OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Little Jack Rabbit's Adventures/Chapter 21

LITTLE JACK RABBIT STUBS HIS TOE
Cocky Doodle stood by the Big Red Barn and clapped his wings. Then digging his feet well into the ground, he began his morning cock-a-doodle-do.
Mr. Merry Sun lifted his head from his crimson pillows and looked over the misty hilltop.
"Time for me to get up," he yawned. "Cocky Doodle is calling."
Teddy Turtle crawled along the Old Cow Path to the Old Duck Pond. He didn't see Little Jack Rabbit hopping over the grass. Teddy is so slow that he never ​thinks any one can go faster. So it was only when the little rabbit stubbed his toe on the little turtle's hard shell house that he woke up. Of course he wasn't really asleep but he might just as well have been.
"You ought to know better than to go to sleep right in the Old Cow Path," said the little bunny, rubbing his toe. "Why don't you keep your head out to see where you're going if you walk in your sleep?"
"I pulled my head inside my shell when you hit me, as all well-trained turtles do in time of danger," answered Teddy Turtle.
"Goodness, I wouldn't be afraid of anything if I had a strong shell house like yours to creep into."
"Well, I'm not afraid of anybody except the Miller's Boy," said Teddy Turtle. ​"But when he turns me over on my back I'm helpless."
"Where are you going?" asked the little rabbit.
"Down to the Old Duck Pond. I'm going to sleep in the soft mud for the winter," answered Teddy Turtle.
"Well, goodby," said the little rabbit, hopping off to the Old Farm Yard.
"Cock-a-doodle-do," sang Cocky Doodle. "I hope everybody is awake. There comes Mr. Merry Sun up the sky. Cock-a-doodle-do. Everybody gets up when I call. Do you hear Billy Breeze singing over the Sunny Meadow? I wake the Little People of the Shady Forest and the Sunny Meadow every morning. Cock-a-doodle-do."
​Yes, sir. This little rooster was better than an alarm clock, for you didn't have to wind him. He crowed every morning his cheerful song to help the old world wag along.
# Little Jack Rabbit's Adventures/Chapter 16

THE TURNIP
"Well, I guess Granddaddy Bullfrog is right," thought Little Jack Rabbit, as he hopped back home to the Old Bramble Patch. "What's the use of worrying about winter? I'll take Granddaddy Bullfrog's advice and leave it all to Mother."
After that he felt much better. Pretty soon he saw Timmy Meadowmouse looking out of his little round house of grass, no larger than a cricket ball, which was fastened to three or four stiff stalks of grass about a foot above the ground.
"Good morning. Do you know, I've been dreadfully worried about winter; but ​now I'm going to take Granddaddy Bullfrog's advice and leave it all to mother."
You see, this little rabbit just couldn't stop talking about his troubles, although he was going to leave them all to mother!
"There! She's waving to you from the Old Bramble Patch," cried Timmy Meadowmouse. Away went the little bunny without another word and in less than five hundred hops he was home.
"Hop over to the field and bring me a turnip. Your father will be home for lunch in a few minutes," said Mrs. Rabbit.
Little Jack Rabbit hopped through the Old Rail Fence, across the road and into the field where the Old Scarecrow flapped his arms every time Billy Breeze whistled through the cornstalks. But the Old Clothes Man couldn't frighten the little ​bunny. Oh, my no! It took more than that, although he was a scary little chap. You see, he knew all about the Old Scarecrow, for he had watched the Kind Farmer put him up in the early Spring.
Picking up a nice looking turnip, he turned about and started back again. But, Oh dear me! All of a sudden out from behind a cornstack jumped the Farmer's Boy.
The little rabbit didn't stop to say sorry to have met you. No siree. He hopped away as fast as he could, but not fast enough. Before he had gone maybe thirteen hops a stone hit his left hind leg.
"Ha, ha!" yelled the Farmer's Boy. "Wait till I hit you again, Mr. Cottontail." But he didn't, for the little rabbit went faster on three legs than he had on four, and ​the next minute popped safely into the dear Old Bramble Patch.
"Where's the turnip?" asked Mrs. Rabbit.
"Goodness me! I guess that's what the Farmer's Boy hit me with," answered the little bunny.
# Little Jack Rabbit's Adventures/Chapter 20

BAD LUCK
"Goodness me! I'm dreadfully worried," cried Mrs. Rabbit, "I just saw the Kind Farmer's Black Cat cross the path from right to left, and that means bad luck, you know."
"I guess he's hunting for little Timmy Meadowmouse," answered Little Jack Rabbit. "It will be bad luck for Timmy to be caught."
"Why don't you run over and tell him," said Mrs. Rabbit. "Black Cat may be hiding near his house. You'd better hurry."
So away hopped the little rabbit to find Timmy Meadowmouse, who lived in a lit​tle round house made of twisted grass on the Sunny Meadow. Pretty soon he saw the little meadowmouse peeking out of his front door.
"Oh, it's you, is it, Little Jack Rabbit," he said with a sigh of relief, "I thought I heard some one creeping around my house. But if it was you, it's all right."
"Maybe it isn't all tight," answered the little rabbit, and he told how his mother had seen Black Cat cross the path from right to left. "And that means bad luck, you know."
"If he crosses your path from left to right, what does that mean?" asked the little meadowmouse.
"Good luck," answered Little Jack Rabbit.
"I don't know," said Timmy Meadowmouse with a shiver, "if he saw me first, it ​would be bad luck no matter which way he crossed the path."
Just then Little Jack Rabbit saw something move in the tall grass. "Look out," he shouted.
Into his house popped Timmy Meadowmouse, and none too soon, for Black Cat landed on the very spot where he had stood talking to the little rabbit.
"So it was you who warned Timmy Meadowmouse, was it?" he hissed, humping up his back and waving his long tail back and forth. Oh my, but he looked ugly.
"Yes, it was I," answered Little Jack Rabbit bravely, and then he did what his mother had taught him to do when in a tight place. He suddenly turned his back on Black Cat and struck out with his strong ​hind legs. Thump! they went against Black Cat's ribs, knocking him over. Then away hopped the little rabbit back to the Old Bramble Patch.
# Little Jack Rabbit's Adventures/Chapter 14

GOOD NEWS
Already the water was beginning to trickle over the pebbly bottom of the Bubbling Brook.
All of a sudden a voice overhead shouted, "Good morning!" and there sat Chatterbox, the Red Squirrel, in the Big Walnut Tree. "Why are you in such a hurry?"
"I must tell all my friends in the Sunny Meadow the good news," replied the little rabbit. "I can't wait a minute."
"I'll go with you," said Chatterbox, running down the tree. "Tell me, what's the news?"
"The Bubbling Brook will be running ​again tonight," answered the little bunny, and he explained all about Busy Beaver's dam.
"Well, I declare," exclaimed Chatterbox, "Busy Beaver has a lot of nerve to stop the water running in the Bubbling Brook. He doesn't own the water rights. The Bubbling Brook belongs to everyone alike."
"So it does," answered Little Jack Rabbit, "but Busy Beaver has to look out for himself. If he doesn't build a dam his little house will be frozen up this winter."
Just then the water rose almost to the ferns that grew on the edge of the Bubbling Brook. "Everything's all right now," said the little rabbit, "I won't bother to go over to the Sunny Meadow. The fishes and the little fresh water crabs will learn the news ​before I can get there," and he sat down to talk things over with Chatterbox.
"You just ought to see Busy Beaver use his tail as a trowel to lay on the mud," said the little rabbit, who couldn't keep from talking about what he had just seen. "He carries the mud and stones between his chin and forepaws and knows just how to put them in the cracks between the logs to keep back the water."
"Well, we all must prepare for the long, cold winter," said Chatterbox. "Brother Tip Top and I have been gathering nuts for many a day and have our storehouse nearly full."
# Little Jack Rabbit's Adventures/Chapter 15

A PERPLEXED LITTLE RABBIT
"Goodness gracious me!" exclaimed Little Jack Rabbit, all of a sudden, "the Clover Patch is all dried up. What shall I do when winter comes?"
"Hunt for old turnips and carrots in the field," laughed Chatterbox.
"I think I'll leave you," answered Little Jack Rabbit thoughtfully, "I'm beginning to worry about what's going to happen to me," and away he hopped, leaving the little red squirrel sitting beneath his tree.
"Most everybody I know," thought the little rabbit as he hopped along, "curls up and goes to sleep for the winter. I wonder ​if I could? I'm going home to ask Mother."
But Mrs. Rabbit was too busy putting up carrot jelly to answer questions. "Don't bother me," she said, "I haven't got a minute to spare." So the only thing for the little bunny to do was to go to somebody else.
The very first person he met was Hedgy Hedgehog. He was just coming out of his hole, which he had been busily lining with grass and dry leaves, some of which were still sticking to his spikes, for he hadn't had time to brush himself.
"What are you doing?" asked the little bunny.
"Getting ready for winter. I've fixed up my place nice and warm, and when the cold weather comes I'll creep in and sleep till Spring."
​"What do you eat?" asked Little Jack Rabbit, who could eat all the time, and sometimes oftener, like all rabbits.
"Don't eat—can't eat when you're asleep, you know."
"Gracious me!" exclaimed the little bunny, "that would never do for me!" and he hopped away.
By and by he came to the Old Duck Pond. There sat Granddaddy Bullfrog on a log, winking and blinking in the light of Mr. Merry Sun.
"Granddaddy Bullfrog, what do you do when winter comes?"
"Why, bless you, my little bunny," answered the old gentleman frog, "I go to sleep in the mud at the bottom of the pond."
​"Oh dear, I can't do that!" sighed the little rabbit.
"Of course not," laughed Granddaddy Bullfrog. "Do what your mother says, and stop worrying!"
# London Town

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "London Town."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, 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.
* "London Town", a poem by John Masefield
* London Town, a children's book by Felix Leigh and illustrated by Thomas Crane and Ellen Houghton
# London astrologer, or, A young girl put to the blush/Jenny Nettles

JENNY NETTLES.
SAW ye Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, Saw ye Jenny Nettles, coming frae the market; Bag and baggage on her back, her fee and bountith in her lap; Bag and baggage on her back, and a babie in her oxter.
I met ayont the Kairny, Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, Singing till her bairny, Robin Rattle's baſtard; To flee the dool upo' the ſtool, and ilka ane that mocks her, She round about ſeeks Robin out, to ſtap it in his oxter.
Fy, fy! Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle; Fy, fy! Robin Rattle, uſe Jenny Nettles kindly: Score out the blame, and ſhun the ſhame, and without more debate o't. Tak hame your wain, mak Jenny fain, the leel and leeſome gate o't.
G L A S G O W, Printed by J. & M. Robertſon, Saltmarket, 1802.
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
# London astrologer, or, A young girl put to the blush/The London Astrologer

THE LONDON ASTROLOGER.
THERE was an old Aſtrologer, in London he did dwell, For telling girls their Fortunes, all others did excel.
And many a pretty fair young maid, to this old man would go, All of them being willing, their Fortunes for to know.
Amongſt the reſt, a pretty girl, to this old man ſhe went, All for to have her Fortune told, it was her whole intent.
She aſked for the Cunning Man, anſwer to her was made, He is up ſtairs in his chamber, go call him down ſhe ſaid.
When that ſhe ſaw the Cunning Man, ſhe thus to him did ſay, I have heard you can tell Fortunes, come tell me mine I pray.
And if that you the ſame will do, I'll pay you well, ſaid ſhe; No fear of that, my Girl, he ſaid, come walk up ſtairs with me.
​I will not come up ſtairs with you, nor any man indeed, She ſpoke with as much modeſty, as if ſhe'd been a maid.
Beſides I am in haſte, Sir, and thought not to have ſtaid, Come be as nimble as you can, I'm but a ſervant maid.
Then he ſtood and viewed her, his ſkill began to riſe, He ſpoke ſuch words unto this maid, which did her quite ſurpriſe.
It is true you are a ſervant, but ſure you are no maid; It is time that you were wed my girl, you have the wanton play'd.
You would have laugh'd to've ſeen her bluſh, hearing him what he ſaid, But ſtill ſhe told for anſwer, that yet ſhe was a maid.
Deny it not, my girl, he ſaid, and tell me nothing ſo, For you lay with your maſter, not many nights ago.
Then ſhe began to curſe and ſwear, ſhe would her maſter bring, That he would teſtify for her, that there was no ſuch thing.
​Deny it not my Girl, he ſaid, it makes your caſe look worſe, For your maſter gave to you a crown, you have it in your purſe.
When ſhe ſaw him ſo poſitive, ſhe could it not deny, She turn’d herſelf right round about, to him made this reply;
Indeed I am a maiden yet, and hopes ſo to remain, My Maſter got my Maidenhead, but he gave it me again.
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
# London astrologer, or, A young girl put to the blush/Drinking Drowns Care

DRINKING DROWNS CARE.
FILL your glaſſes, baniſh care, Wealth and worldly care deſpiſe, Sorrow ne’er can bring relief; Joys from drinking will ariſe. Why ſhould we with anxious care, Spoil what Nature’s made ſo fair? Chor. Drink and ſet your heart at reſt; Of a bad bargain make the beſt.
Mirth when mingled with our wine, Makes the heart alert and free: Let it rain, or ſnow, or ſhine, All the ſame it is to me. There’s no ſence againſt our fate, Changes daily on us wait. Chor. Drink and ſet your heart at reſt; Of a bad bargain make the beſt.
​Some purſue the winged wealth, Some to honour do aſpire; Give me freedom, give me health, That's the ſum of my deſire. What this world could more preſent, Would not add to my content. Chor. Drink and ſet your heart at reſt; Of a bad bargain make the beſt.
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
# London Opinion

British magazine published from 1903 until 1954.
# London astrologer, or, A young girl put to the blush

Τ Η Ε
London Aſtrologer;
OR, A
Young Girl put to the Bluſh.
TO WHICH ARE ADDED,
DRINKING DROWNS CARE. THE LADY'S DIARY. The Love & Rage of Highland Donald. ΤΗΕ MΑLΤΜΑΝ. JENNY NETTLES.
G L A S G O W, Printed by J. & M. ROBERTSON, Saltmarket, 1802.
* The London Astrologer
* Drinking Drowns Care
* The Lady's Diary
* The Love and Rage of Highland Donald
* The Maltman
* Jenny Nettles
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
# London astrologer, or, A young girl put to the blush/The Lady's Diary

THE LADY'S DIARY.
LECTURE’D by Pa and Ma o’er night, Monday, at ten, quite vex’d and jealous, Reſolv'd in future to be right, and never liſten to the fellows! Stitch'd half a wriſtband, read the text, receiv'd a note from Mrs. Rackit: I hate the woman, ſhe ſat next, all church-time, to ſweet Captain Clackit.
Tueſday got ſcolded, did not care, the toaſt was cold, 'twas paſt eleven; I dreamt the Captain, through the air, on Cupid's wings bore me to heav'n! Pouted and din'd, dreſs'd, look'd divine, made an excuſe, got Ma to back it! Went to the play, what joy was mine; talk'd loud & laugh'd with Captain Clackit.
Wedneſday came down, no lark ſo gay! the girl's quite alter'd, ſaid my Mother; Cry'd Dad, I recollect the day when, Dearie, thou wert ſuch another. ​Danc’d, drew a landſcape, ſkim’d a play, in the paper read that widow Flackit To Gretna-Green had run away, the forward minx! with Captain Clackit.
Thurſday fell ſick; poor ſoul, ſhe’ll die; five doctors came with length’ned faces; Each felt my pulſe; ah, me! cry’d I, are theſe my promis’d loves and graces! Friday grew worſe; cry’d Ma, in pain, our day was fair, heav’n do not black it; Where’s your complaint, love? In my brain, what ſhall I give you? Captain Clackit.
Early next morn a noſtrum came worth all their cordials, balms, and ſpices, A letter; I had been to blame; the Captain’s truth brought on a criſis: Sunday, for fear of more delays of a few clothes I made a packet, And Monday morn ſlept in a chaiſe, and ran away with Captain Clackit.
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
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/Memorial Day

MEMORIAL DAY
Noblest of martyrs in a glorious fight! Ye died to save the cause of Truth and Right. And though your banner beams no more on high, Not vainly did it wave or did ye die!
No blood for freedom shed is spent in vain; It is as fertile as the Summer rain; And the last tribute of heroic breath Is always conqueror over Wrong and Death.
The grand procession of avenging years Has turned to triumph all our bitter tears; And the cause lost, by battle’s stern behest, Is won by Justice, and by Heaven blest.
Dark grew the night above our sacred slain, Who sleeps upon the mountain and the plain; But darker still the black and blinding pall That whelmed the living in its lurid thrall.
But taught by heroes, who had yielded life, We fainted not, nor faltered in the strife; With weapons bright, from peaceful Reason won, We cleaved the clouds and gained the golden sun.
And so today the marble shaft may soar In memory of those who are no more; The proudest boast of centuries shall be, That they who fell with Jackson rise with Lee!
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/Mother and Son

MOTHER AND SON
Thirty years ago two of my Catholic friends, fond parents, were called upon to endure a grievous tribulation in the death, by accidental drowning, of a noble virtuous son. I promised the father to write a poem on this sad theme, but, somehow, in the distraction of active secular journalism and the need of practical support for a growing family, I could not accomplish that purpose. A few days ago, with more leisure and a return of the long-neglected gift, I determined to pay the debt, and as some hearts may be comforted by sympathetic verse, I take the liberty of asking The Columbian to reproduce the poem, for the first time:
’Tis thirty years, my son, Since we were parted; Thy bright course swiftly run— I, broken hearted, Hast thou been gone so long To realms of light, To choirs of angel-song, To visions bright?
When thou wert rapt away By the stern tide, I taught thee how to pray— In innocence abide. So, though thy call was brief, With no good-bye, I know, with firm belief, ’Twas well to die.
Thy piety and worth Were all secure; Yea, from thy Christian birth Thy days were pure. And so, the God of love Claimed thee His own. Thy spirit winged above To seek its throne.
Father and mother both Gave thee to bliss; Resigned, however loath, Thy parting kiss. We learned to bless the hour Thy soul should be Beyond all sinful power And grandly free.
Thy father saw thee first In Christ’s abode; His spirit was athirst For Heaven’s road. Thy mother will await The last decree That opens glory’s gate To welcome thee.
To meet and see again Thy sire and thee, Beyond the reach of pain, In ecstacy. This is thy mother’s prayer, And this her goal. To love and bless thee there, Soul unto soul.
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/Ode to Professor Dimitry

ODE TO PROFESSOR DIMITRY
Suggested by his admirable lecture on the “Temples and Monuments of Greece” Written at Georgetown University at the Age of Eighteen
Behold the man! What matchless lines of grace Are blazoned round his great, expressive face! The voice so full, so tremulously grand Speaks from his heart the woes of that far land, Which fallen now, once reigned the titled Queen Of Mind, of Soul—all-seeing and all-seen— Nurse of the Gods! bright Liberty’s abode! The Poet’s pride! whence Homer’s song has flowed, Rolling with ocean-flow from age to age— The first—the last—the best on History’s page! Foremost in Art, in Science, and in Strife, In columned grandeur and in marble life— Bend, bend before Hellenic tow’ring might Ye gifted children of the Pure and Bright! All this and more thrills forth—how silent all! The burning echo riots round the hall,
In every breast responsive echoes breathe, The ravished senses twine a deathless wreath For those who fought for Freedom, scorning shame, Then bartered life for an eternal fame! Thus, not in vain, he courts the willing ear— Calls on the dead, and living forms appear; Both gods and men in awful grandeur move— The “Blind old Bard”—the “Cloud-compelling Jove!” He bids them tell of days when Greece was free, When Athens rode triumphant o’er the sea, Athens the peerless—prescient—the blind— Athens the mutable—the undefined! The fount of Eloquence! whose spring inspired Her godlike son, and with his breath expired; Which in one warning yet majestic cry Made Philip quail and cowards gladly die! When Sparta stalked the Lioness of the shore With iron nerves—brute heart—what, nothing more? Ay! ay! a single boon kind Nature gave, Alone to drag her from Oblivion’s grave; One hoary rock, the Keystone of the plain— A shivered altar but a hallowed fane, For patriot’s blood has trickled round the stone— Dread august sacrifice! this—this alone
Redeems the land with a renewing birth, Its faults forgotten in thy faultless worth! Manes of the brave! your gore’s not vainly shed— O stern baptism on a nation’s head! Yet did that blood quench Persia’s fiery pride And seal the spot where heroes fell—not died, Leaving thy name a watchword to the free— Unmouldering Record! lone Thermopylae! Turn from this scene. Exulting to the skies A temple flits before the captive eyes, Unrivalled, chaste e’en as the new-born day, In perfect form it looms along the way— Unrivalled whole—unrivalled in decay! Behold the Parthenon—the miracle—the fair! Look once again. What ruin breedeth there! A pilfered wreck, a desecrated shrine, Sport of the blast, polluted yet divine— The mind untouched from a dismembered whole— How glorious yet, thou Mecca of the Soul!