OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Cornhuskers/Early Moon

EARLY MOON
A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, sit and sit around the Indian moon.
One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners, keep a line of watchers.
O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory, fire-white writing to-night of the Red Man's dreams.
Who squats, legs crossed and arms folded, matching its look against the moon-face, the star-faces, of the West?
Who are the Mississippi Valley ghosts, of copper foreheads, riding wiry ponies in the night?—no bridles, love-arms on the pony necks, riding in the night a long old trail?
# Cornhuskers/Fire-Logs

FIRE-LOGS
Dreams, and the logs sputter,
And the yellow tongues climb.
Red lines lick their way in flickers.
Oh, sputter, logs.
       Oh, dream, Nancy.
Time now for a beautiful child.
# Cornhuskers/Flanders

FLANDERS
Flanders known only to those who lived there
On a land of salt grass and dunes, sand-swept with a sea-breath on it:
This was Flanders, the unknown, the quiet,
The place where cows hunted lush cuds of green on lowlands,
And the raw-boned plowmen took horses with long shanks
Slow-circling windmill arms turning north or west,
Turning to talk to the swaggering winds, the childish winds,
So Flanders sat with the heart of a kitchen girl
# Cornhuskers/Falltime

FALLTIME
Canada thistle blue and flimmering larkspur blue,
Tomatoes shining in the October sun with red hearts,
Shining five and six in a row on a wooden fence,
Why do you keep wishes on your faces all day long,
Wishes like women with half-forgotten lovers going to new cities?
What is there for you in the birds, the birds, the birds, crying down on the north wind in September, acres of birds spotting the air going south?
# Cornhuskers/Cool Tombs

COOL TOMBS
# Cornhuskers/Crimson Rambler

CRIMSON RAMBLER
    begins to crawl over the house
    of our two lives—
    winds across the shingles—
    washed in early sunrises
    climb and spill scarlet
    on a white lattice weave—
    is written on our roof
    and reaching around a chimney—
    to keep strong hands and strong hearts?
# Cornhuskers/Drumnotes

DRUMNOTES
Drum for the dead, drum on your
    remembering heart.
    a slug of lead in the red valves.
Kitchener of Khartoum, tall, cold, proud,
    a shark's mouthful.
Franz Josef, the old man of forty haunted
    kingdoms, in a tomb with the Hapsburg
    fathers, moths eating a green uniform
    to tatters, worms taking all and leaving
    only bones and gold buttons, bones and
    iron crosses.
Jack London, Jim Riley, Verhaeren, riders to
    the republic of dreams.
# Cornhuskers/Films

FILMS
The red ones and the blue, the long ones in stripes, and each of the little black and white checkered ones.
Keep them: I tell my heart: keep them another year, another ten years: they will be wanted again.
They came once, they came easy, they came like a first white flurry of snow in late October,
Like any sudden, presumptuous, beautiful thing, and they were cheap at the price, cheap like snow.
Here a red one and there a long one in yellow stripes,
# Cornhuskers/Flat Lands

FLAT LANDS
The sunsets pour blood and fire over you hundreds and hundreds of nights, flat lands—blood and fire of sunsets thousands of years have been pouring over you.
And the stars follow the sunsets. One gold star. A shower of blue stars. Blurs of white and gray stars. Vast marching processions of stars arching over you flat lands where frogs sob this April night.
# Cornhuskers/Fire Dreams

FIRE DREAMS
(Written to be read aloud, if so be, Thanksgiving Day)
In the flickering reds and saffrons,
They came in a ramshackle tub,
Pilgrims in tall hats,
Pilgrims of iron jaws,
Drifting by weeks on beaten seas,
And the random chapters say
Since the iron-jawed men sat down
And said, "Thanks, O God,"
For life and soup and a little less
Than a hobo handout to-day,
Since gray winds blew gray patterns of sleet on Plymouth Rock,
Since the iron-jawed men sang "Thanks, O God,"
You and I, O Child of the West,
Remember more than ever
November and the hunter^s moon,
In the name of the iron-jawed men
I will stand up and say yes till the finish is come and gone.
God of all broken hearts, empty hands, sleeping soldiers,
God of all star-flung beaches of night sky,
# Daddy-Long-Legs (Webster)/Letter 51

April 24th.
Dear Daddy,
Saturday.
Up before dawn! The night watchman called us—six of us—and we made coffee in a chafing dish (you never saw so many grounds!) and walked two miles to
the top of One Tree Hill to see the sun rise. We had to scramble up the last slope! The sun almost beat us! And perhaps ​you think we didn't bring back appetites to breakfast!
Dear me, Daddy, I seem to have a very ejaculatory style to-day; this page is peppered with exclamations.
I meant to have written a lot about the budding trees and the new cinder path in the athletic field, and the awful lesson we have in biology for to-morrow, and the new canoes on the lake, and Catherine Prentiss who has pneumonia, and Prexy's Angora
kitten that strayed from home and has been boarding in Fergussen Hall for two weeks ​until a chambermaid reported it, and about my three new dresses—white and pink and blue polka dots with a hat to match—but I am too sleepy. I am always making this an excuse, am I not? But a girl's college is a busy place and we do get tired by the end of the day! Particularly when the day begins at dawn.
Affectionately,
Judy.
# Daddy-Long-Legs (Webster)/Letter 55

August 19th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
My window looks out on the loveliest landscape—ocean-scape, rather—nothing but water and rocks.
The summer goes. I spend the morning with Latin and English and algebra and my two stupid girls. I don't know how Marion is ever going to get into college, or stay in after she gets there. And as for Florence, she is hopeless—but oh! such a little beauty. I don't suppose it matters in the least whether they are stupid or not so long as they are pretty? One can't help thinking, though, how their conversation will bore their husbands, unless they are fortunate enough to obtain stupid husbands. I suppose that's quite possible; the world seems ​to be filled with stupid men; I've met a number this summer.
In the afternoon we take a walk on the cliffs, or swim, if the tide is right. I can swim in salt water with the utmost ease—you see my education is already being put to use!
A letter comes from Mr. Jervis Pendleton in Paris, rather a short concise letter; I'm not quite forgiven yet for refusing to follow his advice. However, if he gets back in time, he will see me for a few days at Lock Willow before college opens, and if I am very nice and sweet and docile, I shall (I am led to infer) be received into favour again.
Also a letter from Sallie. She wants me to come to their camp for two weeks in September. Must I ask your permission, or haven't I yet arrived at the place where I can do as I please? Yes, I am sure I have—I'm a Senior, you know. Having worked all summer, I feel like taking a ​little healthful recreation; I want to see the Adirondacks; I want to see Sallie; I want to see Sallie's brother—he's going to teach me to canoe—and (we come to my chief motive, which is mean) I want Master Jervie to arrive at Lock Willow and find me not there.
I must show him that he can't dictate to me. No one can dictate to me but you, Daddy—and you can't always! I'm off for the woods.
Judy.
# Daddy-Long-Legs (Webster)/Letter 58

November 17th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Such a blight has fallen over my literary career. I don't know whether to tell you or not, but I would like some sympathy—silent sympathy, please; don't reopen the wound by referring to it in your next letter.
I've been writing a book, all last winter in the evenings, and all summer when I wasn't teaching Latin to my two stupid children. I just finished it before college opened and sent it to a publisher. He kept it two months, and I was certain he was going to take it; but yesterday morning an express parcel came (thirty cents due) and there it was back again with a letter from the publisher, a very nice, fatherly letter—but frank! He said he saw from the address that I was still at college, and if I ​would accept some advice, he would suggest that I put all of my energy into my lessons and wait until I graduated before beginning to write. He enclosed his reader's opinion. Here it is:
"Plot highly improbable. Characterization exaggerated. Conversation unnatural. A good deal of humour but not always in the best of taste. Tell her to keep on trying, and in time she may produce a real book."
Not on the whole flattering, is it, Daddy? And I thought I was making a notable addition to American literature, I did truly. I was planning to surprise you by writing a great novel before I graduated. I collected the material for it while I was at Julia's last Christmas. But I dare say the editor is right. Probably two weeks was not enough in which to observe the manners and customs of a great city.
I took it walking with me yesterday afternoon, and when I came to the gas house, I went in and asked the engineer if ​I might borrow his furnace. He politely opened the door, and with my own hands I chucked it in. I felt as though I had cremated my only child!
I went to bed last night utterly dejected; I thought I was never going to amount to anything, and that you had thrown away your money for nothing. But what do you think? I woke up this morning with a beautiful new plot in my head, and I've been going about all day planning my characters, just as happy as I could be. No one can ever accuse me of being a pessimist! If I had a husband and twelve children swallowed by an earthquake one day, I'd bob up smilingly the next morning and commence to look for another set.
Affectionately,
Judy.
# Daddy-Long-Legs (Webster)/Letter 59

December 14th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I dreamed the funniest dream last night. I thought I went into a book store and the clerk brought me a new book named "The Life and Letters of Judy Abbott." I could see it perfectly plainly—red cloth binding with a picture of the John Grier Home on the cover, and my portrait for a frontispiece with, "Very truly yours, Judy Abbott," written below. But just as I was turning to the end to read the inscription on my tombstone, I woke up. It was very annoying! I almost found out whom I'm going to marry and when I'm going to die.
Don't you think it would be interesting if you really could read the story of your life—written perfectly truthfully by an omniscient author? And suppose you ​could only read it on this condition: that you would never forget it, but would have to go through life knowing ahead of time exactly how everything you did would turn out, and foreseeing to the exact hour the time when you would die. How many people do you suppose would have the courage to read it then? or how many could suppress their curiosity sufficiently to escape from reading it, even at the price of having to live without hope and without surprises?
Life is monotonous enough at best; you have to eat and sleep about so often. But imagine how deadly monotonous it would be if nothing unexpected could happen between meals. Mercy! Daddy, there's a blot, but I'm on the third page and I can't begin a new sheet.
I'm going on with biology again this year—very interesting subject; we're studying the alimentary system at present. You should see how sweet a cross-section ​of the duodenum of a cat is under the microscope.
Also we've arrived at philosophy—interesting but evanescent. I prefer biology where you can pin the subject under discussion to a board. There's another! And another! This pen is weeping copiously. Please excuse its tears.
Do you believe in free will? I do—unreservedly. I don't agree at all with the philosophers who think that every action is the absolutely inevitable and automatic resultant of an aggregation of remote causes. That's the most immoral doctrine I ever heard—nobody would be to blame for anything. If a man believed in fatalism, he would naturally just sit down and say, "The Lord's will be done," and continue to sit until he fell over dead.
I believe absolutely in my own free will and my own power to accomplish—and that is the belief that moves mountains. You watch me become a great author! I ​have four chapters of my new book finished and five more drafted.
This is a very abstruse letter—does your head ache, Daddy? I think we'll stop now and make some fudge. I'm sorry I can't send you a piece; it will be unusually good, for we're going to make it with real cream and three butter balls.
Yours affectionately,
Judy.
P. S.We're having fancy dancing in gymnasium class. You can see by the accompanying picture how much we look like a real ballet. The one at the end accomplishing a graceful pirouette is me—I mean I.
# Daddy-Long-Legs (Webster)/Letter 52

May 15th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Is it good manners when you get into a car just to stare straight ahead and not see anybody else?
A very beautiful lady in a very beautiful velvet dress got into the car to-day, and without the slightest expression sat for fifteen minutes and looked at a sign advertising suspenders. It doesn't seem polite to ignore everybody else as though you were the only important person present. Anyway, you miss a lot. While she was absorbing that silly sign, I was studying a whole car full of interesting human beings.
The accompanying illustration is hereby reproduced for the first time. It looks like a spider on the end of a string, but it isn't ​at all; it's a picture of me learning to swim in the tank in the gymnasium.
The instructor hooks a rope into a ring in the back of my belt, and runs it through a pulley in the ceiling. It would be a beautiful system if one had perfect confidence in the probity of one's instructor. I'm always afraid, though, that she will let the rope get slack, so I keep one anxious eye on her and swim with the other, and with this divided interest I do not make the progress that I otherwise might.
​Very miscellaneous weather we're having of late. It was raining when I commenced and now the sun is shining. Sallie and I are going out to play tennis—thereby gaining exemption from Gym.
A week later.
I should have finished this letter long ago, but I didn't. You don't mind, do you, Daddy, if I'm not very regular? I really do love to write to you; it gives me such a respectable feeling of having some family. Would you like me to tell you something? You are not the only man to whom I write letters. There are two others! I have been receiving beautiful long letters this winter from Master Jervie (with typewritten envelopes so Julia won't recognize the writing). Did you ever hear anything so shocking? And every week or so a very scrawly epistle, usually on yellow tablet paper, arrives from Princeton. All of which I answer with ​businesslike promptness. So you see—I am not so different from other girls—I get letters, too.
Did I tell you that I have been elected a member of the Senior Dramatic Club? Very recherché organization. Only seventy-five members out of one thousand. Do you think as a consistent Socialist that I ought to belong?
What do you suppose is at present engaging my attention in sociology? I am writing (figurez vous!) a paper on the Care of Dependent Children. The Professor shuffled up his subjects and dealt them out promiscuously, and that fell to me. C'est drôle ça n'est pas?
There goes the gong for dinner. I'll mail this as I pass the chute.
Affectionately,
J.
# Daddy-Long-Legs (Webster)/Letter 53

June 4th.
Dear Daddy,
Very busy time—commencement in ten days, examinations to-morrow; lots of studying, lots of packing, and the outdoor world so lovely that it hurts you to stay inside.
But never mind, vacation's coming. Julia is going abroad this summer—it makes the fourth time. No doubt about it, Daddy, goods are not distributed evenly. Sallie, as usual, goes to the Adirondacks. And what do you think I am going to do? You may have three guesses. Lock Willow? Wrong. The Adirondacks with Sallie? Wrong. (I'll never attempt that again; I was discouraged last year.) Can't you guess anything else? You're not very inventive. I'll tell you, Daddy, ​if you'll promise not to make a lot of objections. I warn your secretary in advance that my mind is made up.
I am going to spend the summer at the seaside with a Mrs. Charles Paterson and tutor her daughter who is to enter college in the autumn. I met her through the McBrides, and she is a very charming woman. I am to give lessons in English and Latin to the younger daughter, too, but I shall have a little time to myself, and I shall be earning fifty dollars a month! Doesn't that impress you as a perfectly exorbitant amount? She offered it; I should have blushed to ask for more than twenty-five.
I finish at Magnolia (that's where she lives) the first of September, and shall probably spend the remaining three weeks at Lock Willow—I should like to see the Semples again and all the friendly animals.
How does my programme strike you, Daddy? I am getting quite independent, ​you see. You have put me on my feet and I think I can almost walk alone by now.
Princeton commencement and our examinations exactly coincide—which is an awful blow. Sallie and I did so want to get away in time for it, but of course that is utterly impossible.
Good-by, Daddy. Have a nice summer and come back in the autumn rested and ready for another year of work. (That's what you ought to be writing to me!) I haven't any idea what you do in the summer, or how you amuse yourself. I can't visualize your surroundings. Do you play golf or hunt or ride horseback or just sit in the sun and meditate?
Anyway, whatever it is, have a good time and don't forget Judy.
# Daddy-Long-Legs (Webster)/Letter 56

Camp McBride,
September 6th.
Dear Daddy,
Your letter didn't come in time (I am pleased to say). If you wish your instructions to be obeyed, you must have your secretary transmit them in less than two weeks. As you observe, I am here, and have been for five days.
The woods are fine, and so is the camp, and so is the weather, and so are the McBrides, and so is the whole world. I'm very happy!
There's Jimmie calling for me to come canoeing. Good-by—sorry to have disobeyed, but why are you so persistent about not wanting me to play a little? When I've worked all summer I deserve two ​weeks. You are awfully dog-in-the-mangerish.
However—I love you still, Daddy, in spite of all your faults.
Judy.
# Daddy-Long-Legs (Webster)/Letter 57

October 3rd.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Back at college and a Senior—also editor of the Monthly. It doesn't seem possible, does it, that so sophisticated a person, just four years ago, was an inmate of the John Grier Home? We do arrive fast in America!
What do you think of this? A note from Master Jervie directed to Lock Willow and forwarded here. He's sorry but he finds that he can't get up there this autumn; he has accepted an invitation to go yachting with some friends. Hopes I've had a nice summer and am enjoying the country.
And he knew all the time that I was with the McBrides, for Julia told him so! You ​men ought to leave intrigue to women; you haven't a light enough touch.
Julia has a trunkful of the most ravishing new clothes—an evening gown of rainbow Liberty crêpe that would be fitting raiment for the angels in Paradise. And I thought that my own clothes this year were unprecedentedly (is there such a word?) beautiful. I copied Mrs. Paterson's wardrobe with the aid of a cheap dressmaker, and though the gowns didn't turn out quite twins of the originals, I was entirely happy until Julia unpacked. But now—I live to see Paris!
Dear Daddy, aren't you glad you're not a girl? I suppose you think that the fuss we make over clothes is too absolutely silly? It is. No doubt about it. But it's entirely your fault.
Did you ever hear about the learned Herr Professor who regarded unnecessary adornment with contempt, and favoured sensible, utilitarian clothes for women? His wife, ​who was an obliging creature, adopted "dress reform." And what do you think he did? He eloped with a chorus girl.
Yours ever,
Judy.
P.S.The chamber-maid on our corridor wears blue checked gingham aprons. I am going to get her some brown ones instead, and sink the blue ones in the bottom of the lake. I have a reminiscent chill every time I look at them.
# Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Brewer, Antony

​BREWER, ANTONY (fl. 1655), dramatic writer, wrote 'The Love-sick King, an English Tragical History, with the Life and Death of Cartesmunda, the Fair Nun of Winchester, by Anth. Brewer,' 1655, 4to ; revived at the King's Theatre in 1680, and reprinted in that year under the title of 'The Perjured Nun,' 4to. Chetwood included the 'Love-sick King' in his 'Select Collection of Old Plays,' published at Dublin in 1750, but he made no attempt to correct the text of the old edition, which was printed with the grossest carelessness. The play was written in verse, but it is printed almost throughout as prose. Yet after all allowance has been made for textual corruptions, it cannot be said that the 'Love-sick King' is a work of much ability ; and it is rash to follow Kirkman, Baker, and Halliwell in identifying Antony Brewer with the 'T. B.' whose name is on the title-page of the 'Country Girl,' 1647, 4to, a well-written comedy, which in parts (notably in the third act) closely recalls the diction and versification of Massinger. There is no known dramatist of the time to whom the initials T. B. could belong. There was a versatile writer named Thomas Brewer [q. v.], and the title-pages to his tracts are usually signed with his initials, not with the full name. His claim to the 'Country Girl' would be quite as reasonable as Antony [Tony] Brewer's. In 1677 John Leanerd, whom Langbaine calls 'a confident plagiarist,' reprinted the 'Country Girl,' with a few slight alterations, as his own, under the title of 'Country Innocence.' To Antony Brewer was formerly ascribed 'Lingua, or the Combat of the Five Senses for Superiority,' 1607, 4to, a well-known dramatic piece (included in the various editions of Dodsley), constructed partly in the style of a morality and partly of a masque. The mistake arose thus. Kirkman, the bookseller and publisher, in printing his catalogues of plays, left blanks where the names of the writers were unknown to him. Annexed to the 'Love-sick King' was the name Antony Brewer ; then came the plays 'Landgartha,' 'Love's Loadstone,' ' Lingua,' and 'Love's Dominion.' Phillips, who was followed by Winstanley, misunderstanding the use of Kirkman's blanks, promptly assigned all these pieces to Brewer. One other play, 'The Merry Devil of Edmonton,' 1608, 4to, has been with similar carelessness pronounced to be Antony Brewer's on the strength of an entry in the Stationers' Registry which refers to the prose tract of the 'Merry Devil ' [see Brewer, Thomas]. The play was entered in the registers on 22 Oct. 1607 (Arber's Transcripts, iii. 362).
[Langbaine's English Dramatic Poets; Biographia Dramatica, ed. Stephen Jones; Halliwell's Dictionary of Old Plays.]
A. H. B.