Stories from My Attic

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1896 - 269 стор.
 

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Сторінка 15 - Softest clothing, woolly, bright ; Gave thee such a tender voice Making all the vales rejoice ; Little lamb, who made thee ? Dost thou know who made thee ? Little lamb, Til tell thee, Little lamb, I'll tell thee.
Сторінка 15 - I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me.
Сторінка 13 - When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry
Сторінка 15 - And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face...
Сторінка 183 - God rest you, merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay, For Jesus Christ our Saviour Was born on Christmas Day." Dolly listened with a devout look, glancing at Marner in some confidence that this strain would help to allure him to church. "That's Christmas music," she said, when Aaron had ended, and had secured his piece of cake again.
Сторінка 158 - Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the City of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger.
Сторінка 39 - IN the ancient town of Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city, As the evening shades descended, Low and loud and sweetly blended, Low at times and loud at times, And changing like a poet's rhymes, Rang the beautiful wild chimes From the Belfry in the market Of the ancient town of Bruges.
Сторінка 20 - Thames waters flow. O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
Сторінка 14 - My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O! my soul is white. White as an angel is the English child: But I am black as if bereav'd of light. My mother taught me underneath a tree And sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And pointing to the east began to say, Look on the rising sun: there God...
Сторінка 13 - Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.

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