File:The Boston Cooking School magazine of culinary science and domestic economics (1908) (14743850776).jpg

Identifier: bostoncookingsch19hill_7 (find matches)
Title: The Boston Cooking School magazine of culinary science and domestic economics
Year: 1896 (1890s)
Authors: Hill, Janet McKenzie, 1852-1933, ed Boston Cooking School (Boston, Mass.)
Subjects: Home economics Cooking
Publisher: Boston : Boston Cooking-School Magazine
Contributing Library: Boston Public Library
Digitizing Sponsor: Boston Public Library

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so when he saw Tim loitering bythe lilac bushes, his eye on Persis, in-side the window, Jonathan took downhis flintlock and fired to scare, not tokill, but a sudden movement on thepart of Tim, with a view to bringing the loved form into clearer vision, broughthim into direct range, and Jonathansbullet pierced his heart. With swift prescience of trouble, thegirl ran out with her father into thenight. They turned the dim light ofthe old tin lantern full upon the up-turned face, which still wore a smile,half mischievous and wholly tender.One hand, thrust into the bosom of hishomespun coat, held fast to the blueribbon that Persis knew at a glance;but both hand and ribbon bore a fatalstain. In an agony of love and sorrow,the girl cast herself upon the lifelessform, showering caresses and endear-ments, and vainly calling upon herlover to come back and speak to heronce more. His lips were mute. Theheart that beat for her alone was still.His body now lies buried in the garden,at the old inn.
Text Appearing After Image:
The Wayside Inn, Sudbury, Mass. I am not bound to win, but I am bound to betrue; I am not bound to succeed, but I am boundto live up to what light I have. — Abraham Lincoln. He Who Listened By Mix Thorn THE man drew a long breath,straightened his broad shoulders,then sank back hopelessly inhis chair, and picking up a holidayedition of the Rubaiyat, proceededto turn its pages idly. It was like oldMaurice to keep him waiting in thisfashion; send his friend up to the house,and then not be on hand when saidfriend arrived. Why, when they wereboys together at school, how manytimes he had paced the quadrangle,fretting and fuming, watching thechapel clock, till, well past the hourappointed, the recreant Maurice wouldrush up breathless and apologetic: yes,he waited then for him, and he waitednow. Lunch was a good hour away, con-sulting his watch; he was condemnedto remain in this correctly darkenedreception room, like a veritable femi-nine caller, until his host should arriveto set him free.

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