Genre - Fiction. You are on the page - 445
there rang out overhead a startling cry from the crow's-nest:Something ahead, sir--can't make it out. The first officer sprang to the engine-room telegraph and grasped the lever. Sing out what you see, he roared. Hard aport, sir--ship on the starboard tack--dead ahead, came the cry. Port your wheel--hard over, repeated the first officer to the quartermaster at the helm--who answered and obeyed. Nothing as yet could be seen from the bridge. The powerful steering-engine in the stern ground the
on them. Could I be one of their flattering panders, I would hang on their ears like a horseleech, till I were full, and then drop off. I pray, leave me. Who would rely upon these miserable dependencies, in expectation to be advanc'd to-morrow? What creature ever fed worse than hoping Tantalus? Nor ever died any man more fearfully than he that hoped for a pardon. There are rewards for hawks and dogs when they have done us service; but for a soldier that hazards his limbs in a battle, nothing
No matter how exciting a tale we might be rehearsing, the mere shifting of a cloud shadow in the landscape near by was sufficient to change our impulses; and soon we were all chasing the great shadows that played among the hills. We shouted and whooped in the chase; laughing and calling to one another, we were like little sportive nymphs on that Dakota sea of rolling green.On one occasion I forgot the cloud shadow in a strange notion to catch up with my own shadow. Standing straight and still,
en thought ofvery much else except the harmony and good comradeship which bless people whoare suited to each other. He had been disappointed in no respect; they hadtoiled and gathered like ants; they were confidential partners in the homelybusiness and details of the farm; nothing was wasted, not even time. Thelittle farmhouse abounded in comfort, and was a model of neatness and order.If it and its surroundings were devoid of grace and ornament, they were notmissed, for neither of its occupants
says it would hurt Aunt Martha's feelings. Anne dearie,believe me, the state of that manse is something terrible.Everything is thick with dust and nothing is ever in its place.And we had painted and papered it all so nice before they came.There are four children, you say? asked Anne, beginning tomother them already in her heart. Yes. They run up just like the steps of a stair. Gerald's theoldest. He's twelve and they call him Jerry. He's a clever boy.Faith is eleven. She is a regular tomboy but