Unwilling to lose any of them, but unable to draw out his hand, he burst into tears, and bitterly bemoaned his hard fortune. An honest fellow who stood by, gave him this wise and reasonable advice:—"Grasp only half the quantity, my boy, and you will easily succeed. A BOY playing in the fields got stung by a Nettle. He ran home to his mother, telling her that he had but touched that nasty weed, and it had stung him. A S a Rocket shot upward through the air, one holiday night, and saw the trail of light that marked his passage, he could not resist exulting in his proud ascent, and calling upon the Stars to do him homage.
The Stars heard this foolish boast in silent indignation; only the Dog-star deigned to answer him:. Remember that you are only a part of the gaudy display of a passing moment. Even while I speak, your blaze is half burnt out, and you are at this instant sinking into endless darkness.
Whereas our fires are lighted up by Heaven for the admiration and benefit of the universe; and our glory shall endure forever. After the first greetings the Sparrow said:. The golden plumage of your breast, the shining azure of your wings were never given you to be concealed, but to attract the wonder of all beholders. Why do you not travel and see the world, and become known and admired yourself? But even in this lonesome valley I have sometimes heard of beauty that has been neglected, and of true worth that has been despised. I have learned, besides, not to base my happiness on what others think of me, but on the approval of my own conscience.
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It may be joy to a Sparrow to indulge his curiosity and display his eloquence. But I am a Kingfisher; these woods and streams are my delight, and so long as they are free from wind and storm I am perfectly content with my situation.
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Looking about him, he perceived a small Bird issuing forth from the hollow of a tree, whose beautiful plumage was variegated like the rainbow, and whose size was hardly larger than that of a Bumble-bee. O FT has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark, With eyes that hardly served at most To guard their master 'gainst a post; Yet round the world the blade has been, To see whatever could be seen.
Returning from his finished tour, Grown ten times perter than before; Whatever word you chance to drop, The travelled fool your mouth will stop: "Sir, if my judgment you'll allow— I've seen—and sure I ought to know. How slow its pace! And then its hue,— Who ever saw so fine a blue?
I caught the animal last night, And viewed it o'er by candle-light; I marked it well, 'twas black as jet— You stare—but, sirs, I've got it yet, And can produce it. James Merrick. Three trips to the country later, we are convinced that Iceland is the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Our most memorable visit so far has been a road trip against the wintry elements. As we arrive at Reykjavik Airport and settle into the seats of our rental SUV, I feel a strange sense of familiarity wash over me. All around me, raging winds summon a snowstorm, but strangely enough, I feel at home.
Two years ago, my husband, Vid, and I spent a languorous fortnight driving in Iceland. Splendid summer days and 20 hours of daylight ensured we spent our romantic getaway chasing waterfalls, sipping chilled beers outside scenic lodges, hiking to the tops of extinct volcanoes, and unwinding in hot tubs in the middle of mountains.
We tried to explore every nook and cranny, but Iceland refused to be relegated to the shelf of fond memories. It continued to call out to us over and over again. We cautiously snake our way out of the airport with a three-hour drive ahead of us.
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We try to underplay our apprehensions by regaling each other with tales from our last trip. Over the next 20 minutes, the weather clears up, almost as if a magic wand was waved somewhere. We see mountains looming ahead of us on the highway, lit only by the moonlight. As I marvel at the snow-capped peaks, I see a fleeting glimmer of something in the sky.
Five minutes later, I spot a faint streak of green. We pull up and step out of our car to get a better look—the magnificent aurora borealis colouring the sky green one moment and purple the next. We stand transfixed as we watch them dance, change colours, and dart from one end of the sky to the other. Icelandic folklore has many stories about sudden changes of weather that are anything but unlikely—you can go from wearing a t-shirt to a down jacket in the space of a single day.
The next day, we sleep in. Sunrise is as late as 10 am; Icelandic winters are perfect if your idea of a romantic getaway includes snuggling in bed for hours. At sunrise, we drive to the iconic Black Church of Budir. Skip to content Free download. Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device. This Book have some digital formats such us :paperbook, ebook, kindle, epub, fb2 and another formats.
But why on me those curses thrown? Creatures of the North Goody, the fault was all your own; For had you laid this brittle ware On Dun, the old sure-footed Mare, Though all the Ravens of the hundred With croaking had your tongue out-thunder'd, Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs, And you, good Woman, sav'd your eggs.
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Data Protection Choices Cursed obscurity! Get Up Close and Take Our Survey The golden plumage of your breast, the shining azure of your wings were never given you to be concealed, but to attract the wonder of all beholders.
The history of the Morison or Morrison family : with most of the Traditions of the Morrisons clan MacGillemhuire , hereditary judges of Lewis, by Capt. Thomas, of Scotland, and a record.
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It was, doubtless, the gratitude with which this lady inspired him, that drew from La Fontaine's heart those verses, which so many others have since recited in a spirit of bitterness—. And here we have another of those names on which one loves to dwell so fondly. Her house was always open to them, and her fortune encouraged them to prosecute their labours. Sauveur, Roberval, and Bernier experienced her discreet liberality, which disguised itself only that it might be the more freely bestowed.
She loved knowledge, and possessed it without the desire of display; she had a passion for doing good, yet she employed an innocent art in concealing it. The devotion which she displayed in an unholy love was, for this woman, otherwise so irreproachable, only a transition to those transports of sincere piety which occupied the closing years of her life. La Fontaine had no longer any need to secure fresh protectors. His destiny was secured, for, like the rat in the fable,.
We may now, therefore, be as tranquil on his account as he was himself, merely observing that he took advantage of this security to deliver himself up with a species of fury to the demon of poetry, which never deserted him. His first fables were received with favour, and when he published others he met with a good fortune which is accorded to but few poets, for even the later ones increased his fame.
However, this, his favourite species of writing, had not completely absorbed his attention; the romance of "Psyche," and some theatrical pieces, occupied his time at intervals. He worked at it when he wished to rest from other labours, and also at length completed it. The publication of this romance, of which the prose is elegant, and which also contains many excellent verses, took place soon after that of the first fables.
However this may be, the theatre had a great attraction for La Fontaine, and the society of actors a still greater. It is on this account that he has been made to share the responsibility of the authorship of "Ragotin," a dull imitation of the "Roman Comique. The share which La Fontaine took, or is asserted to have taken, in the composition of these comedies, is difficult to determine. What there can be no doubt of is, that at one time he formed the design of writing a tragedy, and this, perhaps, at the instigation of Racine, who could never refrain from a joke, especially at the expense of his friends.
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Achilles was the hero selected by our poet; but he prudently paused after having made a commencement. This brings us to the mention of La Fontaine's one great, solitary, and brief fit of anger. Always ready to yield to the advice of his friends, he imprudently listened to Lulli, who had importuned him to produce, at a very short notice, the libretto of an opera. The music was to be marvellous, the Court would applaud to the skies the author and the composer, and the poet would be free of the theatre, and have acquired all the rights of dramatic authorship.
What a temptation was this! La Fontaine courageously set himself to work under the guidance of Lulli, who urged him forward, and day by day made fresh suggestions.
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