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时间:2020-02-26 20:23:43 作者:修罗武神烟火里的尘埃 浏览量:29524

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McBee knew nothing of the fire until John Pyles reported it. He immediately rode to the home of William Grissom (or Grisson) who lived about a mile north of Stegall’s. It so happened that he took a short trail instead of the main road and thus providentially escaped the Harpes. He and Grissom, armed and well mounted, accompanied by Grissom’s family, rode to the Stegall home. They not only found the house burned to the ground, as described by John Pyles, but also discovered in the ashes the half-burned remains of Mrs. Stegall and Major Love. They then proceeded to McBee’s house, fortunately taking the same short cut over which the Squire had ridden in the morning. They had scarcely dismounted when Moses Stegall rode up. Then, for the first time, Stegall heard of what had happened to his family since he left home. The necessity of organizing a pursuing party had already been agreed upon and Stegall was sent to Robertson’s Lick for volunteers. [12M]

"But how could you have seen me? It was ever so long before you came to the house."

“‘It ain’t me chargin’, Captain,’ shouted poor Sam, as he pulled away with all his might to keep out of certain death—‘it ain’t me. I ain’t such a fool as that. It’s this damned old mule! Whoa, Baalam, whoa!’

“How long has he been married?” I asked.

“Si, signor,” said the Italian and slid rapidly behind the full folds of rose-coloured velvet which draped the embrasure of the window.

What interested me still more was the fact that this improvement had been, to a very large extent, brought about through the influence of schools. Agricultural education has

312

“The good and pure like her are ever safe,” replied the Salamandrine. “We harm her not.” And she breathed over the maiden, who awoke.

[Pg 194]

[91]

1.Sher-man was Colo-nel of a reg-i-ment at Bull Run. Though he did his part well, he had a fear that the Pres-i-dent would find fault with him for the great loss at that bat-tle. He felt that he had done all he could

2.They had used it for weeks when he saw Ganti, carrying it to place it where they left it overboard, swinging it idly back and forth as he walked.

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Mr. Wallace was certainly misinformed when he was told that the dam of Vermont Black Hawk was a pacer. I hunted up the man who had charge of her for upwards of eight years, and he assured me that the dam of Vermont Black Hawk was as square gaited a trotter as he ever saw, and that she never paced a step during all the time she was owned in the Twombly family. This man was Mr. Shadrak Seavey, a grandson of Ezekiel Twombly, and men who knew him personally assured me that no man’s reputation for strict veracity was superior to that of Mr. Seavey. Horsemen who knew this mare agreed unanimously with Mr. Seavey in describing her color, size, conformation and gait.

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There are many legends about Masefield; he is the kind of figure that gives rise to legends. And, as he is curiously reticent about his early life, some of the most extravagant of these legends have persisted and have, for many people, become true. But the bare facts of his life are interesting enough. As a young man he grew sick of life, of the kind of life he was living, and went to sea as a sailor before the mast. He had neither money nor friends; or, if he had, he relinquished both. The necessity to earn a living drove him into many adventures, and 75I am told that for a time he was pot-boy in a New York drink-den. Here his work must have been utterly distasteful, but the observing eye and the impressionable brain of the poet were at work the whole time, and one can see clearly in some of Masefield’s long narrative poems many evidences of those bitter New York days. How Masefield came to London and settled in Bloomsbury, becoming the friend of J. M. Synge, I do not know. For six months he was in Manchester, editing the column entitled Miscellany in The Manchester Guardian, and writing occasional theatrical notices. I have been told by several of his colleagues on that paper that Masefield’s reserve was invulnerable; he quickly secured the respect of his fellow-workers, but not one of them became intimate with him. He lived in dingy lodgings, he worked hard and, at the end of six months, withdrew to London on the plea that he found it impossible to do literary work at night.

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She knew. He had often come over that way in the daytime.

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"To go through the election, Mrs. Creswell, would kill him at once! He would never survive the nomination day!"

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