OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# A Trap for Santa Claus

* related portals: Christmas film, Drama film, Silent film.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
Cast and Crew :
| Cast ||
| Role | Actor |
| | Henry B. Walthall |
| | Marion Leonard |
| | Gladys Egan |
| | Kate Bruce |
| | William J. Butler |
| | W. Chrystie Miller |
| | John Tansey |
| | Charles Craig |
| | Anthony O'Sullivan |
| | Mack Sennett |
| Crew ||
| Production company | Biograph Company |
| Distributor | Biograph Company |
| Director | D. W. Griffith (d. 1948) |
| Cinematographer | Billy Bitzer (d. 1944) |
| Based on available information, the latest crew member that is relevant to international copyright laws died in 1948, meaning that this film may be in the public domain in countries and jurisdictions with 75 years p.m.a. or less, as well as in the United States. ||
A TRAP FOR SANTA
COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY BIOGRAPH COMPANY NEW YORK
NO WORK FOR THE FATHER, MISERY AND WANT THE FAMILY'S LOT
CRUSHED IN SPIRIT, THE MAN SEEKS SOLACE IN DRINK
HELPLESS, THE FATHER LEAVES THE HOUSE OF SORROW
Arthur
Employment Agency
THE AUNT'S ESTATE LONG IN LITIGATION, HAD BEEN SETTLED, LEAVING THE MOTHER A MODERATE FORTUNE
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
THERE IS NO CHIMNEY SO SANTA CLAUS WILL COME THROUGH THE WINDOW
THE CHILDREN SET A TRAP FOR SANTA
GRIM MISFORTUNE FORCES THE FATHER TO DESPERATE DEEDS
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 1948, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 75 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
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/To a Canadian Aviator who died for his Country in France

TO A CANADIAN AVIATOR WHO DIED FOR HIS COUNTRY IN FRANCE
TOSSED like a falcon from the hunter's wrist, A sweeping plunge, a sudden shattering noise, And thou hast dared, with a long spiral twist, The elastic stairway to the rising sun. Peril below thee, and above, peril Within thy car; but peril cannot daunt Thy peerless heart: gathering wing and poise, Thy plane transfigured, and thy motor-chant Subduèd to a whisper—then a silence,— And thou art but a disembodied venture In the void.
But Death, who has learned to fly, Still matchless when his work is to be done, Met thee between the armies and the sun; Thy speck of shadow faltered in the sky; Then thy dead engine and thy broken wings Drooped through the arc and passed in fire, A wreath of smoke—a breathless exhalation. But ere that came a vision sealed thine eyes, ​Lulling thy senses with oblivion; And from its sliding station in the skies Thy dauntless soul upward in circles soared To the sublime and purest radiance whence it sprang.
In all their eyries eagles shall mourn thy fate, And leaving on the lonely crags and scaurs Their unprotected young, shall congregate High in the tenuous heaven and anger the sun With screams, and with a wild audacity Dare all the battle danger of thy flight; Till weary with combat one shall desert the light, Fall like a bolt of thunder and check his all On the high ledge, smoky with mist and cloud, Where his neglected eaglets shriek aloud, And drawing the film across his sovereign sight Shall dream of thy swift soul immortal Mounting in circles, faithful beyond death.
Duncan Campbell Scott
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/To a Soldier in Hospital

TO A SOLDIER IN HOSPITAL
COURAGE came to you with your boyhood's grace Of ardent life and limb. Each day new dangers steeled you to the test, To ride, to climb, to swim. Your hot blood taught you carelessness of death With every breath.
So when you went to play another game You could not but be brave: An Empire's team, a rougher football field, The end—perhaps your grave. What matter? On the winning of a goal You staked your soul.
Yes, you wore courage as you wore your youth With carelessness and joy. But in what Spartan school of discipline Did you get patience, boy? How did you learn to bear this long-drawn pain And not complain?
Restless with throbbing hopes, with thwarted aims, Impulsive as a colt, How do you lie here month by weary month Helpless, and not revolt? What joy can these monotonous days afford Here in a ward?
Yet you are merry as the birds in spring, Or feign the gaiety, Lest those who dress and tend your wound each day Should guess the agony. Lest they should suffer—this is the only fear You let draw near.
​Greybeard philosophy has sought in books And argument this truth, That man is greater than his pain, but you Have learnt it in your youth. You know the wisdom taught by Calvary At twenty-three.
Death would have found you brave, but braver still You face each lagging day, A merry Stoic, patient, chivalrous, Divinely kind and gay. You bear your knowledge lightly, graduate Of unkind Fate.
Careless philosopher, the first to laugh, The latest to complain, Unmindful that you teach, you taught me this In your long fight with pain: Since God made man so good—here stands my creed— God's good indeed.
Winifred M. Letts
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/To my Godson

TO MY GODSON
THEY shall come back through Heaven's bars When June has filled the world with joy, And you are seeking playmates, boy, To share your Kingdom of the stars; Or part with you the bracken fronds Where golden armoured knights may ride, Or learn where baby rabbits hide, Or dabble in the silver ponds.
O all the pipes of fairyland Shall give you royal welcoming And all the fairy bells shall ring And you will wander hand in hand. But through the music gay and sweet That fairies teach their chosen ones Shall sound an echo of the guns And high ambition's drum will beat.
​For they who died lest all that's good And beautiful and brave and free Should sink in Hell's obscurity, These claim you in a brotherhood. The lot is fallen, O child to you To finish all they had to leave, And by their sacrifice achieve The manifold desires they knew.
And you shall feel their ardour burn Like flaming fires within your heart, In all your life they'll have a part And all their secrets you shall learn. They would have guided your young feet, Kind, but so far from boyhood's day, But death has found a surer way Of making comradeship complete.
O all the pipes of fairyland Shall play for you, shall play for them, Their flame of radiant life will stem Evil you scarce could understand. They'll bid you raise your wondering eyes, Till, far above you, you shall see The Beauty that they knew might be, Calling you from the starlit skies.
Mildred Huxley
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/To Tony (aged 3)

TO TONY (AGED 3)
(In memory T. P. C. W.)
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/To the Belgians

BELGIUM
TO THE BELGIANS
ORACE that Cæsar knew, That won stern Roman praise, What land not envies you The laurel of these days?
You built your cities rich Around each towered hall,— Without, the statued niche Within, the pictured wall.
Your ship-thronged wharves, your marts With gorgeous Venice vied. Peace and her famous arts Were yours: though tide on tide
Of Europe's battle scourged Black field and reddened soil, From blood and smoke emerged Peace and her fruitful toil.
Yet when the challenge rang, "The War-Lord comes; give room!" Fearless to arms you sprang Against the odds of doom.
​Like your own Damien Who sought that leper's isle To die a simple man For men with tranquil smile.
So strong in faith you dared Defy the giant, scorn Ignobly to be spared, Though trampled, spoiled, and torn.
And in your faith arose And smote, and smote again, Till those astonished foes Reeled from their mounds of slain.
The faith that the free soul, Untaught by force to quail, Through fire and dirge and dole Prevails and shall prevail.
Still for your frontier stands The host that knew no dread, Your little, stubborn land's Nameless, immortal dead.
Laurence Binyon
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/To a Canadian Lad, Killed in the War

TO A CANADIAN LAD, KILLED IN THE WAR
O NOBLE youth that held our honour in keeping, And bore it sacred through the battle flame, How shall we give full measure of acclaim To thy sharp labour, thy immortal reaping? For though we sowed with doubtful hands, half sleeping, Thou in thy vivid pride hast reaped a nation, And brought it in with shouts and exultation, With drums and trumpets, with flags flashing and leaping.
​Let us bring pungent wreaths of balsam, and tender Tendrils of wild-flowers, lovelier for thy daring, And deck a sylvan shrine, where the maple parts The moonlight, with lilac bloom, and the splendour Of suns unwearied; all unwithered wearing Thy valour stainless in our heart of hearts.
Duncan Campbell Scott
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/To a Dog

TO A DOG
PAST happiness dissolves. It fades away, Ghost-like, in that dim attic of the mind To which the dreams of childhood are consigned. Here, withered garlands hang in slow decay, And trophies glimmer in the dying ray Of stars that once with heavenly glory shined. But you old friend, are you still left behind To tell the nearness of life's yesterday?
​Ah, boon companion of my vanished boy, For you he lives; in every sylvan walk He waits; and you expect him everywhere. How would you stir, what cries, what bounds of joy, If but his voice were heard in casual talk, If but his footstep sounded on the stair!
John Jay Chapman
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/To a Skylark behind Our Trenches

TO A SKYLARK BEHIND OUR TRENCHES
THOU little voice! Thou happy sprite, How didst thou gain the air and light— That sing'st so merrily? How could such little wings Give thee thy freedom from these dense And fetid tombs—these burrows whence We peer like frightened things? In the free sky Thou sail'st while here we crawl and creep And fight and sleep And die.
How canst thou sing while Nature lies Bleeding and torn beneath thine eyes, And the foul breath Of rank decay hangs like a shroud Over the fields the shell hath ploughed? How canst thou sing, so gay and glad, Whilst all the heavens are filled with death And all the world is mad?
Yet sing! For at thy song The tall trees stand up straight and strong And stretch their twisted arms. And smoke ascends from pleasant farms And the shy flowers their odours give. Once more the riven pastures smile, And for a while We live.
Edward de Stein
France, May, 1916.
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/To my Pupils, Gone before Their Day

TO MY PUPILS, GONE BEFORE THEIR DAY
YOU seemed so young, to know So little, those few months or years ago, Who may by now have disentwined The inmost secrets of the Eternal Mind.
Yours seemed an easy part, To construe, learn some trivial lines by heart: Yet to your hands has God assigned The burden of the sorrows of mankind.
You passed the brief school year In expectation of some long career, Then yielded up all years to find That long career that none can leave behind.
If you had lived, some day You would have passed my room, and chanced to say, "I wonder if it's worth the grind Of all those blunders he has underlined."
Perhaps! if at the end You in your turn shall teach me how to mend The many errors whose effect Eternity awaits us to correct.
Guy Kendall
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/To our Dead

TO OUR DEAD
SLEEP well, heroic souls, in silence sleep, Lapped in the circling arms of kindly death! No ill can vex your slumbers, no foul breath Of slander, hate, derision mar the deep Repose that holds you close. Your kinsmen reap The harvest you have sown, while each man saith: "So would I choose, when danger threateneth, Let my death be as theirs." We dare not weep.
For you have scaled the starry heights of fame, Nor ever shrunk from peril and distress In fight undaunted for the conqueror's prize; Therefore your death, engirt with loveliness Of simple service done for England's name, Shall shine like beacon-stars of sacrifice.
W. L. Courtney
# A Little Pretty Pocket-book/Letter to Tommy

A
Letter
From
Jack the Giant-killer,
To
Little Master Tommy.
My dear Tommy,
Your Nurse called upon me To-day, and told me that you was a good Boy; that you was dutiful to your Father and Mother, and that, when you have said your Prayers in the Morning and the Evening, you asked their Blessing, and in the ​Day-time early in the Morning, keep yourself clean, and learn your Book; that when you have done a Fault you confess it, and are sorry for it. And, though you are sometimes naughty, she says you are very honest and good-humoured; that you do not swear, tell Lies; nor say indecent Words, and are always thankful when any Body gives you good Advice; that you never quarrel, nor do wicked Things, as some other Boys do.
This Character, my Dear, has made every Body love you; and, while you continue so good, you may depend on my obliging you with every Thing I can. I have here sent you a Little Pretty Pocket-Book, which will teach you to play at all those innocent Games ​that good Boys and Girls divert themselves with: And, while you behave so well, you shall never want Play, I assure you. But my dear Tommy, in order that you may be as good as possible, I have also sent you a Ball; the one Side of which is Red, the other Black, and with it ten Pins; and I must insist upon making this Bargain, that your Nurse may hang up the Ball by the String to it, and for every good Action you do, a Pin shall be stuck on the Red Side, and for every bad Action a Pin shall be stuck on the Black Side. And when by doing good and pretty Things you have got all the ten Pins on the Red Side, then I will send you a Penny, and so I will as often as all the Pins shall be fairly got on that Side. But if ever the Pins be all found on the Black Side of the Ball, then I will send a Rod, and you shall ​be whipt, as often as they are found there. But this my Dear, I hope you will prevent by continuing a good Boy, that every Body may still love you, as well as
Your Friend,
Jack the Giant-Killer.
# A Little Pretty Pocket-book/Marbles

Marbles.
Knuckle down to your Taw, Aim well, shoot away:
Keep out of the Ring, And you'll soon learn to play.
Moral.
Time rolls like a Marble, And awes ev'ry State:
Then improve each Moment, Before 'tis too late.
# A Little Pretty Pocket-book/Other Books

In which they may see all the Fun of the Fair, And at Home be as happy as if they were there.
# A Little Pretty Pocket-book/Letter to Madam

Madam,
I know of a little Lady, no bigger than your pretty Miss, who has behaved so that every Body is in love with her. She is extremely dutiful to her Parents and Governess, kind to her School-fellows, and obliging to every Body. Then she learns her Book to Admiration, works well with her Needle, and is so modest, so willing to do as she is bid, and so engaging in Company, that my Lady Mean-well has made her a Present of a fine Gold Watch, and declares that she shall ride in her own Coach: It is this Learning, Madam, and good Behaviour, that brings us the Esteem of the whole World.
I am, Madam, Yours, &c..
# A Little Pretty Pocket-book/Letter to Sir

Sir,
There was in my Country a little Boy who learned his Book to that surprising Degree, that his Master could scarce teach him fast enough, for he had his Lesson almost as soon as it was pointed out to him; which raised the Attention of every Body: And as he was also very dutiful to his Parents and obliging to his Playmates, every Body loved him. His Learning and Behaviour purchased him the Esteem of the greatest People, and raised him from a mean State of Life to a Coach and Six, in which he rides to this Day. Learning is a most excellent Thing, and easy to be acquired too, when little Boys set themselves earnestly about it. I know several Masters at this Time, who all bid fair for the same Honour the above Gentleman enjoys.
I am, Sir, &c.
# A Little Pretty Pocket-book/Mercury and the Woodman

Fable IV.
Mercury and the Woodman.
A Woodman, at Work, Dropp'd his Ax in a Pond,
And in Sorrow and Tears, His Disaster bemoan'd. Merc'ry brings one all Gold, And cries, Friend, is this thine? No Sir, (says the Woodman) Mine was not fo fine. Then he shew'd him the right, Ah that's mine by my Troth: Thou art honest, says Merc'ry, So, Friend take them both.
​To Master Tommy, or Miss Polly.
By this you may see, my Dear, that Honesty is the best Policy; had Mercury found the Woodman a Rogue, he would not have given him any Thing; but as he was an honest Man, he not only gave him his own Ax, but a golden one also. Consider, my Dear, it is a fine Thing, to have a Golden Ax, and at the same Time the Love and Esteem of all the World besides, and that you will certainly have if you are strictly honest.
I am,
Your affectionate Friend,
Jack the Giant-Killer.
# A Little Pretty Pocket-book/Peg-Farthing

Peg-Farthing.
Soon as the Ring is once compos'd, The Coin is in the Centre clos'd; And then the wish'd-for Prize to win, The Top that drives it out must spin.
Rule of Life.
Be silent if you doubt your Sense,
And always speak with Diffidence.
# A Little Pretty Pocket-book/Pitch and Hussel

Pitch and Hussel.
Poise your Hand fairly, And pitch plum your Slat;
Then shake for all Heads, And turn down the Hat.
Moral.
How fickle's this Game! So Fortune or Fate Decrees our Repentance, When oft 'tis too late.
# A Little Pretty Pocket-book/Leap-Frog

Leap-Frog.
This stoops down his Head, Whilst that springs up High;
But then you will find, He'll stoop by and by.
Moral.
Just so 'tis at Court; To-day you're in Place;
To-morrow perhaps, You're quite in Disgrace.
# A Little Pretty Pocket-book/Letter to Polly

A
Letter
From
Jack the Giant-killer,
To
Pretty Miss Polly.
Dear Miss Polly,
Your Nurse called upon me Today, and told me that you was a good Girl; that you was dutiful to your Father and Mother, and that, when you have said your Prayers in the Morning and the Evening, you ​asked their Blessing, and in the Daytime did every Thing they bid you. She says, you are obedient to your Mistress, loving and kind to your Playfellows, and obliging to every Body; that you rise early in the Morning, keep yourself clean, and learn your Book; that when you have done a Fault you confess it, and are sorry for it. And though you are sometimes naughty, she says you are very honest and good-humoured; that you do not tell Lies, nor say indecent Words and are always thankful when any Body gives you good Advice; that you never quarrel, nor do wicked Things, as some other Girls do.
This Character, my Dear, has made every Body love you; and, while you continue so good, you may depend on my obliging you with every Thing I can. I have here sent you a Little ​Pretty Pocket-Book, which will teach you to play at all those innocent Games that good Boys and Girls divert themselves with: And, while you behave so well, you shall never want Play, I assure you. But my dear Polly, in order that you may be as good as possible, I have also sent you a Pincushion; the one Side of which is Red, the other Black, and with it ten Pins; and I must insist upon making this Bargain, that your Nurse may hang up the Pincushion by the String to it, and for every good Action you do, a Pin shall be stuck on the Red Side, and for every bad Action a Pin shall be stuck on the Black Side. And when by doing good and pretty Things you have got all the ten Pins on the Red Side, then I will send you a Penny, and so I will as often as all the Pins shall be fairly got on that Side. But ​if ever the Pins be all found on the Black Side of the Pincushion, then I will send a Rod, and you shall be whipt, as often as they are found there. But this my Dear, I hope you will prevent by continuing a good Girl, that every Body may still love you, as well as
Your Friend,
Jack the Giant-Killer.
# A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer/The Norton Elm

The Norton Elm.
Upon the green, in the centre of the town of Chipping Norton, for two centuries at least, had stood a wide spreading colossal elm tree. A market hall being held desirable, it was, by the "powers that be" decided to have the old tree cut down, and the present glorious structure erected on the spot where it stood.
Two hundred years at least, had seen This Monarch Elm on Norton Green, The noisy rooks its boughs among, Had built their nests and reared their young. The sparrows claimed a vested right To chirrup on its topmost height; The starling, in its hollow arm Had built, for years, its nest so warm. [Though, lying useless, all around Was lots of fitting vacant ground,] The poor old tree was doomed to fall,
And rooks and starlings banished all.
It was a pity, for this tree Formed part of Norton's history; Grey-headed men would speak, with glee, Of boyhood's sports beneath that tree, And crones, grown garrulous, would tell How early swains had tried to spell Their rude initials on its bark, And show, or try to show, the mark. Could it have told, that nature's child, The stories true, and legends wild; The many changes, bad and good, That had occurred since there it stood, 'Twould form a chronicle, to read, Strange, very, very strange indeed. The spoiler came in evil hour, Who, lacking taste, and having power, O monstrous act! decreed its fall, And built a paltry Market Hall!
Significant.
Anybody will lend you an umbrella when it doesn't rain.
# A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer/The Ranger

The Ranger.
Tune—"The Fine Old English Gentleman."
This song is an attempt to describe a few of the leading points in the character of Mr. John Penson, park keeper, at Trentham Hall, Staffordshire, whose family have had the honour of serving in that capacity since the reign of Elizabeth.
I'll try to paint a portrait, if you'll listen to my lay,
Of a fine Old English specimen, whose locks are silvery grey,
Yet still as young at heart he is, that heart's as free from gall,
(And he's fond of sport of any sort) as the youngest 'mong them all.
He's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
In days of old, when "Levison," the mighty, and the brave, An Admiral, bore the British flag triumphant o'er the wave, As faithful follower was found a "Penson" in his pay, From whom descends the Forester we sing about to-day. He's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
Anon for orders at the hall "the Ranger" may be seen, As spruce as modern dandy, in his suit of Lincoln green, And should his noble "Mistress" depart the place that day, He proudly leads the cavalcade into the Queen's highway. He's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
And when the boundary is gained the Ranger makes his bow,
A very ranger like "Salaam," concocted long ago, Then blows that note peculiar, a proof his lungs are good,
And this evergreen trots back again to his "cottage near the wood."
He's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
The tuneful lark's gay matin song his early summons sounds, Then lustily he wends his way o'er Trentham's spacious grounds,
Or mounted, or on foot, he hies around its princely park,
And every person that he meets gets some unique remark, From this fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
Hark! the unerring rifle's ring, the fatal bullets sped, The forest's antler'd monarch dies, a hole drill'd thro' his head; In all pertains to woodcraft's art inferior he's to none, Few, few can kill a buck like him, or carve him when 'tis done, O, he's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
There's one great point about him that proves he's thorough bred His lofty hairless temples and his fine old chisseled head; I fancy Deerhound's by his side, and mounted on his "Roan," I see him now, O long may Death leave his warm heart alone. For he's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.