OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Secret of Sarek/Foreword

FOREWORD
The war has led to so many upheavals that not many people now remember the Hergemont scandal of seventeen years ago. Let us recall the details in a few lines.
One day in July 1902, M. Antoine d'Hergemont, the author of a series of well-known studies on the megalithic monuments of Brittany, was walking in the Bois with his daughter Veronique, when he was assaulted by four men, receiving a blow in the face with a walking-stick which felled him to the ground.
After a short struggle and in spite of his desperate efforts, Veronique, “the beautiful Veronique” as she was called by her friends, was dragged away and bundled into a motor-car which the spectators of this very brief scene saw making off in the direction of Saint-Cloud.
It was a plain case of kidnapping. The truth became known next morning. Count Alexis Vorski, a young Polish nobleman of dubious reputation but of some social prominence and, by his own account, of royal blood, was in love with Veronique d'Hergemont and Veronique with him. Repelled and more than once insulted by the father, he had planned the incident entirely without Veronique's knowledge or complicity.
Antoine d'Hergemont, who, as certain published letters showed, was a man of violent and morose disposition and who, thanks to his capricious temper, his ferocious egoism and his sordid avarice, had made his daughter exceedingly unhappy, swore openly that he would take the most ruthless revenge.
He gave his consent to the wedding, which took place two months later, at Nice. But in the following year a series of sensational events transpired. Keeping his word and cherishing his hatred, M. d'Hergemont in his turn kidnapped the child born of the Vorski marriage and set sail in a small yacht which he had bought not long before.
The sea was rough. The yacht foundered within sight of the Italian coast. The four sailors who formed the crew were picked up by a fishing-boat. According to their evidence M. d'Hergemont and the child had disappeared amid the waves.
When Veronique received the proof of their death, she entered a Carmelite convent.
These are the facts which, fourteen years later, were to lead to the most frightful and extraordinary adventure, a perfectly authentic adventure, though certain details, at first sight, assume a more or less fabulous aspect. But the war has complicated existence to such an extent that events which happen outside it, such as those related in the following narrative, borrow something abnormal, illogical and at times miraculous from the greater tragedy. It needs all the dazzling light of truth to restore to those events the character of a reality which, when all is said, is simple enough.
# The Strand Magazine/Volume 1/Issue 3

March, 1891. (transcription project)
Layout 4
​ The Queen's First Baby. Drawn and Etched by Her Majesty the Queen.
* Pictures with Histories.
* "Making an Angel," by J. Harwood Panting. Illustrated by Gordon Browne
* Birthday Cards. Illustrated by Edgar W. Wilson.
* "The Architect's Wife;" from the Spanish of Antonio Trueba. Illustrations by Sydney Paget and W. H. J. Boot, R.B.A.
* On the Decay of Humour in the House of Commons, by Henry W. Lucy ("Toby, M.P."). Illustrated by F. C. Gould.
* "The Snowstorm;" from the Russian of Alexander Pushkin. Illustrated by Paul Hardy
* "A Night at The Grand Chartreuse," by J. E. Muddock. Illustrations by G. Lambert and Harold Oakley.
* Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives.
* Her Majesty Queen Victoria.
* Princess Beatrice.
* The Empress Frederick of Germany.
* The Duke of Argyll.
* H. Beerbohm Tree.
* William Black.
* Charles Wyndham.
* Henry M. Stanley.
* Fac-simile of a Handbill of Mr. H. M. Stanley's First Lecture in America.
* Stories of the Victoria Cross: Told by Those who have Won it. Illustrations by Harry Payne and Sydney Paget.
* How Novelists Write for the Press. Fac-similes of the MS. of William Black, Walter Besant, Bret Harte and Grant Allen.
* "Jerry Stokes," by Grant Allen. Illustrated by A. Pearse
* "The Piece of Gold;" from the French of François Coppée. Illustrated by J. Finnemore.
* "The Voice of Science," by Arthur Conan Doyle. Illustrated by W. S. Stacey
* "Camille;" from the French of Alfred de Musset. Illustrated by A. Forestier
* "The Stone-Breaker," a Story for Children; from the French of Quatrelles. Illustrated by Alan W. Wright.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Sailors Tragedy/The Wee Wifukie

THE WEE WIFUKIE.
FINIS.
# The Sailor (Wodehouse)

Extracted from Novel magazine, v.2 1905-06, pg. 14.
THE SAILOR.
By P. G. Wodehouse
The vessel may shake like a jelly, The tempest may ruffle the sea; The oil from the engines be smelly, But, bless you, that don't affect me. Such details are quite to my liking, They cause me no worry or pain, I feel like an up-to-date Viking, Whatever the state of the main.
I know that full many a man 'll Turn green when the anchor is weighed, And assume in the chops of the Channel Some even more curious shade; Such words as “a ground swell” or “leeward,” If you whisper them soft in his ear, Will make him call out for the steward, Explaining he feels rather queer.
Some find that their systems are shaken If men in their presence should speak Of the merits of oysters or bacon, Or succulent bubble-and-squeak. If you mention whipped cream in their hearing, Small pleasure their faces will show; You notice their backs disappearing En route for the cabin below.
Myself, be the sea smooth or rougher, From these sorts of woes I’m exempt. I think of the people who suffer With pity that's mixed with contempt. And I owe my immunity merely (A fact I’ve not mentioned before) To avoiding the ocean severely: I spend all my life on the shore.
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 1975, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 48 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 Sailors Tragedy

The Sailors Tragedy;
To which is added,
The wee Wifukie.
STIRLING.
Printed by W. Macnie,
1825.
* The Sailors Tragedy
* The Wee Wifukie
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Saint (Jenkins)

Extracted from Smart Set magazine, Oct 1916, p. 1
THE SAINT
By William F. Jenkins
IN the tiny village of Catalpa there lived a worthy man, a shoemaker, whose life was most exemplary. He was the model for all the people round about. He never drank, smoked, or swore; neither did he spend lavishly, nor borrow from anyone. Yet with all his saintly life, he was tolerant of all vices and weaknesses, and never reproached anyone for any crime or sin. When sin was mentioned in his presence, he took refuge in silence.
One day a learned scholar from the capital of the country in which the shoemaker lived passed that way. Hearing of this holy man, he determined to visit him, and learn whence his ethics were derived.
The shoemaker received him and heard his questions in silence. Then he spoke:
“Men call me a saint,” he said. “They say I am humble, chaste, industrious, thrifty, honest—in short, a paragon of all the virtues. I am. I am humble because the people around me say I am a saint, and I know they are such fools that they are not likely to be right in such a matter. I am chaste principally because I am cross-eyed, and no woman would look at me unless I had much money, which I have not. I am industrious because I like to eat occasionally, and here there is no other way to get food. I am thrifty. I owe no man money, because, fools though they are, yet none of my neighbors is fool enough to lend to me, and I am honest because there is nothing worth stealing in the village.”
“And your tolerance, and your silence when sin is spoken of?”
“My tolerance is honest envy, and I am silent because I have no sins of my own to brag about.”
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 1975, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 48 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 Sailors Tragedy/The Sailors Tragedy

THE SAILORS TRAGEDY
# The Story of Mary MacLane

* Mary MacLane
The Story of Mary MacLane
By Herself
Chicago Herbert S. Stone and Company MCMII
Copyright, 1902, by Herbert S. Stone & Co. Published April 26, 1902
* January 13
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* April 12
* April 13
* L'Envoi
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 1929, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 94 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 Story of Mary MacLane/April 11

I WRITE a great many letters to the dear anemone lady. I send some of them to her and others I keep to read myself. I like to read letters that I have written—particularly that I have written to her.
This is a letter that I wrote two days ago to my one friend:
"To you:—
"And don't you know, my dearest, my friendship with you contains other things? It contains infatuation, and worship, and bewitchment, and idolatry, and a tiny altar in my soul-chamber whereon is burning sweet incense in a little dish of blue and gold.
"Yes, all of these.
"My life is made up of many outpourings. All the outpourings have one point of coming-together. You are ​the point of coming-together. There is no other.
"You are the anemone lady.
"You are the one whom I may love.
"To think that the world contains one beautiful human being for me to love!
"It is wonderful.
"My life is longing for the sight of you. My senses are aching for lack of an anemone to diffuse itself among them.
"A year ago, when you were in the high school, often I used to go over there when you would be going home, so that my life could be made momentarily replete by the sight of you. You didn't know I was there—only a few times when I spoke to you.
"And now it is that I remember you.
"Oh, my dearest—you are the only one in the world!
"We are two women. You do not love me, but I love you.
​"You have been wonderfully, beautifully kind to me.
"You are the only one who has ever been kind to me.
"There is something delirious in this—something of the nameless quantity.
"It is old grief and woe to live nineteen years and to remember no person ever to have been kind. But what is it—do you think?—at the end of nineteen years, to come at last upon one who is wonderfully, beautifully kind!
"Those persons who have had some one always to be kind to them can never remotely imagine how this feels.
"Sometimes in these spring days when I walk miles down into the country to the little wet gulch of the sweet-flags, I wonder why it is that this thing does not make me happy. 'She is wonderfully, beautifully kind,' I say to myself—'and she is the anemone lady. She is wondrously kind, and though ​she's gone, nothing can ever change that.'
"But I am not happy.
"Oh, my one friend—what is the matter with me? What is this feeling? Why am I not happy?
"But how can you know?
"You are beautiful.
"I am a small, vile creature.
"Always I awake to this fact when I think of the anemone lady.
"I am not good.
"But you are kind to me—you are kind to me—you are kind to me.
"You have written me two letters.
"The anemone lady came down from her high places and wrote me two letters.
"It is said that God is somewhere. It may be so.
"But God has never come down from his high places to write me two letters.
"Dear—do you see?—you are the only one in the world.
"Mary MacLane."
# The Story of Mary MacLane/April 2

HOW can any one bring a child into the world and not wrap it round with a certain wondrous tenderness that will stay with it always!
There are persons whose souls have never entered into them.
My mother has some fondness for me—for my body because it came of hers. That is nothing—nothing.
A hen loves its egg.
A hen!
# The Story of Mary MacLane/April 12

OH, THE dreariness, the Nothingness!
Day after day—week after week,—it is dull and gray and weary. It is dull, dull, DULL!
No one loves me the least in the world.
"My life is dreary—he cometh not."
I am unhappy—unhappy.
It rains. The blue sky is weeping. But it is not weeping because I am unhappy.
I hate the blue sky, and the rain, and the wet ground, and everything. This morning I walked far away over the sand, and these things made me think they loved me—and that I loved them. But they fooled me. Everything fools me. I am a fool.
No one loves me. There are people here. But no one loves me—no one understands—no one cares.
​It is I and the barrenness. It is I—young and all alone.
Pitiful Heaven!—but no, Heaven is not pitiful.
Heaven also has fooled me, more than once.
There is something for every one that I have ever known—some tender thing. But what is there for me? What have I to remember out of the long years?
The blue sky is weeping, but not for me. The rain is persistent and heavy as damnation. It falls on my mind and it maddens my mind. It falls on my soul and it hurts my soul.—Everything hurts my soul.—It falls on my heart and it warps the wood in my heart.
Of womankind and nineteen years, a philosopher of the peripatetic school, a thief, a genius, a liar, and a fool—and unhappy, and filled with anguish and hopeless despair. What is my life? Oh, what is there for me!
​There has always been Nothing. There will always be Nothing.
There was a miserable, damnable, wretched, lonely childhood. Itself has passed, but the pain of it has not passed. The pain of it is with me and is added to the pain of now. It is pain that never lets itself be forgotten. The pain of the childhood was the pain of Nothing. The pain of now is the pain of Nothing. Oh, the pathetic burlesque-tragedy of Nothing!
It is burlesque, but it is none the less tragedy. It is tragedy that eats its way inward.
It is only I and the sand and barrenness.
I have never a tender thing in my life. The sand and barrenness has never a grass-blade.
I want a human being to love me. I have need of it. I am starving to death for lack of it.
Bitterest salt tears surge upward—sobs are shaking themselves out from ​the depths. Oh, the salt is bitter. I might lay me down and weep all day and all night—and the salt would grow more bitter and more bitter.
But life in its Nothingness is more bitter still.
It is burlesque-tragedy that is the most tragic of all.
It is an inward dying that never ends. It is the bitterness of death added to the bitterness of life.
What hell is there like that of one weak little human being placed on the earth—and left alone?
There are people who live and enjoy. But my soul and I—we find life too bitter, and too heavy to carry alone. Too bitter, and too heavy.
Oh, that I and my soul might perish at this moment, forever!
# The Story of Mary MacLane/April 13

I AM sitting writing out on my sand and barrenness. The sky is pale and faded now in the west, but a few minutes ago there was the same old-time, always-new miracle of roses and gold, and glints and gleams of silver and green, and a river in vermilions and purples—and lastly the dear, the beautiful: the red, red line.
There also are heavy black shadows.
I have given my heart into the keeping of this.
And still, as always, I look at it—and feel it all with thrilling passion—and await the Devil's coming.
# The Singers' companion, a choice selection of fashionable songs/The fairest flower

THE FAIREST FLOWER.
Music be Lee.
I have plucked the sweetest flower, I have dreamed in Fancy's tower I have basked in Beauty's eyes, I have mingled melting sighs; If all these sweets to hive, I'm the guiltiest man alive. But, gentle maids, believe,
I never can deceive, Nor eause your breast to heave With a sad heigh ho!
But to raise in Beauty's frame, The burning blush of shame, Or bid the tear to start, Far be it from my heart; Such base attempts I scorn, for To honour I was born. Then, gentle maidens, spare The heart you thus ensnare, Or the willow I must wear! With a sad heigh ho!
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Singers' companion, a choice selection of fashionable songs/The snow-drop

THE SNOW-DROP.
Music by Bishop
The snow-drop, first-born tower of spring. With violets, to his grave I'll bring, And summer roses I will spread, To deck the turf that binds his head, And o'er his earthy pillow Shall wave the weeping willow. Each day I'll sit beside his tomb, To watch the flow'rets as they bloom; That where the drooping rose appears, I may revive it with my tears. And o'er his earthy pillow Shall wave the weeping willow.
# The Singers' companion, a choice selection of fashionable songs/There's an isle clasped by waves

MY OWN NATIVE ISLE.
Music by Bishop.
There's an isle, clasped by waves in an emerald zone, That peers forth from ocean so pearl-like and fair, As if nature meant it the water-king's throne;— A youth, whom I name not, remembers me there. The breeze now in murmurs a 'plaint brings from far, From my own native isle and my lover's guitar.
O! cheer thee, fond mourner, let hope's whisper soften The wild pang of absence and doubt too unkind, The maid thou upbraidest for thee sighs as often, And speeds gentle wishes by every wind. Then, winds, blow ye homeward—waves, waft me afar To my own native isle and my lover's guitar.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Singing Bone

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Singing Bone."
* sister projects: 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.
* "The Singing Bone" (Der singende Knochen), a fairy tale collected by the Brothers Grimm
* The Singing Bone, a collection of short stories by R. Austin Freeman
# The Singers' companion, a choice selection of fashionable songs/The winds whistle cold

THE WINDS WHISTLE COLD.
A Glee For Three Voices, from the Musical Major Guy Mannering." The Words hy D. Tenty, Esq. The Naistely wish yer
The winds whistle eold and the stars glimmer red, The floeks are in fold and the cattle in shed. The winds, &e.
When the hoar frost was chill upon moorland and hill, And was fringing the forest bough, w Our fathers would trowl the bonnie brown bowl. And so will we do now, jolly hearts! And so will we do now.
Gaffer Winter may seize upon milk in the pail; Twill be long ere be freeze the bald brandy and ale. For our fathers so bold they laughed at the cold, When Boreas was bending his brow; or they quaffed mighty ale, and they told a blithe tale. And so will we do now, jolly hearts! And so will we do now
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Singers' companion, a choice selection of fashionable songs/With helmet on his brow

WITH HELMET ON HIS BROW.
Music "Le Pette de Tambour."
With helmet on his brow, and sabre on his thigh, The soldier mounts his gallant steed, to conquer or to die His plume like a pennon streams on the wanton summer wind, In the path of glory still that white plume shalt thou find
Then let the trumpet's blast
To the brazen drum reply, "A soldier must with honour live, Or at once with honour die!"
O! bright as his own good sword, a soldier's fame must And pure as the plume that floats above his helm so white and free! No fear in his heart must dwell, but the dread that shame may throw,
One spot on that blade so bright, one stain on that plume of snow! Then let the trumpet's blast, &c.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Singers' companion, a choice selection of fashionable songs/The moon on the ocean

THE MOON ON THE OCEAN.
The moon on the oeean was dimmed by a ripple, Affording a chequered light, The gay jolly tars passed the word for the tipple And the toast, for 'twas Saturday night. Some sweetheart or wife, He loved as his life, Each drank, and wished he could hail her; But the standing toast to That pleased the most, Was, "The wind that blows, the ship that goes, And the lass that loves a sailor."
​Some drank the King, some his brave ships, And some the constitution; Some, may the French, and all such rips, Yield to British resolution; That fate might bless Some Poll or Bess, And that they soon might hail her; But the standing, &c.
Some drank the Prince, and some our land, This glorious land of freedom; Some that our tars may never want Heroes brave to lead 'em; That she who's in Distress may find Such friends who ne'er will fail her; But the standing, &c.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Singers' companion, a choice selection of fashionable songs/The navy and the army

THE NAVY AND THE ARMY,
Music by Parry
Though war no more with ruthless hand Spreads gloom and terror round, Be not forgot the gallant band That Albion's glory erowned; And while the glass you gaily pass, Where mirth and music charm ye, O, let the toast be England's boast, The navy and the army! The navy and the army, The army and the navy! O, let, &c.
Our sailors on the mountain wave, Our soldiers on the field, With honour fight, humanely save, But never basely yield. Then while the glass you gaily pass, This welcome tribute levy, A bumper toast to Britain's boast, The army and the navy! The navy and the army, The army and the navy! A bumper, &c.
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