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able asked Bennie blind blind miner breaker called carried child close coal coming cracker-boss David Burton dead death direction Doctor Optic don't door Enoch Evans entered eyes face father fear fellow felt girl give gone Gordon Grace hand happy head hear heard heart hope hour infirmary Jimmy Jones killed kind kissed knew latter leave little Ben look Mapleton Mick mind minutes morning mother never night Nock once pain Podge poet poet-miner poor poor-house replied returned rushing scene screen-room seemed short side sight slate slate-picker Smeeker soon sorrow speak Spilkins stood suffering superintendent talk tears tell Terence Terence O'Dowd thee thought told took turned voice Widow wife Willie woman wonder
Página 115 - Nor did woman — oh woman ! whose form and whose soul Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue ! Whether sunn'd in the tropics or chill'd at the pole, If woman be there, there is happiness too ! Nor did she her enamouring magic deny, That magic.
Página 257 - The charmed repose to suffering dear. Still waits kind Nature to impart Her choicest gifts to such as gain An entrance to her loving heart Through the sharp discipline of pain. Forever from the Hand that takes One blessing from us others fall; And, soon or late, our Father makes His perfect recompense to all!
Página 1 - JR. JULIAN MORTIMER : or, A Brave Boy's Struggles for Home and Fortune. By HARRY CASTLEMON. ADRIFT IN THE WILDS ; or, The Adventures of Two Shipwrecked Boys. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. FRANK FOWLER, THE CASH BOY. By HORATIO ALOER, JR.
Página 5 - how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand to move the world, on a child's heart, — Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O goldheaper, And your purple shows your path ! But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence Than the strong man in his wrath !
Página 5 - If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, We fall upon our faces, trying to go, And underneath our heavy eyelids, drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For all day we drag our burden, tiring, Through the coal-dark underground ; Or all day we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round.