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"We were distributed, by the King's command, from the
council-houses through the various towns, and proclamation was made of our great
value; but no one believed in it, or even understood how to plant us. One man
dug a hole in the earth and threw in his whole bushel of potatoes; another put
one potato here and another there in the ground, and expected that each was to
come up a perfect tree, from which he might shake down potatoes. And they
certainly grew, and produced flowers and green watery fruit, but it all withered
away.
And they certainly grew, and produced flowers and green watery
fruit, but it all withered away. Nobody thought of what was in the ground- the
blessing- the potato. Yes, we have endured and suffered, that is to say, our
forefathers have; they and we, it is all one." What a story it was! "Well, and
that will do," said the woman. "Now look at the sloe bush." "We have also some
near relations in the home of the potatoes, but higher towards the north than
they grew," said the Sloes.
"There were Northmen, from Norway, who
steered westward through mist and storm to an unknown land, where, behind ice
and snow, they found plants and green meadows, and bushes with blue-black
grapes- sloe bushes. The grapes were ripened by the frost just as we are. And
they called the land 'wine-land,' that is, 'Groenland,' or 'Sloeland.'" "That is
quite a romantic story," said the young man. "Yes, certainly. But now come with
me," said the wise woman, and she led him to the bee-hive.
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"The
world is no good!" he said. "Everything in it is so stupid." The weather-cock
was puffed up, and that quality would have made him interesting in the eyes of
the cucumber if it had known it, but it had eyes only for the yard cock, who was
now in the yard with it. The wind had blown the planks, but the storm was over.
"What do you think of that crowing?" said the yard cock to the hens and
chickens. "It was a little rough- it wanted elegance." And the hens and chickens
came up on the dung-hill, and the cock strutted about like a lord.
"What
do you think of that crowing?" said the yard cock to the hens and chickens. "It
was a little rough- it wanted elegance." And the hens and chickens came up on
the dung-hill, and the cock strutted about like a lord. "Garden plant!" he said
to the cucumber, and in that one word his deep learning showed itself, and it
forgot that he was pecking at her and eating it up. "A happy death!" The hens
and the chickens came, for where one runs the others run too; they clucked, and
chirped, and looked at the cock, and were proud that he was of their kind.
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" he crowed, "the chickens will grow up into great
hens at once, if I cry it out in the poultry-yard of the world!" And hens and
chicks clucked and chirped, and the cock announced a great piece of news. "A
cock can lay an egg! And do you know what's in that egg? A basilisk. No one can
stand the sight of such a thing; people know that, and now you know it too- you
know what is in me, and what a champion of all cocks I am!" With that the yard
cock flapped his wings, made his comb swell up, and crowed again; and they all
shuddered, the hens and the little chicks- but they were very proud that one of
their number was such a champion of all cocks.
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He folded her hands and read a psalm over the dead woman. She was
buried; two large tears rolled over the cheeks of the earnest man, and in the
parsonage it was empty and still, for its sun had set for ever. She had gone
home. It was night. A cold wind swept over the pastor's head; he opened his
eyes, and it seemed to him as if the moon was shining into his room. It was not
so, however; there was a being standing before his bed, and looking like the
ghost of his deceased wife.
She fixed her eyes upon him with such a kind
and sad expression, just as if she wished to say something to him. The pastor
raised himself in bed and stretched his arms towards her, saying, "Not even you
can find eternal rest! You suffer, you best and most pious woman?" The dead
woman nodded her head as if to say "Yes," and put her hand on her breast. "And
can I not obtain rest in the grave for you?" "Yes," was the answer. "And how?"
"Give me one hair- only one single hair- from the head of the sinner for whom
the fire shall never be extinguished, of the sinner whom God will condemn to
eternal punishment in hell."
"And how?" "Give me one hair- only one
single hair- from the head of the sinner for whom the fire shall never be
extinguished, of the sinner whom God will condemn to eternal punishment in
hell." "Yes, one ought to be able to redeem you so easily, you pure, pious
woman," he said. "Follow me," said the dead woman. "It is thus granted to us. By
my side you will be able to fly wherever your thoughts wish to go. Invisible to
men, we shall penetrate into their most secret chambers; but with sure hand you
must find out him who is destined to eternal torture, and before the cock crows
he must be found!" As quickly as if carried by the winged thoughts they were in
the great city, and from the walls the names of the deadly sins shone in flaming
letters: pride, avarice, drunkenness, wantonness- in short, the whole
seven-coloured bow of sin.
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I am sure, a month ago, I had no more idea myself!--The strangest things
do take place!" "When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted--they do
indeed--and really it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is so
evidently, so palpably desirable--what courts the pre-arrangement of other
people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form. You and Mr.
Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one another by every
circumstance of your respective homes.
Your marrying will be equal to
the match at Randalls. There does seem to be a something in the air of Hartfield
which gives love exactly the right direction, and sends it into the very channel
where it ought to flow. The course of true love never did run smooth-- A
Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that passage." "That
Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,--me, of all people, who did not know
him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very handsomest man that ever
was, and a man that every body looks up to, quite like Mr.
Knightley! His
company so sought after, that every body says he need not eat a single meal by
himself if he does not chuse it; that he has more invitations than there are
days in the week. And so excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all the
texts he has ever preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look
back to the first time I saw him! How little did I think!-- The two Abbots and I
ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he was going
by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look through herself;
however, she called me back presently, and let me look too, which was very
good-natured.
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