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“It’s only the enouncemint of me ingagement” ses she.
234And he declared, quite frankly, that “modern” music had no interest for him. When I mentioned Richard Strauss, he smiled. At the name of Debussy, he looked bewildered, and about Max Reger, Scriabin, Granville Bantock, Sibelius and Delius, he had not a word to say.
If you have ever watched a farmer swinging his scythe, or the mowing machine pushing through the wheat or oats, you can have a pretty good idea of how men fall in windrows when a bevy of those modern guns are in action. Those who manipulate them constantly change the position of the weapons so that the discharge might be compared to the result when anyone handles a hose to sprinkle the lawn or the family garden. Some have even likened it to the machine for whitewashing or painting great buildings like those erected for Expositions; only instead of the pure white the result of this spraying is red.
“That’s more than I’d like to say,” replied Jack, “though it might be possible, for right now he’s taking desperate chances to carry out a little scheme he’s set up, hoping to do some damage to the Turks, in all this excitement, where the shells of the fleet can’t reach them.”
"Yes, sir," answered the sergeant, touching his cap.
The details of this murder as given today by tradition are practically the same as those published by T. Marshall Smith: “Big Harpe snatched it—Susan’s infant, about nine months old—from its mother’s arms, slung it by the heels against a large tree by the path-side, and literally bursting its head into a dozen pieces, threw it from him as far as his great strength enabled him, into the woods.” This terrible tragedy is briefly referred to by Hall and Breazeale, both of whom state that Big Harpe, just before his death, declared he regretted none of the many murders he had committed except “the killing of his own child.”
There were no pray-ers or hymns. It was great grief to young A-bra-ham that the good man of God who spoke in the old home was not there to say some words at that time. It was then that the ten-year old child wrote his first let-ter. It was hard work, for he had had small chance to learn that art. But his love for his moth-er led his hand so that he put down the words on pa-per, and a friend took them five scores of miles off. Good Par-son El-kins took the poor note sent from the boy he loved, and, with his heart full of pit-y for the great grief which had come to his old friends, and be-cause of his deep re-gard for the no-ble wom-an who had gone to her rest, he made the long jour-ney, though weeks passed ere he could stand by that grave and say the words A-bra-ham longed to hear.详情 ➢
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