Uncle Berry, several years before, had presented him to Thomas Foxall, with a positive agreement that he would neither train nor run him again; having a two-year-old in training, Mr. Foxall took up the old horse merely to gallop in company with him, a few weeks before the Nashville meeting.
Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun, he had an inspiration.
And then, in a completely different mood, "We may need him badly. We may be in the process of killing our first one now."
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.”
I love you is all the secret that many, nay, most women have to tell. When that is said, they are like China-crackers on the morning of the fifth of July. And just as that little patriotic implement is made with a slender train which leads to the magazine in its interior, so a sharp eye can almost always see the train leading from a young girl’s eye or lip to the “I love you” in her heart. But the Three Words are not the Great Secret I mean. No, women’s faces are only one of the tablets on which that is written in its partial, fragmentary symbols. It lies deeper than Love, though very probably Love is a part of it. Some, I think,——Wordsworth might be one of them,——spell out a portion of it from certain beautiful natural objects, landscapes, flowers, and others. I can mention several poems of his that have shadowy hints which seem to me to come near the region where I think it lies. I have known two persons who pursued it with the passion of the old alchemists,——all wrong evidently, but infatuated, and never giving up the daily search for it until they got tremulous and feeble, and their dreams changed to visions of things that ran and crawled about their floor and ceilings, and so they died. The vulgar called them drunkards.
Quite as interesting to me as the houses we visited were the stories that our guide told us about the people that lived in them. I recall among others the story of the young widow
about the presence of a small submarine, so that all extra precautions might be taken against a surprise.详情 ➢
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