Trixie is when she has made up her mind and wants to do a thing."
We had rehearsed pretty well, and when the big curtain rolled up, and Ted and I bounded out on the stage dressed in a kind of jockey costume—white silk tights with red silk stockings, blue satin shirts with jockey caps of blue and red, and jockeys' whips in our hands—we both felt pretty cool. Then we began our clog dance. It was the finest kind of clog dancing, I will say, although I did part of it myself, and then we introduced a new feature, singing while the clogs rattled on the floor, and every muscle moving alike. Of course it took—the singing as much as the dancing—and the people hurrahed and clapped and shouted, and wouldn't leave off until we had gone over it three times, and the end man had come on the stage and asked permission for the other performers to go home and go to bed, as the audience seemed fully satisfied with the Valbella Brothers. Then they laughed, and we got back to our dressing-room, when old Sam Stacker stood ready to hug us both.
But it is a very different matter when the author of a book like mine ventures, as I have done for sufficient reasons but at the same time with regret, to sit in judgment on the works of men of research and experts, who belong to our own time and who exert a lively influence on their generation. In this case the author can no longer appeal to the consentient opinion of his contemporaries; he finds them divided into parties, and involuntarily belongs to a party himself. But it is a still more weighty consideration that he may subsequently change his own point of view, and may arrive at a more profound insight into the value of the works which he has criticised; continued study and maturer years may teach him that he overestimated some things fifteen or twenty years ago and perhaps undervalued others, and facts, once assumed to be well established, may now be acknowledged to be incorrect.
“You didn’t lock the drawer?”
"I heard you quarrelling as I came," she said. "Rather soon, isn't it?"
"You sure look foolish, with your fancy hair-do down in your eyes," Retief said. "The servants will get a big laugh out of it."
"I wish you good-morning, Mr. Creach."
I was standing at the window of Poirot’s rooms looking out idly on the street below.
When Spring had gone by, and the warm days of 1830 had come, A-bra-ham Lin-coln left home and set
Felling a bit sorry for the unforchnit family I got riddy a foine dinner, and was after rolling me pie paste when Miss Claire cum in and coxed me into going wid her to the gardin. She put me to wark digging a hole in the cinter of the illygunt lon, frish cut by Mr. James. “The boys have gone bathing” ses she, “papa’s out driving and mama’s aslape. Nows our chance. O Delia how forchnit it is our gests didn’t stay for dinner too.”
"Perhaps mademoiselle would welcome a drink?"
Copyright © 2020