, 40 years old, to swallow poison at his home at 25 Suffolk Street. Cohen died several hours later in Gouverneur Hospital. The son said his father had been separated form his mother for several weeks.
# The New York Times/1925/12/14/Drop $1,000,000 Suit Against Louis W. Hill

ST. PAUL, Minn., Dec 13 (AP).—A suit for $1,000,000 which has been pending in New York courts for four years against Louis W. Hill, Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Great Northern Railway, filed by the "allied heirs" of James J. Hill and Mrs. Hill, was dropped last week.
This was learned here today when word was received that former Governor Nathan L. Miller of New York, counsel for the heirs, had requested dismissal of the suit. The request was granted. The matter had been scheduled to come up in court again at the January term.
The controversy was over the custody of the famous Hill farm, North Oaks, located near St. Paul, and the ownership of $750,000 in bonds. The farm and bonds were deeded to Louis W. Hill by his mother, Mrs. James J. Hill, widow of the "empire builder," shortly before she died.
After Mrs. Hill's death seven of the Hill children banded together as the "allied heirs" and sued Louis W. Hill in New York to gain a division of this property.
Recent depositions by intimates of the widow attesting to her despise that the farm and bonds to the property of Louis W. Hill are said to have led to the abandonment of the litigation.
Former Governor Nathan L. Miller refused last night to discuss the reason why he, as counsel for the "allied heirs" of James J. Hill, had caused the dismissal in Federal court of their $1,000,000 suit against their brother, Louis W. Hill, over property left him by his mother, The Associated Press announced.
"It was a voluntary discontinuance of the case," he said. "That was all there was to it."
# The New York Times/1925/12/14/Held in B. M. T. Wreck

Wilton Lloyd of 10,702 120th Street, Richmond Hill, motorman of the B. M. T. train which crashed into the rear of another train at the oxford road station, Woodhaven, on Saturday, was arraigned yesterday in the Jamaica Police Court on a technical charge of assault. Lloyd pleaded not guilty and was held in $1,000 for a hearing today.
Assistant District Attorney David Wolff of Queens said that his office had nearly completed an investigation into the wreck in which engineers for the Transit Commission had taken part. It is understood that the engineers made a special examination of the brakes of Lloyd's train yesterday.
# The New York Times/1925/12/14/Discuss Applying Article XXII

Discuss Applying Article XXII.
GENEVA, Dec. 13 (AP).—The Mosul dispute, in which Great Britain and Turkey are at odds, was considered again in a secret session of the Council of the League of Nations today. The League members announce they will persistently continue their efforts for mediation until the last moment.
The indications are that the Council will be forced next week to deliver its arbitral sentence.
It is learned that several members of the Council are attaching importance to Article XXII of the covenant, which favors entrusting detached and backward territories to advanced nations in the form of a mandate.
It declares also that former Turkish territories should be handed over to a mandatory power until able to stand alone, and it emphasizes that the wishes of a community must be the principal consideration in the selection fo the mandatory power.
# The New York Times/1925/12/14/Eleonora Sears, Walking to Boston on Wager, Goes 4 Miles from Providence in 45 Minutes

Eleonora Sears, Walking to Boston on Wager, Goes 4 Miles from Providence in 45 Minutes
PROVIDENCE, R. I., Monday Dec. 14 (AP).—Miss Eleonora Sears, well-known in Boston society, began to walk from Providence to Boston soon after 1 o'clock this morning, on a wager that she could cover the distance by foot in 14 hours.
She reached Pawtucket, a distance of almost four miles, at 1:45 o'clock, having made the distance at better than five miles an hour. [The distance from Providence to Boston is about 45 miles.]
Roger Cutler and Albert Hinckley, both of Boston, accompanied Miss Sears.
Before her start she explained that the wager had been made more than a year ago and that it stipulated that the walk should be made in the Autumn and the distance traveled in fifteen hours. She started once before to try to win the wager, but was forced to abandon the walk by a blizzard.
Miss Sears had planned to start from the Biltmore Hotel here, but changed her plans at the last minute and took a cab to the residence of HOward O. Sturges, 177 Power Street, and began her walk from there immediately.
Both the man accompanying Miss Sears announced their intention of walking with her as far as they could and then riding in a beach wagon, which is following the pedestrians.
Newspaper men are the only other companions of Miss Sears.
Miss Sears is known as an expert tennis player and horsewoman.
She has previously demonstrated that she can maintain a three-mile-an-hour stride. In the spring of 1912 she walked 109 miles, from Burlingame to Del Monte, Cal., and maintained this average pace to win a wager of $200. She fainted at the end of the journey but said this was because of a guideboard which she misread as indicating that she had eight miles more to go.