OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The New International Encyclopædia/Schumacher, Heinrich Christian

Edition of 1905. See also Heinrich Christian Schumacher on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
SCHUMACHER, shōō'mäG-ẽr, Heinrich Christian (1780-1850). A Danish astronomer, born at Bramstedt, Holstein. He studied at Kiel, Jena, Copenhagen, and Göttingen. In 1810 he became adjunct professor of astronomy in Copenhagen. In 1813 he was appointed director of the Mannheim observatory, and in 1815 professor of astronomy and director of the Copenhagen observatory. In 1822 he published tables of the distances of Jupiter, Saturn, Mars, and Venus
from the moon. In 1822 he began the publication of his Astronomische Nachrichten, which is still continued in an unbroken series, and is regarded as perhaps the most important of astronomical periodicals. He also published, in coöperation with other eminent astronomers, Astronomisches Jahrbuch (1836-44).
# The Man in the Panther's Skin/Chapter 38

XXXVIII
THE LETTER WRITTEN BY NESTAN-DAREDJAN TO P'HATMAN
1262. "I, the sun-faced, write: O dame, O mother, better than a mother to me! See what the world (Fate) hath done to me its thrall! Alas! there is added to those griefs of mine still another! Now that I have seen thy missive it hath greatly encouraged me.
1263. "Thou didst save me from two sorcerers; thou didst alleviate my woes. Now I am thus held here by the whole force of the Kadjis; a whole realm, many thousand heroes, guard me alone. Ill befell my counsels and resolves (to flee from P'hatman).
1264. "What other tidings hence can I write to thee? The king (i.e., queen) of the Kadjis is not come, nor will the Kadjis yet come; but countless hosts guard me, and with what bravery! (?) What! the quest for me! It is not possible, believe me!
1265. "Whoever is come seeking me is wearied in vain; he suffers, he is consumed, he is kindled for me, a flame like fire burns him. But I envy him, he hath seen the sun, thus is he not frozen. Without him, alas! what great pity my life is!
1266. "Formerly I told thee not my story, I hid it from thee for that my tongue could not speak it; I spared myself woes. I entreat thee, beg my beloved to have pity and not come in search of me, write to him, send him a message.
1267. "What afflicts me is enough, let him not slay me with (a woe) equal to this: I should see him a corpse, I should die a double death. None can help me, I know this for a truth; this is no gossip. If he (Tariel) will ​not hearken to thee, stone me with a heap of black stone!
1268. "Thou didst ask me to send a token, show this: I send a cutting from the veils he gave me; these (veils) for his sake are a fair sight to me, though in colour they are black, like my fate."
* ↑ Khat'huno, 1049.
* ↑ Gmirebi, 1365.
* ↑ Sialp'he re, Car., 487, 1017, 1492. Cf. re, M., iv., p. r m v.
* ↑ Dasturad, P., 129, 975.
* ↑ Dchori, 185, 422.
* ↑ Qore or qori, Ch., "unmortared stone wall, heap of boundary stones, mound." Cf. 1540, brolisa qorebi; Abul. gives grova, heap, as a synonym.
* ↑ Gamzhghavneba, 429.
# The Modern Review/Volume 4

July to December, 1908
* Number 1 (July)
* Number 2 (August)
* Number 3 (September)
* Number 4 (October)
* Number 5 (November)
* Number 6 (December)
# The Modern Review/Volume 43

January to June, 1928
* Number 1 (January)
* Number 2 (February)
* Number 3 (March)
* Number 4 (April)
* Number 5 (May)
* Number 6 (June)
# The Modern Review/Volume 39

January to June, 1926
* Number 1 (January)
* Number 2 (February)
* Number 3 (March)
* Number 4 (April)
* Number 5 (May)
* Number 6 (June)
# The Modern Review/Volume 5

January to June, 1909
* Number 1 (January)
* Number 2 (February)
* Number 3 (March)
* Number 4 (April)
* Number 5 (May)
* Number 6 (June)
# The Modern Review/Volume 5/Number 1

January, 1909
# The Modern Review/Volume 44

July to December, 1928
* Number 1 (July)
* Number 2 (August)
* Number 3 (September)
* Number 4 (October)
* Number 5 (November)
* Number 6 (December)
# The Modern Review/Volume 40

July to December, 1926
* Number 1 (July)
* Number 2 (August)
* Number 3 (September)
* Number 4 (October)
* Number 5 (November)
* Number 6 (December)
# The Modern Review/Volume 41

January to June, 1927
* Number 1 (January)
* Number 2 (February)
* Number 3 (March)
* Number 4 (April)
* Number 5 (May)
* Number 6 (June)
# The Modern Review/Volume 42

July to December, 1927
* Number 1 (July)
* Number 2 (August)
* Number 3 (September)
* Number 4 (October)
* Number 5 (November)
* Number 6 (December)
# The New Penelope/Polk County Hills

Later published as "Autumn in the Hills." Published in History of Oregon Literature/Chapter 18
POLK COUNTY HILLS.
November came that day, And all the air was gray With delicate mists, blown down From hill-tops by the south wind's balmy breath; And all the oaks were brown As Egypt's kings in death; The maple's crown of gold Laid tarnished on the wold; The alder and the ash, the aspen and the willow, Wore tattered suits of yellow.
​The soft October rains Had left some scarlet stains Of color on the landscape's neutral ground; Those fine ephemeral things, The winged motes of sound, That sing the "Harvest Home" Of ripe Autumn in the gloam Of the deep and bosky woods, in the field and by the river, Sang that day their best endeavor.
I said: "In what sweet place Shall we meet face to face, Her loveliest self to see— Meet Nature at her sad autumnal rites, And learn the mystery Of her unnamed delights?" Then you said: "Let us go Where the late violets blow In hollows of the hills, under dead oak leaves hiding;— We'll find she's there abiding."
Do we recall that day? Has its grace passed away? Its tenderest, dream-like tone, Like one of Turner's landscapes limned on air— Has its fine perfume flown And left the memory bare? Not so; its charm is still Over wood, vale and hill— The ferny odor sweet, the humming insect chorus, The spirit that before us
Enticed us with delights To the blue, breezy hights. ​O, beautiful hills that stand Serene 'twixt earth and heaven, with the grace Of both to make you grand,— Your loveliness leaves place For nothing fairer; fair And complete beyond compare. O, lovely purple hills, O, first day of November, Be sure that I remember!
# The New Penelope/Souvenir

SOUVENIR.
You ask me, "Do you think of me? Dear, thoughts of thee are like this river, Which pours itself into the sea, Yet empties its own channel never.
All other thoughts are like these sail Drifting the river's surface over; They veer about with every gale— The river keeps its course forever.
So deep and still, so strong and true, The current of my soul sets thee-ward, Thy river I, my ocean you, And all myself am running seaward.
# The New Penelope/Passing by Helicon

PASSING BY HELICON.
My steps are turned away; Yet my eyes linger still, On their beloved hill, In one long, last survey: Gazing through tears that multiply the view, Their passionate adieu!
O, joy-empurpled height, Down whose enchanted sides The rosy mist now glides, ​How can I loose thy sight? How can my eyes turn where my feet must go, Trailing their way in woe?
Gone is my strength of heart; The roses that I brought From thy dear bowers, and thought To keep, since we must part— Thy thornless roses, sweeter until now, Than round Hymettus' brow.
The golden-vested bees Find sweetest sweetness in— Such odors dwelt within The moist red hearts of these— Alas, no longer give out blissful breath, But odors rank with death.
Their dewiness is dank; It chills my pallid arms, Once blushing 'neath their charms; And their green stems hang lank, Stricken with leprosy, and fair no more, But withered to the core.
Vain thought! to bear along, Into this torrid track, Whence no one turneth back With his first wanderer's song Yet on his lips, thy odors and thy dews, To deck these dwarfed yews.
No more within thy vales, Beside thy plashing wells, Where sweet Euterpe dwells With songs of nightingales, And sounds of flutes that make pale Silence glow, Shall I their rapture know.
​Farewell, ye stately palms! Clashing your cymbal tones, In thro' the mystic moans Of pines at solemn psalms: Ye myrtles, singing Love's inspired song, We part, and part for long!
Farewell, majestic peaks! Whereon my listening soul Hath trembled to the roll Of thunders that Jove wreaks— And calm Minerva's oracles hath heard All more than now unstirred!
Adieu, ye beds of bloom! No more shall zephyr bring To me, upon his wing, Your loveliest perfume; No more upon your pure, immortal dyes, Shall rest my happy eyes.
I pass by; at thy foot, O, mount of my delight! Ere yet from out thy sight, I drop my voiceless lute: It is in vain to strive to carry hence Its olden eloquence.
Your sacred groves no more My singing shall prolong, With echoes of my song, Doubling it o'er and o'er. Haunt of the muses, lost to wistful eyes, What dreams of thee shall rise!
​Rise but to be dispelled— For here where I am cast, Such visions may not last, By sterner fancies quelled: Relentless Nemesis my doom hath sent— This cruel banishment!
# The New Penelope/Sunset at the Mouth of the Columbia

SUNSET AT THE MOUTH OF THE COLUMBIA.
There sinks the sun; like cavalier of old, Servant of crafty Spain, He flaunts his banner, barred with blood and gold, Wide o'er the western main, A thousand spear heads glint beyond the trees In columns bright and long: While kindling fancy hears upon the breeze The swell and shout of song.
And yet, not here Spain's gay, adventurous host, Dipped sword or planted cross; The treasures guarded by this rock-bound coast, Counted them gain nor loss. The blue Columbia, sired by the eternal hills, ​And wedded with the sea; O'er golden sands, tithes from a thousand rills, Rolled in lone majesty—
Through deep ravine, through burning, barren plain, Through wild and rocky strait, Through forest dark, and mountain rent in twain, Toward the sunset gate. While curious eyes, keen with the lust of gold, Caught not the informing gleam; These mighty breakers age on age have rolled To meet this mighty stream.
Age after age these noble hills have kept, The same majestic lines: Age after age the horizon's edge been swept By fringe of pointed pines. Summers and Winters circling came and went, Bringing no change of scene; Unresting, and unhasting, and unspent, Dwelt nature here serene.
Till God's own time to plant of Freedom's seed, In this selected soil; Denied forever unto blood and greed; But blest to honest toil. There sinks the sun. Gay Cavalier! no more His banners trail the sea, And all his legions shining on the shore Fade into mystery.
The swelling tide laps on the shingly beach, Like any starving thing; And hungry breakers, white with wrath, upreach, In vain clamoring. The shadows fall; just level with mine eye Sweet Hesper stands and shines, ​And shines beneath an arc of golden sky, Pinked round with pointed pines.
A noble scene! all breadth, deep tone and power, Suggesting glorious themes; Shaming the idler who would fill the hour With unsubstantial dreams. Be mine the dreams prophetic, shadowing forth The things that yet shall be, When through this gate the treasures of the North Flow outward to the sea.
# The New Penelope/Palma

PALMA.
What tellest thou to heaven, Thou royal tropic tree? At morn or noon or even, Proud dweller by the sea, What is thy song to heaven?
The homesick heart that fainted In torrid sun and air, With peace becomes acquainted Beholding thee so fair— With joy becomes acquainted:
And charms itself with fancies About thy kingly race— With gay and wild romances That mimic thee in grace— Of supple, glorious fancies.
I feel thou art not tender, Scion of sun and sea— The wild-bird does not render To thee its minstrelsy— Fearing thou art not tender:
But calm, serene and saintly, As highborn things should be: Who, if they love us faintly, Make us love reverently, Because they are so saintly.
​To be loved without loving, O proud and princely palm! Is to fancy our ship moving With the ocean at dead calm— The joy of love is loving.
Because the Sun did sire thee, The Ocean nurse thy youth, Because the Stars desire thee, The warm winds whisper truth, Shall nothing ever fire thee?
What is thy tale to heaven In the sultry tropic noon? What whisperest thou at even To the dusky Indian Moon— Has she sins to be forgiven?
Keep all her secrets; loyal As only great souls are— As only souls most royal, To the flower or to the star Alike are purely loyal.
O Palma, if thou hearest, Thou proud and princely tree! Thou knowest that my Dearest Is emblemed forth in thee— My kingly Palm, my Dearest.
I am his Moon admiring, His wooing Wind, his Star; And I glory in desiring My Palm-tree from afar— Glad as happier lovers are, Am happy in desiring!
# The New Penelope/Palo Santo

PALO SANTO.
In the deep woods of Mexico, Where screams the "painted paraquet," And mocking-birds flit to and fro, With borrowed notes they half forget; Where brilliant flowers and poisonous vines Are mingled in a firm embrace, And the same gaudy plant entwines Some reptile of a poisonous race; Where spreads the Itos' icy shade, Benumbing, even in summer's heat, The thoughtless traveler who hath laid Himself to noonday slumbers sweet;— Where skulks unseen the beast of prey— The native robber glares and hides,— And treacherous death keeps watch alway On him who flies, or he who bides.
In these deep tropic woods there grows A tree, whose tall and silvery bole Above the dusky forest shows, As shining as a saintly soul Among the souls of sinful men;— Lifting its milk-white flowers to heaven, And breathing incense out, as when The passing saints of earth are shriven.
The skulking robber drops his eyes, And signs himself with holy cross, If, far between him and the skies, He sees its pearly blossoms toss. The wanderer halts to gaze upon The lovely vision, far or near, And smiles and sighs to think of one He wishes for the moment here.
​The Mexic native fears not fang Of poisonous serpent, vine, nor bee, If he may soothe the baleful pang With juices of this "holy tree."
How do we all, in life's wild ways, Which oft we traverse lost and lone, Need that which heavenward draws the gaze, Some Palo Santo of our own!
# The New Penelope/Repose

REPOSE.
I lay me down straight, with closed eyes, And pale hands folded across my breast, Thinking, unpained, of the sad surprise Of those who shall find me thus fall'n to rest; And the grief in their looks when they learn no endeavor, Can disturb my repose—for my sleep is forever. ​I know that a smile will lie hid in my eyes, Even a soft throb of joy stir the pulse in my breast, When they sit down to mourning, with tears and with sighs, And shudder at death, which to me is but rest.
So sweet to be parted at once from our pain; To put off our care as a robe that is worn; To drop like a link broken out of a chain, And be lost in the sands by Time's tide overborne: And to know at my loss all the wildest regretting, Will be as a foot-print, washed out in forgetting. To be certain of this—that my faults perish first; That when they behold me so calmly asleep, They can but forgive me my errors at worst, And speak of my praises alone as they weep.
"Whom the gods love die young," they will say; Though they should think it, they will not say so: "Whom the world pierces with thorns pass away, Grieving, yet asking and longing to go!" No, when they see how divine my repose is, They'll forget that my-life-path is not over roses; And they'll whisper together, with hands full of flowers, How always I loved them to wear on my breast; And strewing them over my bosom in showers, With hands shaken by sobs, leave me softly to rest.
There is one who will come when the rest are away; One bud of a rose will he bring for my hair; He knows how I liked it, worn always that way, And his fingers will tremble while placing it there. Yes, he'll remember those soft June-day closes, When the sky was as flushed as our own crimson roses; He'll remember the flush on the sky and the flowers, And the red on my cheek where his lips had been prest; But the throes of his heart in the long, silent hours, Will disturb not my dreams, so profoundly I'll rest.
​So, all will forget, what to think of mere pain, That the heart now asleep in this solemn repose, Had contended with tempests of sorrow in vain, And gone down in the strife at the feet of its foes: They will choose to be mute when a deed I have done, Or a word I have spoke I can no more atone; They'll remember I loved them, was faithful and true; They'll not say what a wild will abode in my breast; But repeat to each other, as if they were new, Old stories of what did the loved one at rest.
Ah! while I lie soothing my soul with this dream, The terror of waking comes back to my heart; Why is it not as I thus make it seem? Must I come back to the world, ere we part? Deep was the swoon of my spirit—why break it? Why bring me back to the struggles that shake it? Alas, there is room on my feet for fresh bruises— The flowers are not dead on my brow or my breast— When shall I learn "sweet adversity's uses," And my tantalized spirit be truly at rest!
# The Monumental Inscriptions in the Parish Church of S. Michael, Coventry/Pulpit

Pulpit.
A fine example of metal work, the upper part being entirely of brass, supported by open iron work; it was designed and manufactured by Mr. F. A. Skidmore. It is placed against the South pillar of the chancel; upon a band at the base of the pulpit is engraved—
   "To the glory of God and in | loving memory of Ernest Edward | their only son this pulpit was | erected in this Church by | Robert Arnold and Sarah Dalton | Easter day 1869." |
The steps are of oak, with brass rail, and bears a brass plate engraved—
   "| To you is the word of this Salvation sent. |
​ Mr. Dalton has served the office of Churchwarden ; is an Alderman of the City, and was Mayor in 1873. He presented to the Corporation the massive gold chain of office now worn by the Mayor.
# The Moods of Ginger Mick

The Moods of Ginger Mick sold 42,350 copies in six months, and has been described as the catalyst of the Digger myth.
It tells the story of a violent larrikin who goes to war for his country, is wounded behind enemy lines and becomes a decorated hero.
| "There's a good green land awaitin' you." | THE MOODS of GINGER MICK By C.J. Dennis SYDNEY: ANGUS & ROBERTSON LTD. |
THE MOODS OF GINGER MICK
BY
C. J. DENNIS Author of "The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke," etc.
With Illustrations by Hal Gye
SYDNEY
ANGUS & ROBERTSON LTD.
89 CASTLEREAGH STREET
1916
The Author desires to acknowledge the previous publication in "The Bulletin," Sydney, of numbers III., V., VI., VII., VIII., IX., X., and XII., herein printed. The remaining verses are now published for the first time.
Copyright throughout the British Empire and in the United States of America.
Dramatic, Cinema and all other Rights are Reserved.
W. C. Penfold & Co. Ltd., Printers, 183 Pitt Street. Sydney
DEDICATED TO
THE BOYS WHO TOOK THE COUNT
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION :
| | Jist to intrajuice me cobber, an' 'is name is Ginger Mick ... | ix |
| I. | DUCK AN' FOWL | |
| | Now, when a bloke 'e cracks a bloke fer insults to a skirt ... | 15 |
| II. | WAR | |
| | 'E sez to me, "Wot's orl this flamin' war?" ... | 23 |
| III. | THE CALL OF STOUSH | |
| | Wot price ole Ginger Mick? 'E's done a break ... | 29 |
| IV. | THE PUSH | |
| | Becos a crook done in a prince, an' narked an Emperor ... | 37 |
| V. | SARI BAIR | |
| | So, they've struck their streak o' trouble, an' they got it in the neck | 45 |
| VI. | GINGER'S COBBER | |
| | "'E wears perjarmer soots an' cleans 'is teeth," | 51 ​ |
| VII. | THE SINGING SOLDIERS | |
| | "When I'm sittin' in me dug-out wiv me rifle on me knees ... | 61 |
| VIII. | IN SPADGER'S LANE | |
| | Ole Mother Moon 'oo yanks 'er beamin' dile ... | 69 |
| IX. | THE STRAIGHT GRIFFIN | |
| | "'Eroes? Orright. You 'ave it 'ow yeh like, | 77 |
| X. | A LETTER TO THE FRONT | |
| | I 'ave written Mick a letter in reply to one uv 'is ... | 85 |
| XI. | RABBITS | |
| | "Ar! Gimme fights wiv foemen I kin see ..." | 91 |
| XII. | TO THE BOYS WHO TOOK THE COUNT | |
| | See, I'm writin' to Mick as a bloke to a bloke ... | 101 |
| XIII. | THE GAME | |
| | "Ho! the sky's as blue as blazes an' the sun is shinin' bright | 109 |
| XIV. | "A GALLANT GENTLEMAN" | |
| | A month ago the world grew grey far me ... | 117 |
| | THE GLOSSARY | 127 |
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 1938, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 85 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 Moon and Sixpence/Chapter VII

THE season was drawing to its dusty end, and everyone I knew was arranging to go away. Mrs. Strickland was taking her family to the coast of Norfolk, so that the children might have the sea and her husband golf. We said good-bye to one another, and arranged to meet in the autumn. But on my last day in town, coming out of the Stores, I met her with her son and daughter; like myself, she had been making her final purchases before leaving London, and we were both hot and tired. I proposed that we should all go and eat ices in the park.
I think Mrs. Strickland was glad to show me her children, and she accepted my invitation with alacrity. They were even more attractive than their photographs had suggested, and she was right to be proud of them. I was young enough for them not to feel shy, and they chattered merrily about one thing and another. They were extraordinarily nice, healthy young children. It was very agreeable under the trees.
When in an hour they crowded into a cab to go home, I strolled idly to my club. I was perhaps a little lonely, and it was with a touch of envy that I thought of the pleasant family life of which I had had a glimpse. They seemed devoted to one another. They had little private jokes of their own which, unintelligible to the outsider, amused them enormously. Perhaps Charles Strickland was dull judged by a standard that demanded above all things verbal scintillation; but his intelligence was adequate to his surroundings, and that is a passport, not only to reasonable success, but still more to happiness. Mrs. Strickland was a charming woman, and she loved him. I pictured their lives, troubled by no untoward adventure, honest, decent, and, by reason of those two upstanding, pleasant children, so obviously destined to carry on the normal traditions of their race and station, not without significance. They would grow old insensibly; they would see their son and daughter come to years of reason, marry in due course—the one a pretty girl, future mother of healthy children; the other a handsome, manly fellow, obviously a soldier; and at last, prosperous in their dignified retirement, beloved by their descendants, after a happy, not unuseful life, in the fullness of their age they would sink into the grave.
That must be the story of innumerable couples, and the pattern of life it offers has a homely grace. It reminds you of a placid rivulet, meandering smoothly through green pastures and shaded by pleasant trees, till at last it falls into the vasty sea; but the sea is so calm, so silent, so indifferent, that you are troubled suddenly by a vague uneasiness. Perhaps it is only by a kink in my nature, strong in me even in those days, that I felt in such an existence, the share of the great majority, something amiss. I recognised its social values, I saw its ordered happiness, but a fever in my blood asked for a wilder course. There seemed to me something alarming in such easy delights. In my heart was a desire to live more dangerously. I was not unprepared for jagged rocks and treacherous shoals if I could only have change—change and the excitement of the unforeseen.