OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Songs that Quinte Sang/A. G. C.

A. G. C.
Dear child, ’twas vain for me to pray That storms might never cloud thy skies, Or that the tears of anguish may Ne’er dim thy bonnie eyes.
For never mortal yet but knew The weight of sorrow’s crushing thrall, Joy cometh to a chosen few, But sorrow comes to all.
Yet from my heart this prayer goes up, When Sorrow’s draught your lips must meet, May Love and Friendship kiss the cup And make the bitter sweet.
# The Songs of our Fathers

* The Songs of our Fathers, in The Monthly Magazine Volume 1, 1826.
* The Songs of our Fathers, in The League of the Alps, and Other Poems, 1826, Boston.
# The Songs that Quinte Sang

The
Songs
That
Quinte Sang
Marie Joussaye
Bellevlle, Canada.
SUN PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY.
1895.
CONTENTS.
Note.—The sketch illustrating the lines, “Dear hearts, their sleep is calm and sweet by Quinte’s restful side,” is from the pen of the late Stewart Hunter, who died a few days after making the sketch.
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 1949, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 74 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 Strand Magazine/Volume 1/Issue 6

June, 1891. (transcription project)
Layout 4
​ "My son, be of good cheer!" (A Torture by Hope.}
* "A Torture of Hope," from the French of Villiers de l'isle-Adam. Illustrations by Paul Hardy.
* How the Blind are Educated, by Edward Salmon. Illustrations by John Gülich.
* "Out of a Pioneer's Trunk," by Bret Harte. Illustrations by A. Pearse.
* Anecdotes of the War Path, written and illustrated by Irving Montagu.
* "The Rynard Hold Reef Company, Limited," by Walter Besant. Illustrations by W. S. Stacey.
* Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of their Lives.
* John Lawrence Toole.
* Edward S. Willard.
* Miss Kate Rorke.
* The Duke of Clarence and Avondale.
* The Duchess of Fife.
* Prince George of Wales.
* Mme. Albani.
* Miss Agnes Jansen.
* Humours of the Post Office, with Fac-similes.
* Celebrated Beauties.
* "Three Birds on a Stile," by B. L. Farjeon. Illustrations by Gordon Browne.
* "A Night in an Opium Den," by the Author of "A Dead Man's Diary." Illustrations by J. L. Wimbush.
* "Janko the Musician;" from the Polish of Sienkiwicz. Illustrations by H. R. Millar.
* A Silver Harvest written and illustrated by H. Tuck.
* The State of the Law Courts. III.--The Bar. Illustrations by A. Ludovici.
* The Home for Lost Dogs. Illustrations by Mabel Dorothy Hardy.
* "The Hermit", a Story for Children; from the French of Voltaire. Illustrations by Alan W. Wright.
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
# The Story of Saville/Part 17

XVII.
It was over, his long suspense and doubt; the delicate daring hand Had executed successfully the intellect’s keen command,— O, scarce in the New Jerusalem paven with gold and with pearls, Scarce shall the ransomed of God know rapture diviner than Kyrle’s!
For an hour or twain ’twas enough to enjoy, merely that God had said “Let there be light!” for him once more, and had summoned his eyes from the dead, But quickly the rift crept widening in,—’twas but a mere broken toy, A splintered gem, a goblet cracked, if Saville did not share in his joy. He blamed himself for granting her prayer,—she should have remained beside Her husband and bravely fronted with him what weal or woe should betide,— Alone? Why, not so alone had he been before they ever had met,— A tenebrous wall of solitude, carven of solid jet, Immured him round, and the air waxed cold, e’en as the sun had set.
He sought the room where her laugh and song had made the obscurity bright, And gazed on trifles familiar and dear to the touch if not to the sight,— Her bird chirped low in its shining cage, the fish gleamed gay in the globe, And careless it lay on the rich divan, her rosy and silvery robe,— Yes, she herself would be here anon—where else should she be?—but yet— Surely the hour was passing—had passed—the hour she had set To return—Good God! he was stifling, meshed in a strangling net!
They brought him a note. “Dear Kyrle, Dear Love, Briefly and plain must I write, Nor tax God’s last best gift to you, the peerless blessing of sight,— They who shall give you this letter will tell you wherefore it must be That you and I are severed nor meet till we meet by the jasper sea. I had meant to leave you another way,—but I could not! my aim would have missed The head that your hands had benisoned, the bosom your lips had kissed,—
I could wish ’twere a loftier motive, dear, some impulse of duty or right, But no,—’twas only that what you had loved thenceforth was inviolate quite, And so I have only gone away. Seek not, for you never will find,— Spend rather each precious moment in doing the work we outlined For your brush if our Heavenly Father should call you back into the field,— Strive on, and this present personal need, this ache in your heart, shall be healed,— For me,—I shall think of you there in my home, I shall know that you dream of me still, And shall read in each finished picture a starry sweet thought of And shall read in each finished picture a starry sweet thought of SAVILLE!”
SO HERE ENDETH THE STORY OF SAVILLE AS TOLD BY JULIA DITTO YOUNG 🌽 AND DONE INTO A BOOK 🌽 AT THE ROYCROFT SHOP ♣ WHICH IS IN EAST AURORA, NEW YORK, U. S. A. ♣ ♣ MDCCCXCVII ❧ ❧
# The Story of Saville/Part 5

V.
Week after week slipped billowy by into the gulfy past, And the silvery beryl of each day’s wave broke at Kyrle’s feet and upcast Flotsam of Indian broideries, spices, and pearls of Ceylon, Sandalwood Araby sweet, and myrrh, and fagots of cinnamon, And strewing the sterile waste beach of his life became as a godsend thereon.
The timid grace of the lady birch, the gnarls of the oak, she told, How the warrior pines stood stark against the sunset’s daffodil gold, And the sinuous slopes of the distant hills were but as a banner unscrolled, Tawny and russet and purple twined, dotted with orbs of jet Where a sturdy thorn or a lichened rock was into the fabric set, And often she pictured a mother and babes, a tranquil domestic scene Behind the rubious cordial glow of a casement’s coppery sheen, And once when the sky occidental was paly translucentest green,
Like apple-tree buds ere the mid-May’s kiss quickens them, tender and keen, She told how a trio of cloudy shapes, dripping with blood and wine, Drifted o’er the horizon’s rim, lurid as almandine, Huddled and hunched and wizened, like the sisters three in Macbeth, And one was Failure and one was Fear, and one was a Prayer for death,— But an airy knight pricked over the plain and he vanquished them all at a breath, And the conqueror’s colors were caught and tossed, and up to the zenith rolled, And a legion sang of his victory like the morning stars of old.
And once she came through a shuddering storm, braving the eddying whirl Of the snow-grains sown by a prodigal hand, and walked for a space with Kyrle, And clung to his arm, half womanly guide, and half but a frivolous girl, And said ’twas as if they were walking alone, they two, in a vast white pearl, Where radiant nacre-gleams of pink traversed the edelweiss hue, But never a satyr’s hoof was heard nor an Oread’s laugh rang through,
And there lurked no hint of the forestal green nor yet of the limitless blue.
And then as they battled against the wind, sauntering to and fro, She preached him a little sermon she had studied that day in Thoreau, Her text, the chariot wheels of the storm, the six-spoked crystals of snow, Those faceted glorious spangles, the sweepings of heaven’s floor, Feathery petaled hexagonal flowers, diamond dusted o’er,— Why, we are sprent with gems! they fall in a wavering thistledown blur, In the gallery of the meadow mouse, on the restless squirrel’s fur, The schoolboy crushes them into a ball, the woodman follows his sled Through the wreck of a myriad fragile stars, strange as the stars o’erhead,— And Oh! ’twere a blasphemy to declare by some cold narrowing word Mechanical action got them: Divinity must have stirred In the germ pellucid and gelid, and so have they come to be
Fair fruit of enthusiasm, the children of ecstasy,— And mother nature not yet had lost her pristine vigor and force, Still was the law supreme at work, the sun still true in his course, And God still paused to watch over His earth, still fashioned with cunningest art The baby flakes of the silver snow—and why should a man lose heart?
# The Story of Saville/Part 16

XVI.
Sweet April, blossomy April, the laughing capricious maid, Had velvet enamellar carpets spread in garden and glebe and glade, Had carelessly dropped her loose-clasped gold, dotting with coins the lawn, Had lingered for thirty ravishing days, and to-night was almost gone, For the latest even of April had come, and the soft air, moist with rain, Stole through the ivied casement, a lilac breath in its train, Over the two who had known together a year of divinest love, And who now had come by the will of fate to the last sweet moment thereof.
“Kyrle, I have something to ask,” she said, timidly stroking his hand, “Answer me not with blame of my weakness, but try, dear, to understand,— It is that you let me leave home to-night,—but of course, dear Kyrle, not for long,— I dare not be present to-morrow,—I have aye been so brave and so strong That haply you think I can bear all things,—but if the result should go wrong,
If you should not see as they say you will, if instead of triumphal song, Your voice breaks down in a heartstruck wail at a failure abrupt and complete, I could not survive the cruel shock,—I should drop down dead at your feet!”
“Nay now, Saville, thou art far too bold,—why, what shall it profit me The fleecy flocks of the sky to mark, the crocus and primrose to see, Ay, even my first love, ‘Rupert’s Trust,’ and not—O Saville! not thee? Yet thou shalt never ask boon in vain,—I will thine almoner be, A warden most lenient,—Go, dear heart! for a score of hours thou art free!”
And softly she thanked her lord and liege, meek as a scriptural wife, And he might not discern from her even tones with what pangs her bosom was rife, Nor dreamed that in passing away that night she was passing sheer out of his life.
And she came and knelt by his chair once more, wrapped in her soft rich cloak,
And nestled her poor sad face in his breast and brokenly, tenderly spoke, “O love, my love, in the days to come winnow thy mind of the ill I haply have done thee,—remember alone that I was thy Fairy Saville!”
And he kissed her thrice and he said “Good-night,” and she bit back a passionate cry, And he noted not in his hope and joy that her answering word was “Good-bye!”
# The Story of Saville/Part 2

II.
Well,—to a man in a dungeon an infinitesimal thing Looms large as the fate of an empire doth to a fetterless king, And for the first time in aeons Kyrle felt a surcease of pain, Casting the slough of his anguish a blessed brief hour or twain,— ’Twas something to hope and to live for, that hour in the afternoon, To question if fate would vouchsafe him a second such velvety boon,— He would not fail to keep tryst,—not he! And yet—O heaven!—and yet— What? had he sunk to this estate? to care if some selfish coquette, A pampered doll, an idol of clay, born only to drive men mad, Yielded or not to such sweet ruth as yesterday she had?
She came, with her printless hurrying feet stepping so shamed and fast Scarce had he guessed her near him at all ere she had onward passed, And when she had turned and again approached it seemed that she would have gone
Straight on unseeing across the stretch of wide snow-sprinkled lawn,— But she was perforce constrained to pause; he wist not that he held up A visage stamped with an awful need, like a beggar’s holding a cup— He never knew that he reached his hand, while slowly advanced the maid And into his fingers eager and worn a bunch of violets laid— And he tried to mutter a word of thanks, and he heard a quick low sob, And he sank half stunned to his seat again, afraid of his heart’s wild throb, And it was over, all over and past! and now for twenty-four hours He must live like a starving sailor, on a breath and a knot of flowers, And ever there rang in his weary brain, the roar of the city above, These words of a laurelled master, till he sickened with terror thereof, “Hath man not evil enough, O Earth, that thou must lay on him love?”
# The Story of Saville/Part 6

VI.
But at last came a day when she failed to come, when the reed bent rottenly down, And he sat in a cruel impatience, his face deformed by a frown, And he listened in vain for the crystalline tinkle of feet through the crepitant grass, The delicate laugh of dismay at a drift or haply a tiny crevasse,— He waited half sick of a hope deferred, till his marrow was turned to ice, And the orange and garnet chilled out of the sky, and the lad had come for him thrice, And then he arose and doggedly trudged to his poor pain-tenanted room, That crawled as with slimiest horrors through out the reticulate gloom, And he shrank from shutting himself alone into that living tomb.
And he had no lilies at all that night, no languorous lullings of spice, No hope of remote reparation, no visions to lure and entice, Naught but the old, old Tantalus-mood, that had gathered new malice and gall From disuse, as a robe gathers mildew and moth, hanging forgot on the wall,
And a pain rapacious surged over his soul like a flood or a pestilent wind, Or octopus-like sucked into his heart, shark-toothed and poisonous-finned, And he summoned the strength of his nature in its outraged trust to arise And help him to hate himself and this woman, to utterly loathe and despise Her who had made him a pastime, bridging the winter across With a masque, a foolery petty and vain, amusing herself with his loss,— God! it had been but an insult throughout, her ’havior so sisterly free,— She scarce had esteemed him a man at all,—why, then, forsooth! should she be Distantly coy with a clod, reserved as a maid is alway With a man? She had seen at a glance that no least possibility lay Of love ’twixt herself and a creature ignoble, all of whose manlihood The chief enchanter had Merlin-wise sunk in a pathless wood, And so she had pitied him for a season, but now she had wearied and sped To a southern clime where the grapes were gold and the pomegranates lusciously red.
But the Avon Swan sang silvery clear, “All office infirmity still Neglects,” and his heart waxed weak and wailed, “Perhaps she is fevered and ill,— Perhaps she is dying—O God, protect Thy purest, Thy peerless Saville!”
Yet the foul faint doubt he had trampled at first sprang weedlike over again,— She was but a woman and therefore false,—she smiled on a hundred men,— And he thought how she clung to his arm in the snow and he wished he had killed her then!
# The Souvenir of Western Women/Women's Club Work in Idaho

Woman's Club Work in Idaho
By EMILY L. SAVIDGE and MARY L. NIXON, Boise Idaho
THE Woman's Columbia Club came into existence in 1892, when some of the women of Boise, Idaho, decided to furnish the Idaho building at the Columbia Exposition in Chicago in 1893. After this good work was completed these women decided that the club should continue and that its work should be (1) to establish and maintain a circulating library and free reading room; (2) to take up any line of work which shall be designed to promote the highest interests of the city.
The Woman's Christian Temperance Union of Boise had collected some books which they kindly turned over to the Woman's Columbia Club, and this formed the nucleus of the Boise library. Club members at first took turns in keeping the library open, but soon after Miss Ella C. Reed was chosen librarian. The city giving the necessary room, the library was placed in the city hall. Through the efforts of the club a traveling library was started, which has proved itself a power for good in the more remote parts of Idaho. In 1901 the members of the Columbia Club realizing that Boise should have a library building, determined to try to secure aid from Mr. Carnegie toward the erection of a building. A committee of three, composed of Mrs. Beatty, Mrs. Ridenbough and Mrs. Richards, was appointed by the club to take the matter in charge. To the untiring and continued effort of the committee is mainly due the results finally accomplished. They found that before securing any promises from Andrew Carnegie they would have to show on the part of the city a suitable site and a fund for annual maintenance. Accordingly after the necessary time had elapsed for advertising, voting and selling bonds, the sum of $4000 was available for the site, and a fine half block, centrally located, purchased from the city school board. Then the city council voted an annual maintenance fund of $2500 and created a board of five library trustees, three of whom were the members of the club committee in charge of the work. In response to a request. Mr. Carnegie donated the sum of $15,000. While we had hoped to receive $25,000, we were not discouraged, but went to work to raise at least $5000 in the city.
Eastern club women tell us that we are especially favored in receiving the aid and co-operation of state legislators and city officials in our efforts to improve prevailing usages and correct existing abuses. They hint that it is largely due to our possession of the ballot. But we prefer, and justly, to attribute this to the native courtesy and kindness of our western man. Be he governor, mayor, legislator or private citizen, he has always responded generously to our appeals, and on every occasion he has more than seconded any effort made by the club for useful reforms.
# The Souvenir of Western Women/The Young Women's Christian Association

The Young Women's Christian Association
By MRS. JESSIE M. HONEYMAN,
President of the Y. W. C. A. of Portland
THE Young Women's Christian Association began its work at the capital, Salem, and worked among the colleges for several years. Finding their scope would be greater they moved to Portland. At this time Mrs. C. A. Dolph took up the work as president. The whole of the Northwest was under her supervision, and it was a time of hard work and earnest prayer, but without coming much before the public.
The first city association was organized in Portland at the close of the year 1900, and moved into nice rooms in the Maeleay building April 1, 1901. The growth was phenomenal, and in two years larger rooms were secured at 312 Oak street. The membership, beginning with 700, arose to over 1,400. The delightful rooms were filled all the time. The dining room, where real home-cooked lunches are served, is chiefly patronized by business women, but women of leisure always find it a pleasant place to lunch and meet their friends. The walls are decorated with beautiful reproductions of the old masters. No other association in the world owns such a fine collection, both from a decorative and an educational point of view. This was the generous gift of one woman. The educational work has been very helpful. Aggressive work is being done along the lines of Bible study, domestic science and domestic art. Other classes also have been greatly enjoyed.
The Seattle association was organized at the same time as the one in Portland, and has been quite as successful and popular in its work and development. They have just moved into a commodious and attractive new building. An association has also been organized in Spokane, which is doing very good work. The college work has grown and is now under the supervision of special committees, the Washington committee taking Montana and the Oregon committee taking Idaho.
The outlook for the Young Women's Christian Association work in the Northwest is very bright, and it is hoped that the Northwest conference, which will be held at Gearhart, Oregon, in September, will be a great inspiration for all the workers.
The Lewis and Clark Centennial Exposition will also bring young women from all over the country, and the Portland city association is building very attractive headquarters, where they will serve lunches all summer. They have the only woman's building on the grounds. From the wide verandas a beautiful view of the grounds, the lake and trail can be seen.
The Young Women's Christian Association is among the foremost of the organized bodies of women now earnestly laboring together in behalf of the Portland Travelers' Aid Association.
# The Romany Rye

The Romany Rye is a novel by George Borrow, written in 1857. Largely thought to be at least partly autobiographical, it follows on from Lavengro (1851). The story itself follows the journey of a learned young man thrown in with gypsies. It is a philosophical adventure story of sorts.
    Warning: template has been deprecated.
* Chapter I
* Chapter II
* Chapter III
* Chapter IV
* Chapter V
* Chapter VI
* Chapter VII
* Chapter VIII
* Chapter IX
* Chapter X
* Chapter XI
* Chapter XII
* Chapter XIII
* Chapter XIV
* Chapter XV
* Chapter XVI
* Chapter XVII
* Chapter XVIII
* Chapter XIX
* Chapter XX
* Chapter XXI
* Chapter XXII
* Chapter XXIII
* Chapter XXIV
* Chapter XXV
* Chapter XXVI
* Chapter XXVII
* Chapter XXVIII
* Chapter XXIX
* Chapter XXX
* Chapter XXXI
* Chapter XXXII
* Chapter XXXIII
* Chapter XXXIV
* Chapter XXXV
* Chapter XXXVI
* Chapter XXXVII
* Chapter XXXVIII
* Chapter XXXIX
* Chapter XL
* Chapter XLI
* Chapter XLII
* Chapter XLIII
* Chapter XLIV
* Chapter XLV
* Chapter XLVI
* Chapter XLVII
* Appendix I
* Appendix II
* Appendix III
* Appendix IV
* Appendix V
* Appendix VI
* Appendix VII
* Appendix VIII
* Appendix IX
* Appendix X
* Appendix XI
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 Romany Girl

The sun goes down, and with him takes
* The Romany Girl in May-day and other pieces (1867)
* The Romany Girl in Poems (Household Edition, 1904)
# The Story of Mary MacLane/February 22

LIFE is a pitiful thing.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/April 4

I HAVE asked for bread, sometimes, and I have been given a stone.
Oh, it is a bitter thing—oh, it is piteous, piteous!
I find that I am not far apart from human beings. I can still be crushed, wounded, stunned, by the attitude of human beings.
To-day I looked for human-kindness, and I was given coldness. I repelled human beings.
I asked for bread and I was given a stone.
Oh, it is bitter—bitter.
Oh, is there a thing in the wide world more bitter?
God, where are you! I am crushed, wounded, stunned—and, oh—I am alone!