OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Men-at-the-Bar/Wodehouse, Edmond Robert

​Wodehouse, Edmond Robert, M.P. Bath since 1880, M.A. Balliol Coll., Oxon, B.A. 1865, from Eton, private secretary to his cousin Earl of Kimberley when lord lieutenant of Ireland 1864-6, lord privy seal 1868-70, and when secretary of state for the colonies 1870-4, also to Sir Philip Wodehouse (governor of Bombay) 1875-6, a student of Lincoln's Inn 9 June, 1856 (then aged 21), called to the bar 26 Jan., 1861 (only son of Philip Edmond Wodehouse, of Demerara, governor British Guiana); born 3 June, 1835; married 1 June, 1876, Adela, dau. of Rev. Charles Walter Bagot, rector of Castle Rising, Norfolk, and chancellor of Bath and Wells (see Foster's Peerage, E. Kimberley).
    56, Chester Square, S.W.; Queen Anne's Mansions, S.W.; Travellers' and Oxford & Cambridge Clubs, S.W.
# Men-at-the-Bar/Wood, Arthur John

​Wood, Arthur John, compiler of Register of Public General Acts from the Union with Ireland to 1858, editor of The Revised Statute, vol. i., and of Selections of Acts for Use of Metropolitan Police, joint secretary Register of Statutes Commission 1862, secretary to Statute Law Revision Commission since 1867, a student of the Inner Temple 6 Nov., 1850 (then aged 30), called to the bar 6 June, 1853 (eldest son of John Wood, clerk in lord chamberlain's pay office); born 14 Aug., 1821; married 9 Oct., 1855, Elizabeth Nisbet, youngest dau. of late David Nicolson, of Lerwick.
    267, Camden Road, N.; 1. Hare Court, Temple, E.C.
# Men-at-the-Bar/Wodehouse, Edmond Henry

​Wodehouse, Edmond Henry, M.A. Christ Church, Oxon, B.A. 1860. Local Government Board inspector since 1871, formerly H.M.'s inspector of schools, a student of Lincoln's Inn 25 Jan., 1860 (then aged 22), called to the bar 26 Jan., 1863 (5th son of Rev. Thomas Wodehouse, late a canon of Wells Cathedral, dec.); born 17 Feb., 1837; married 26 May, 1864, Louisa Clara, 4th dau. of Rev. Nathaniel Wodehouse, vicar of Dulverton and Worle, Somerset, and has issue (see Foster's Peerage, E. Kimberley).
    13, Elm Park Gardens, S.W.; Local Government Board, Whitehall; S.W.
# Men-at-the-Bar/Wolstenholme, Edward Parker

​Wolstenholme, Edward Parker, M.A., Trin. Coll., Camb., 1850 (B.A., thirtieth wrangler 1847), one of the conveyancing counsel of the chancery division since 1877, treasurer of the Bar Committee since Jan., 1884, author of Treatise on Settled Land Act 1882, joint author of Conveyancing and Law of Property Act 1881, a student of Lincoln's Inn 20 Oct., 1847 (then aged 23), called to the bar 22 Nov., 1850 (only son of Edward Wolstenholme, Esq., of Newberry, co. Kildare); born , 1824.
    2, Stone Buildings, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.
# New minstrel/The minute gun at sea

the minute gun at sea.
When in the storm, on Albions coast, The night watch guards his wary post, From thoughts of danger free, He marks some vessel's dusky form, And hears amid the howling storm, The minute gun at sea, The minute gun at sea. And hears amid the howling storm, The minute gun at sea.
Swift on the shore a hardy few The life-boat man with a gallant crew, And dare the dang'rous wave; ​Through the wild surf they cleave there way, Lost in the foam, nor know dismay- For they go the crew to save, For they go the crew to save, Lost in the foam, nor know dismay— For they go the crew to save.
But O, what raptures fill each breast Of the hopeless crew of the ship distress'd; When landed safe, what joys to tell Of all the dangers that befell?— Then is heard no more, By the watch on the shore, Then is heard no more, by the watch on the shore, The minute gun at sea.
# New minstrel/The boatie rows

THE BOATIE ROWS.
O weel may the boatie row, And better may she speed, And liesome may the boatie row That wins the bairns' bread; The boatie rows, the boatie rows, Tho boatie rows indeed; And weel may the boatie row, That wins my bairns' bread.
When, Jamie vow'd he wad be mine And wan frae me my heart, O muckle lighter grew my creel, He swore we'd never part: The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows, fu' weel, And muckle lighter is the load, When love bears up the creel.
​There Sawney, Jock, and Janetie Are up and gotten lair; They'll help to gar the boatie row, And lighten a' our care. The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows fu' weel, And lightsome be her heart that bears The murlain and the creel.
And when wi' age we're worn down, And hirpling round the door, They'll help to keep us dry and warm, As we did them before; Then weel may the boatie row, She wins the bairns' bread; And happy be the lot o' a', That wish the boatie speed.
# More English Fairy Tales/Puddock, Mousie, and Ratton

See note to tale 78
Puddock, Mousie, and Ratton
THERE lived a Puddock in a well,
And a merry Mousie in a mill.
Puddock he would a-wooing ride,
Sword and pistol by his side.
Puddock came to the Mousie's inn,
"Mistress Mousie, are you within?"
Mousie.
"Yes, kind Sir, I am within,
Softly do I sit and spin."
Puddock.
"Madam, I am come to woo,
Marriage I must have of you."
Mousie.
"Marriage I will grant you none
Till Uncle Ratton he comes home.'
Puddock
"See, Uncle Ratton's now come in Then go and bask the bride within."
Who is it that sits next the wall But Lady Mousie both slim and small?
Who is it that sits next the bride But Lord Puddock with yellow side?
But soon came Duckie and with her Sir Drake; Duckie takes Puddock and makes him squeak.
Then came in the old carl cat With a fiddle on his back: "Do ye any music lack?"
Puddock he swam down the brook, Sir Drake he catched him in his fluke.
The cat he pulled Lord Ratton down, The kittens they did claw his crown.
But Lady Mousie, so slim and small, Crept into a hole beneath the wall; "Squeak," quoth she, "I'm out of it all."
# More English Fairy Tales/Sir Gammer Vans

See note to tale 51
Sir Gammer Vans
LAST Sunday morning at six o'clock in the evening as I was sailing over the tops of the mountains in my little boat, I met two men on horseback riding on one mare: so I asked them, "Could they tell me whether the little old woman was dead yet who was hanged last Saturday week for drowning herself in a shower of feathers?" They said they could not positively inform me, but if I went to Sir Gammer Vans he could tell me all about it.
"But how am I to know the house?" said I.
"Ho, 'tis easy enough," said they, "for 'tis a brick ​house, built entirely of flints, standing alone by itself in the middle of sixty or seventy others just like it."
"Oh, nothing in the world is easier," said I.
"Nothing can be easier," said they: so I went on my way.
Now this Sir G. Vans was a giant, and bottle-maker. And as all giants who are bottle-makers usually pop out of a little thumb-bottle from behind the door, so did Sir G. Vans.
"How d'ye do?" says he.
"Very well, I thank you," says I.
"Have some breakfast with me?"
"With all my heart," says I.
So he gave me a slice of beer, and a cup of cold veal; and there was a little dog under the table that picked up all the crumbs.
"Hang him," says I.
"No, don't hang him," says he; "for he killed a hare yesterday. And if you don't believe me, I'll show you the hare alive in a basket."
So he took me into his garden to show me the curiosities. In one corner there was a fox hatching eagle's eggs; in another there was an iron apple-tree, entirely covered with pears and lead; in the third there was the hare which the dog killed yesterday alive in the basket; and in the fourth there were twenty-four hipper switches threshing tobacco, and at the sight of me they threshed so hard that they drove the plug through the wall, and through a little dog that was passing by on the other side. I, hearing the dog howl, jumped over the wall; and turned it as neatly inside out as possible, when it ran ​away as if it had not an hour to live. Then he took me into the park to show me his deer: and I remembered that I had a warrant in my pocket to shoot venison for his majesty's dinner. So I set fire to my bow, poised my arrow, and shot amongst them. I broke seventeen ribs on one side, and twenty-one and a-half on the other; but my arrow passed clean through without ever touching it, and the worst was I lost my arrow: however, I found it again in the hollow of a tree. I felt it; it felt clammy. I smelt it; it smelt honey. "Oh, ho," said I, "here's a bee's nest," when out sprang a covey of partridges. I shot at them; some say I killed eighteen; but I am sure I killed thirty-six, besides a dead salmon which was flying over the bridge, of which I made the best apple-pie I ever tasted.
# More English Fairy Tales/Stupid's Cries

See note to tale 84
Stupid's Cries
THERE was once a little boy, and his mother sent him to buy a sheep's head and pluck; afraid he should forget it, the lad kept saying all the way along:
"Sheep's head and pluck! Sheep's head and pluck!"
Trudging along, he came to a stile; but in getting over he fell and hurt himself, and beginning to blubber, forgot what he was sent for. So he stood a little while to consider: at last he thought he recollected it, and began to repeat:
"Liver and lights and gall and all! Liver and lights and gall and all!"
Away he went again, and came to where a man had a pain in his liver, bawling out:
"Liver and lights and gall and all! Liver and lights and gall and all!"
Whereon the man laid hold of him and beat him, bidding him say:
"Pray God send no more! Pray God send no more!"
​The youngster strode along, uttering these words, till he reached a field where a hind was sowing wheat:
"Pray God send no more! Pray God send no more!"
This was all his cry. So the sower began to thrash him, and charged him to repeat:
"Pray God send plenty more! Pray God send plenty more!"
Off the child scampered with these words in his mouth till he reached a churchyard and met a funeral, but he went on with his:
"Pray God send plenty more! Pray God send plenty more!"
The chief mourner seized and punished him, and bade him repeat:
"Pray God send the soul to heaven! Pray God send the soul to heaven!"
Away went the boy, and met a dog and a cat going to be hung, but his cry rang out!
"Pray God send the soul to heaven! Pray God send the soul to heaven!"
The good folk nearly were furious, seized and struck him, charging him to say:
"A dog and a cat agoing to be hung! A dog and a cat agoing to be hung!"
This the poor fellow did, till he overtook a man and a woman going to be married. "Oh! oh!" he shouted:
"A dog and a cat agoing to be hung! A dog and a cat agoing to be hung!"
​The man was enraged, as we may well think, gave him many a thump, and ordered him to repeat:
"I wish you much joy! I wish you much joy!"
This he did, jogging along, till he came to two labourers who had fallen into a ditch. The lad kept bawling out:
"I wish you much joy! I wish you much joy!"
This vexed one of the folk so sorely that he used all his strength, scrambled out, beat the crier, and told him to say:
"The one is out, I wish the other was! The one is out, I wish the other was!"
On went young 'un till he found a fellow with only one eye; but he kept up his song:
"The one is out, I wish the other was! The one is out, I wish the other was!"
This was too much for Master One-eye, who grabbed him and chastised him, bidding him call:
"The one side gives good light, I wish the other did! The one side gives good light, I wish the other did!"
So he did, to be sure, till he came to a house, one side of which was on fire. The people here thought it was he who had set the place a-blazing, and straightway put him in prison. The end was, the judge put on his black cap, and condemned him to die.
# More English Fairy Tales/The Blinded Giant

See note to tale 61
The Blinded Giant
AT Dalton, near Thirsk, in Yorkshire, there is a mill. It has quite recently been rebuilt; but when I was at Dalton, six years ago, the old building stood. In front of the house was a long mound which went by the name of "the giant's grave," and in the mill you can see a long blade of iron something like a scythe-blade, but not curved, which was called "the giant's knife," because of a very curious story which is told of this knife. Would you like to hear it? Well, it isn't very long.
There once lived a giant at this mill who had only one eye in the middle of his forehead, and he ground men's bones to make his bread. One day he captured on Pilmoor a lad named Jack, and instead of grinding him in the mill he kept him grinding as his servant, and never let him get away. Jack served the giant seven years, and never was allowed a holiday the whole time. At last he could bear it no longer. Topcliffe fair was coming on, and Jack begged that he might be allowed to go there.
​"No, no," said the giant, "stop at home and mind your grinding."
"I've been grinding and grinding these seven years," said Jack, "and not a holiday have I had. I'll have one now, whatever you say."
"We'll see about that," said the giant.
Well, the day was hot, and after dinner the giant lay down in the mill with his head on a sack and dozed. He had been eating in the mill, and had laid down a great loaf of bone bread by his side, and the knife I told you about was in his hand, but his fingers relaxed their hold of it in sleep. Jack seized the knife, and holding it with both his hands drove the blade into the single eye of the giant, who woke with a howl of agony, and starting up, barred the door. Jack was again in difficulties, for he couldn't get out, but he soon found a way out of them. The giant had a favourite dog, which had also been sleeping when his master was blinded. So Jack killed the dog, skinned it, and threw the hide over his back.
"Bow, wow," says Jack.
"At him, Truncheon," said the giant; "at the little wretch that I've fed these seven years, and now has blinded me."
"Bow, wow," says Jack, and ran between the giant's legs on all-fours, barking till he got to the door. He unlatched it and was off, and never more was seen at Dalton Mill.
# New poems and variant readings/De Cœnatione Micæ

DE CŒNATIONE MICÆ
Look round: You see a little supper room; But from my window, lo! great Cæsar's tomb! And the great dead themselves, with jovial breath Bid you be merry and remember death.
# New poems and variant readings/De Erotio Puella

DE EROTIO PUELLA
This girl was sweeter than the song of swans, And daintier than the lamb upon the lawns Or Curine oyster. She, the flower of girls, Outshone the light of Erythræan pearls; The teeth of India that with polish glow, The untouched lilies or the morning snow. Her tresses did gold-dust outshine And fair hair of women of the Rhine. Compared to her the peacock seemed not fair, The squirrel lively, or the phœnix rare; Her on whose pyre the smoke still hovering waits; Her whom the greedy and unequal fates On the sixth dawning of her natal day, My child-love and my playmate—snatcht away.
# New poems and variant readings/Dedicatory Poem for "Underwoods"

DEDICATORY POEM FOR "UNDERWOODS"
To her, for I must still regard her As feminine in her degree, Who has been my unkind bombarder Year after year, in grief and glee, Year after year, with oaken tree; And yet betweenwhiles my laudator In terms astonishing to me— To the Right Reverend The Spectator I here, a humble dedicator, Bring the last apples from my tree.
In tones of love, in tones of warning, She hailed me through my brief career; And kiss and buffet, night and morning, Told me my grandmamma was near; Whether she praised me high and clear Through her unrivalled circulation, Or, sanctimonious insincere, She damned me with a misquotation— A chequered but a sweet relation, Say, was it not, my granny dear?
​Believe me, granny, altogether Yours, though perhaps to your surprise. Oft have you spruced my wounded feather, Oft brought a light into my eyes— For notice still the writer cries. In any civil age or nation, The book that is not talked of dies. So that shall be my termination: Whether in praise or execration, Still, if you love me, criticise!
# New poems and variant readings/Dedication

DEDICATION
My first gift and my last, to you I dedicate this fascicle of songs— The only wealth I have: Just as they are, to you.
I speak the truth in soberness, and say I had rather bring a light to your clear eyes, Had rather hear you praise This bosomful of songs
​Than that the whole, hard world with one consent, In one continuous chorus of applause Poured forth for me and mine The homage of ripe praise.
I write the finis here against my love, This is my love's last epitaph and tomb. Here the road forks, and I Go my way, far from yours.
# New poems and variant readings/Come, my beloved, hear from me

COME, MY BELOVED, HEAR FROM ME
Come, my beloved, hear from me Tales of the woods or open sea. Let our aspiring fancy rise A wren's flight higher toward the skies; Or far from cities, brown and bare, Play at the least in open air. In all the tales men hear us tell Still let the unfathomed ocean swell, Or shallower forest sound abroad Below the lonely stars of God; In all, let something still be done, Still in a corner shine the sun, Slim-ankled maids be fleet of foot, Nor man disown the rural flute, Still let the hero from the start In honest sweat and beats of heart Push on along the untrodden road For some inviolate abode. ​Still, O beloved, let me hear The great bell beating far and near— The odd, unknown, enchanted gong That on the road hales men along, That from the mountain calls afar, That lures a vessel from a star, And with a still, aerial sound Makes all the earth enchanted ground. Love, and the love of life and act Dance, live and sing through all our furrowed tract; Till the great God enamoured gives To him who reads, to him who lives, That rare and fair romantic strain That whoso hears must hear again.
# New poems and variant readings/Come, my little children, here are songs for you

COME, MY LITTLE CHILDREN, HERE ARE SONGS FOR YOU
Come, my little children, here are songs for you; Some are short and some are long, and all, all are new. You must learn to sing them very small and clear, Very true to time and tune and pleasing to the ear.
Mark the note that rises, mark the notes that fall, Mark the time when broken, and the swing of it all. So when night is come, and you have gone to bed, All the songs you love to sing shall echo in your head.
# New poems and variant readings/De M. Antonio

DE M. ANTONIO
Now Antoninus, in a smiling age, Counts of his life the fifteenth finished stage. The rounded days and the safe years he sees, Nor fears death's water mounting round his knees. To him remembering not one day is sad, Not one but that its memory makes him glad. So good men lengthen life; and to recall The past is to have twice enjoyed it all.
# New poems and variant readings/De Hortis Julii Martialis

DE HORTIS JULII MARTIALIS
My Martial owns a garden, famed to please, Beyond the glades of the Hesperides; Along Janiculum lies the chosen block Where the cool grottos trench the hanging rock. The moderate summit, something plain and bare, Tastes overhead of a serener air; ​And while the clouds besiege the vales below, Keeps the clear heaven and doth with sunshine glow. To the June stars that circle in the skies The dainty roofs of that tall villa rise. Hence do the seven imperial hills appear; And you may view the whole of Rome from here; Beyond, the Alban and the Tuscan hills; And the cool groves and the cool falling rills, Rubre Fidenæ, and with virgin blood Anointed once Perenna's orchard wood. Thence the Flaminian, the Salarian way, Stretch far broad below the dome of day; And lo! the traveller toiling towards his home; And all unheard, the chariot speeds to Rome! For here no whisper of the wheels; and tho' The Mulvian Bridge, above the Tiber's flow, Hangs all in sight, and down the sacred stream The sliding barges vanish like a dream, The seaman's shrilling pipe not enters here, Nor the rude cries of porters on the pier. And if so rare the house, how rarer far The welcome and the weal that therein are! So free the access, the doors so widely thrown, You half imagine all to be your own.
# New poems and variant readings/De Ligurra

DE LIGURRA
You fear, Ligurra—above all, you long— That I should smite you with a stinging song. This dreadful honour you both fear and hope— Both all in vain: you fall below my scope. The Lybian lion tears the roaring bull, He does not harm the midge along the pool. ​Lo! if so close this stands in your regard, From some blind tap fish forth a drunken barn, Who shall with charcoal, on the privy wall, Immortalise your name for once and all.
# New poems and variant readings/Death, to the dead forevermore

DEATH, TO THE DEAD FOR EVERMORE
Death, to the dead for evermore A King, a God, the last, the best of friends— Whene'er this mortal journey ends Death, like a host, comes smiling to the door; Smiling, he greets us, on that tranquil shore Where neither piping bird nor peeping dawn Disturbs the eternal sleep, But in the stillness far withdrawn Our dreamless rest for evermore we keep.
For as from open windows forth we peep Upon the night-time star beset And with dews for ever wet; So from this garish life the spirit peers; And lo! as a sleeping city death outspread, Where breathe the sleepers evenly; and lo! After the loud wars, triumphs, trumpets, tears And clamour of man's passion, Death appears, And we must rise and go.
Soon are eyes tired with sunshine; soon the ears Weary of utterance, seeing all is said; Soon, racked by hopes and fears, The all-pondering, all-contriving head, ​Weary with all things, wearies of the years; And our sad spirits turn toward the dead; And the tired child, the body, longs for bed.
# Morning-Glories and Other Stories/A Christmas Song

A SONG
FOR A CHRISTMAS TREE
Cold and wintry is the sky,  Bitter winds go whistling by,  Orchard boughs are bare and dry, Yet here stands a fruitful tree.  Household fairies kind and dear,  With loving magic none need fear,  Bade it rise and blossom here, Little friends, for you and me.
 Come and gather as they fall,  Shining gifts for great and small;
 Santa Claus remembers all
When he comes with goodies piled.  Corn and candy, apples red,  Sugar horses, gingerbread,  Babies who are never fed, Are hanging here for every child.
 Shake the boughs and down they come,  Better fruit than peach or plum,  'T is our little harvest home; For though frosts the flowers kill,  Though birds depart and squirrels sleep,  Though snows may gather cold and deep,  Little folk their sunshine keep, And mother-love makes summer still.
Gathered in a smiling ring,  Lightly dance and gayly sing,
 Still at heart remembering
The sweet story all should know,  Of the little Child whose birth
 Has made this day throughout the earth
 A festival for childish mirth,
Since that first Christmas long ago.
# Morning-Glories and Other Stories

The following is an 1871 edition of the same text.
MORNING GLORIES
AND OTHER STORIES
By L. M. ALCOTT
AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN," "LITTLE MEN," "OLD-FASHIONED GIRL," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
"Fable is Love's world, his home, his birthplace Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talismans And spirits: and delightedly believes Divinities, being himself divine."
Schiller
NEW YORK G. W. CARLETON & CO., PUBLISHERS. LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO. MDCCCLXXI.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
HORACE B. FULLER
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts
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