OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# When We Were Very Young/The Four Friends

THE FOUR FRIENDS
Ernest was an elephant, a great big fellow, Leonard was a lion with a six-foot tail, George was a goat, and his beard was yellow, And James was a very small snail.
Leonard had a stall, and a great big strong one, Ernest had a manger, and its walls were thick, George found a pen, but I think it was the wrong one, And James sat down on a brick.
Ernest started trumpeting, and cracked his manger, Leonard started roaring, and shivered his stall, James gave the huffle of a snail in danger And nobody heard him at all.
Ernest started trumpeting and raised such a rumpus, Leonard started roaring and trying to kick, James went a journey with the goat’s new compass And he reached the end of his brick.
Ernest was an elephant and very well-intentioned, Leonard was a lion with a brave new tail, George was a goat, as I think I have mentioned, But James was only a snail.
# When We Were Very Young/The Island

THE ISLAND
If I had a ship, I'd sail my ship, I'd sail my ship Through Eastern seas; Down to a beach where the slow waves thunder- The green curls over and the white falls under— Boom! Boom! Boom! On the sun-bright sand. Then I'd leave my ship and I'd land, And climb the steep white sand,
And climb to the trees, The six dark trees, The coco-nut trees on the cliff's green crown— Hands and knees To the coco-nut trees, Face to the cliff as the stones patter down, Up, up, up, staggering, stumbling, Round the corner where the rock is crumbling, Round this shoulder, Over this boulder, Up to the top where the six trees stand. . . .
And there would I rest, and lie, My chin in my hands, and gaze At the dazzle of sand below, And the green waves curling slow, And the grey-blue distant haze Where the sea goes up to the sky. . . .
And I'd say to myself as I looked so lazily down at the sea: "There's nobody else in the world, and the world was made for me."
# When We Were Very Young/The Mirror

THE MIRROR
Between the woods the afternoon Is fallen in a golden swoon. The sun looks down from quiet skies To where a quiet water lies, And silent trees stoop down to trees. And there I saw a white swan make Another white swan in the lake; And, breast to breast, both motionless, They waited for the wind’s caress . . . And all the water was at ease.
# When We Were Very Young/The Three Foxes

THE THREE FOXES
Once upon a time there were three little foxes Who didn’t wear stockings, and they didn’t wear sockses, But they all had handkerchiefs to blow their noses, And they kept their handkerchiefs in cardboard boxes.
They lived in the forest in three little houses, And they didn’t wear coats, and they didn’t wear trousies. They ran through the woods on their little bare tootsies, And they played "Touch last" with a family of mouses.
They didn’t go shopping in the High Street shopses, But caught what they wanted in the woods and copses. They all went fishing, and they caught three wormses, They went out hunting, and they caught three wopses.
They went to a Fair, and they all won prizes— Three plum-puddingses and three mince-pieses. They rode on elephants and swang on swingses, And hit three coco-nuts at coco-nut shieses.
That’s all that I know of the three little foxes Who kept their handkerchiefs in cardboard boxes. They lived in the forest in three little houses, But they didn’t wear coats and they didn’t wear trousies, And they didn’t wear stockings and they didn’t wear sockses.
# When We Were Very Young/The Wrong House

THE WRONG HOUSE
I went into a house, and it wasn’t a house, It has big steps and a great big hall; But it hasn’t got a garden, A garden, A garden, It isn’t like a house at all.
I went into a house, and it wasn’t a house, It has a big garden and great high wall; But it hasn’t got a may-tree, A may-tree, A may-tree, It isn’t like a house at all.
I went into a house and it wasn’t a house— Slow white petals from the may-tree fall; But it hasn’t got a blackbird, A blackbird, A blackbird, It isn’t like a house at all.
I went into a house, and I thought it was a house, I could hear from the may-tree the blackbird call. . . . But nobody listened to it, Nobody Liked it, Nobody wanted it at all.
# When We Were Very Young/Twinkletoes

TWINKLETOES
When the sun Shines through the leaves of the apple-tree, When the sun Makes shadows of the leaves of the apple-tree, Then I pass On the grass From one leaf to another, From one leaf to its brother Tip-toe, tip-toe! Here I go!
# When We Were Very Young/Water-Lilies

WATER-LILIES
Where the water-lilies go To and fro, Rocking in the ripples of the water, Lazy on a leaf lies the Lake King’s daughter, And the faint winds shake her. Who will come and take her? I will! I will! Keep still! Keep still! Sleeping on a leaf lies the Lake King’s daughter . . .
To the lilies on the water; And the kind winds wake her. Now who will take her? With a laugh she is slipping Through the lilies on the water. Wait! Wait! Too late, too late! Only the water-lilies go To and fro, Dipping, dipping, To the ripples of the water.
# When We Were Very Young/Vespers

VESPERS
Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed, Droops on the little hands little gold head. Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares! Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.
God bless Mummy. I know that’s right. Wasn’t it fun in the bath to-night? The cold’s so cold, and the hot’s so hot. Oh! God bless Daddy—I quite forgot.
If I open my fingers a little bit more, I can see Nanny’s dressing-gown on the door. It’s a beautiful blue, but it hasn’t a hood. Oh! God bless Nanny and make her good.
Mine has a hood, and I lie in bed, And pull the hood right over my head, And I shut my eyes, and I curl up small, And nobody knows that I’m there at all.
Oh! Thank you, God, for a lovely day. And what was the other I had to say? I said "Bless Daddy," so what can it be? Oh! Now I remember it. God bless Me.
Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed, Droops on the little hands little gold head. Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares! Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.
Printed by Jarrold & Sons Ltd. Norwich
# Wild Cherries (Coony, Spoony Rag)

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Publication copyright 12 August 1909. Music by Ted Snyder. Sung by Fanny Brice at Ziegfeld Follies of 1910.

## Verse 1

Talk of yo' loony coons, Talk of yo' spoony coons, Lover of coony tunes, Jackson was the leader of a big brass band, Understand! While at a ball one night, Lucinda Morgan White Yelled out with all her might when he started playing some familiar tune. She just cried with delight:

## Chorus 1

"If you love yo' babe, Play that tune for me. Just because I feel so funny, Honey, I don't care for money. I'm goin' crazy, that rag's a daisy, I just can' make my feeling behave. Play that tune again, Mighty soon again. Honey, don't you start to scold, I'm feeling like a two year old. When I hear that strain, Gwine to cry again, Play me some 'Wild Cherry Rag.'"

## Verse 2

Talk of yo' weddin' chimes, Talk of yo' champagne wines, Talk of yo' scand'lous times, Mister Jackson married Miss Lucinda White Sunday night. Just as the knot was tied, Parson had blessed the bride, Jackson stood by her side When music played that lovin' weddin' march, Lucinda just cried:

## Chorus 2

"If you love yo' babe,
Play that tune for me No, I'm not a-blowin', hon, But I just feel like goin' some. I'm goin' crazy, that rag's a daisy, I just can't make my feeling behave. Play that tune again, Mighty soon again. Oh, you seven-come-eleven! Hon, I'm goin' straight to heav'n. When I hear that strain, Gwine to cry again, Play me some 'Wild Cherry Rag.'"
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 1989, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 34 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
# Wild Folk

Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull and Carton Moorepark.
Layout 2
WILD FOLK
THE PINCUSHION OF THE WOODS
WILD FOLK
By
SAMUEL SCOVILLE, Jr.
AUTHOR OF "EVERYDAY ADVENTURES"
With Illustrations by
CHARLES LIVINGSTON BULL
AND
CARTON MOOREPARK
The ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS
BOSTON
Copyright, 1922, by Samuel Scoville, Jr.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To my Son
Gurdon Trumbull Scoville
who has learned to know
and love so many of our Lesser Brethren
of Earth and Air and Water
this book is dedicated
page
CONTENTS
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 1950, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 73 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
# Who's Who in the Far East/BAILLE, Charles Fredieric

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​ BAILLE, Charles Fredieric (HANOI), Insp. Civil Service Indo-China, Assistant Resident Superior of Tonkin; b. Dec. 18, 1848. Entered Civil Service Indo-China April 29, 1886, rs 3rd class Insp.; 2nd class Feb. 1888; 1st class Dec. 1889; Insp. July 1901. Address: Hanoi, Tonkin, Indo-China.
# Who's Who in the Far East/Addenda/YU HSIU (PEKING)

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​ YU HSIU (PEKING), Junior Police Provost; Chinese Bannerman. Deputy Lieut.-General, Bordered Yellow Banner Corps, April, 1901; Vice-Comm., Peking Octroi, May, 1904; Junior Police Provost, Peking, 1904.
# Who's Who in the Far East/Addenda/YU TAI

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​YU TAI (TIBET), Imperial Resident; native of Mongolia. Sub-Director, Court of Stats Ceremonial, April, 1900; Imperial Resident, Tibet, Doc., 1902.
# Who's Who in the Far East/BADDELEY, Frank Morrish

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​BADDELEY, Frank Morrish (SINGAPORE), B.A., Cantab.; Acting Assistant Protector of Chinese; b., Nov. 30, 1874. Entered Selangor Civil Service 1897; acting assistant District Officer, Serembah, 1901; assistant District Officer, Kuala Kubu, 1901; acting assistant District Officer, Serembah, 1902; Revenue Auditor, Pahang, 1904; appointed acting District Officer, Jelebu, and assistant Protector of Chinese at Singapore 1905. Address: Singapore, Straits Settlements.
# Who's Who in the Far East/BADELEY, Francis Joseph

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​BADELEY, Francis Joseph (HONGKONG), B.A.; Captain Superintendent of Police; b. March 27, 1868. Educ.: Clergy Orphan School, Canterbury, and Jesus College, Cambridge; senior opt. math, tripos, 1889; acting Deputy Superintendent of Police, June to Dec., 1893; acting Assistant Postmaster-General, May to July, 1894: acting Assistant Registrar-General, July, 1894; J.P., 1894; Deputy Superintendent of Police and assistant Superintendent Fire Brigade, July, 1895; Captain of Police and Superintendent of Fire Brigade, and Superintendent Victoria Gaol, Apl., 1902; Member of Legislative Council, 1902,; speaks Hindustani and Cantonese. Club: Hongkong. Address: Magistracy, Hongkong.
# Who's Who in the Far East/BAILEY, Demetrius J. S.

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​BAILEY, Demetrius J. S. (KICKING), B.A., Camb., Resident. Served in Methuen's Horse; Cadet Sarawak Service, Mar., 1888; assistant Resident, May, 1891; Resident, 2nd class, 2nd division, Jan., 1894; assistant Resident, May, 1891; Resident 2nd class, Jan., 1894; stationed at Kuching. Address Sarawak, Borneo.
# Who's Who in the Far East/Addenda/YU HSIU (NGANKIN)

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​ YU HSIU (NGANKIN), Taotai; Chinese Bannerman. Supf. Hunting Grounds, 1881; Supt., Imperial Factory, Soochow, Dec., 1889; term expired; Director, Palace Stud., April, ​1895; An-Lu-Ch'u Ho Tao (Anhwei Taotai at Ngankin), Feb., 1889.
# Who's Who in the Far East/Addenda/YU HU-EN

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​YU HU-EN (KASHGAR), native of Yunnan; Commander-in-Chief, July, 1900
# Who's Who in the Far East/BAILEY, Arthur W.

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​BAILEY, Arthur W. (SINGAPORE), Protector of Chinese. Educ.: Dalwich Coll. and St. Cath. Coll., Camb. (Scholar); 2nd sen. opt. math, tripos; B.A. 1894. Cadet Straits Settlements, Nov., 1898; passed fin. exam. in Chinese, June, 1899; was acting assistant Protector of Chinese at Penang and Singapore; 4th Magistrate Singapore, May, 1901; 3rd Magistrate, Penang, Jan., 1902; District Officer, Christmas Island, 1st June, 1904; assistant Chinese Protector, 1905. Address: Singapore, Straits Settlements.
# Who's Who in the Far East/BAILEY, W. S.

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​BAILEY, W. S. (HONGKONG), M.I.M.E., Engineer and Shipbuilder; b. 1861. Clnb: Institution of Engineers and Shipbuilders. Address: 20 Connaught Road, Hongkong.
# Where the Dead Men Lie/A Memory

A MEMORY
Adown the grass-grown paths we strayed: The evening cowslips oped Their yellow eyes to look at her; The love-sick lilies moped With envy that she rather chose To take a creamy-petalled rose And lean it ’gainst her ebon hair, All in that garden fair.
A languid breeze, with stolen scent Of box-bloom in his grasp, Sighed out his longing in her ear, And with his dying gasp Scattered the perfume at her feet To blend with others not less sweet: He loved her, but she did not care, All in that garden fair.
His comrades burst with spite: Poor fool! he knew not he was doomed To barely last the night. Are hearts to her but as that flower, The plaything of a careless hour, To lacerate and never spare All in that garden fair?
I held her hand that I might trace Her fortune in its palm: A bolder moonbeam than the rest Crept up and kissed her arm, And, kissing once, was loth to leave, So hid himself within the sleeve That clasped the lithe arm, white and bare, All in that garden fair.
I traced her fortune: love and wealth— Though life, alas! was short. But will that wealth be bought with love? Or love with wealth be bought? I know not: knowing only this— Her hand seemed waiting for a kiss: I longed to, but I did not dare, All in that garden fair.
​But she, alas! is not for me, And I am not for her; Yet ever deep within my heart A faint regret must stir— A thrill of longing that among Those moonlit paths with lover’s tongue I might return, and woo her there All in that garden fair.
# Where the Dead Men Lie/From the Far West

FROM THE FAR WEST
'Tis a song of the Never Never land— Set to the tune of a scorching gale On the sandhills red, When the grasses dead Loudly rustle, and bow the head To the breath of its dusty hail:
Where the cattle trample a dusty pad Across the never-ending plain, And come and go With muttering low In the time when the rivers cease to flow, And the Drought King holds his reign;
​When the fiercest piker who ever turned With lowered head in defiance proud, Grown gaunt and weak, Release doth seek In vain from the depths of the slimy creek— His sepulchre and his shroud;
His requiem sung by an insect host, Born of the pestilential air, That seethe and swarm In hideous form Where the stagnant waters lie thick and warm, And Fever lurks in his lair:
Where a placid, thirst-provoking lake Clear in the flashing sunlight lies— But the stockman knows No water flows Where the shifting mirage comes and goes Like a spectral paradise;
And, crouched in the saltbush' sickly shade, Murmurs to Heaven a piteous prayer: ‘O God! must I Prepare to die?’ And, gazing up at the brazen sky, Reads his death-warrant there.
​Gaunt, slinking dingoes snap and snarl, Watching his slowly-ebbing breath; Crows are flying, Hoarsely crying Burial service o’er the dying— Foul harbingers of Death.
Full many a man has perished there, Whose bones gleam white from the waste of sand— Who left no name On the scroll of Fame, Yet died in his tracks, as well became A son of that desert land.
# Where the Dead Men Lie/A Wayside Queen

A WAYSIDE QUEEN
She was born in the season of fire, When a mantle of murkiness lay On the front of the crimson Destroyer: And none knew the name of her sire But the woman; and she, ashen grey, In the fierce pangs of motherhood lay.
​The skies were aflame at her coming With a marvellous message of ill; And fear-stricken pinions were drumming The hot, heavy air, whence the humming Of insects rose, sudden and shrill, As they fled from that hell-begirt hill.
Then the smoke-serpent writhed in her tresses: The flame kissed her hard on the lips: She smiled at their ardent caresses As the wanton who smiles, but represses A lover's hot haste, and so slips From the arm that would girdle her hips.
Such the time of her coming and fashion: How long ere her day shall be sped, And she goes to rekindle past passion With languorous glances that flash on The long-straightened limbs of the dead, Where they lie in a winter-wet bed?
Where the wide waves of evergreen carry The song sad and soft of the surge To feathered battalions that harry The wizen-armed bloodwoods that tarry For ever, chained down on the verge Of a river that mutters a dirge.
​'Tis a dirge for the dead men it mutters— Those weed-entwined strangers who lie With the drift in the whirlpools and gutters— Swoll'n hand or a garment that flutters Wan shreds as the waters rush by, And the flotsam, froth-freckled, rides high.
Is it there that she buries her lovers, This woman in scarlet and black? Those swart caballeros, the drovers— What sovranty set they above hers? Riding in by a drought-beset track To a fate which is worse than the rack.
A queen, no insignia she weareth Save the dark, lustrous crown of her hair: Her beauty the sceptre she beareth: For men and their miseries careth As little as tigresses care For the quivering flesh that they tear.
She is sweet as white peppermint flowers, And harsh as red gum when it drips From the heart of a hardwood that towers Straight up: she hath marvellous powers To draw a man's soul through his lips With a kiss like the stinging of whips.
​Warm nights, weighted down with wild laughter, When sex is unsexed and uncouth: In the chorus that climbs to the rafter No thought of the days to come after: She has little regret and less ruth As she tempts men to murder their youth.
Is she marked down as yet by the flaming Great eye of the Righter of Wrong? How long ere the Dreaded One, claiming His due, shall make end of our shaming? 'How long, Mighty Father, how long?' Is our wearisome burden of song.
# Where the Dead Men Lie/A Valentine

A VALENTINE
The Bree was up; the floods were out Around the hut of Culgo Jim: The hand of God had broke the drought And filled the channels to the brim: The outline of the hut loomed dim Among the shades of murmurous pine, That eve of good Saint Valentine.
He watched, and to his sleepy gaze The dying embers of the fire, Its yellow reds and pearly greys, Made pictures of his younger days. Outside the waters mounted higher Beneath a half-moon's sickly shine, That eve of good Saint Valentine.
​There, in the great slab fire-place The oak log, burnt away to coal, Showed him the semblance of a face Framed in a golden aureole: Eyes, the clear windows of a soul— Soul of a maid, who used to sign Herself, 'Jim, dear, your Valentine.'
Lips, whose pink curves were made to bear Love's kisses, not to be the mock Of grave-worms ... Suddenly a whirr, And twelve loud strokes upon the clock; Then at the door a gentle knock. The collie dog began to whine That morn of good Saint Valentine.
​He opened; by his heels the hound Sniffed at the night. 'Who comes, and why? What? no one! Hush! was that a sound? Methought I heard a human cry. Bah! 'twas a curlew passing by Out where the lignum bushes twine, This morn of good Saint Valentine.
'What ails the dog? Down, Stumpy, down! No? Well, lead on, perchance a sheep It is, poor brute, that fears to drown. Heavens! how chill the waters creep! Why, Stumpy, do you splash and leap? 'Tis but a foolish quest of thine, This morn of good Saint Valentine.
​'Nay, not so foolish as I thought ... Hark! 'mid those reeds a feeble scream! Mother of God! a cradle—brought Down from some homestead up the stream! A white-robed baby! Do I dream? No, 'tis that dear dead love of mine Who sends me thus a Valentine!'
# Ursule Mirouët (Tomlinson translation)

* related portals: French literature.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article.
THE NOVELS
OF
HONORÉ de BALZAC
NOW FOR THE FIRST TIME
COMPLETELY TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH
URSULE MIROUËT
BY MAY TOMLINSON
WITH FIVE ETCHINGS BY RICARDO DE LOS RIOS AFTER PAINTINGS BY ÉDOUARD TOUDOUZE
IN ONE VOLUME
PRINTED ONLY FOR SUBSCRIBERS BY
GEORGE BARRIE & SON, PHILADELPHIA
COPYRIGHTED, 1897, BY G. B. & SON
It is a real pleasure, my dear niece, to dedicate to you a book, the subject and details of which have gained the hard-earned approval of a young girl who, as yet, knows nothing of the world and does not compromise with any of the lofty principles of a pious education. You young girls are a formidable public; for you ought to be allowed to read only books that are as pure as your minds, and you are forbidden certain literature as you are prevented from seeing society such as it is. May not an author therefore take pride in having pleased you? God grant that fondness has not deceived you! Who can say? That future which, I trust, you may see, and which may no longer behold
Your uncle
De Balzac.
PART FIRST
the frightened heirs
*1 *2 *3 *4 *5 *6 *7 *8 *9
PART SECOND
the minoret inheritance
*1 *2 *3 *4 *5 *6 *7 *8 *9 *10
Copyrighted 1897 by G. B. & Son
THE NEMOURS DILIGENCE
Savinien was the first to awaken. He then noticed Ursule with the disordered head caused by the jolting; the cap was crumpled, turned up; the unrolled plaits fell on both sides of her face, flushed with the heat of the carriage; but, in this situation, which would be dreadful for women who depend upon toilette, youth and beauty triumph.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Ursule Mirouet (Wormeley translation)/Dedication

To Mademoiselle Sophie Surville,
 It is a true pleasure, my dear niece, to dedicate to you this  book, the subject and details of which have won the  approbation, so difficult to win, of a young girl to whom the  world is still unknown, and who has compromised with none of  the lofty principles of a saintly education. Young girls are  indeed a formidable public, for they ought not to be allowed  to read books less pure than the purity of their souls; they  are forbidden certain reading, just as they are carefully  prevented from seeing social life as it is. Must it not  therefore be a source of pride to a writer to find that he has  pleased you?
 God grant that your affection for me has not misled you. Who
 can tell?—the future; which you, I hope, will see, though not,
 perhaps.
 Your uncle,  De Balzac.
# Woman of the Century/Anna Warner Bailey

​BAILEY, Mrs. Anna Warner, patroit, born in Groton, Conn., 11th October, 1758. and died there in 1850.