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bee house
bee house
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and if I had I couldn't a done it, because that nigger
busted in and says:
“Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?”
We could see pretty well now. Tom he looked at the nigger, steady and
kind of wondering, and says:
“Does _who_ know us?”
“Why, dis-yer runaway nigger.”
“I don't reckon he does; but what put that into your head?”
“What _put_ it dar? Didn' he jis' dis minute sing out like he knowed
you?”
Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way:
“Well, that's mighty curious. _Who_ s
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dead,
Whom late triumphant, with his steeds and car,
He sent refulgent to the field of war;
(Unhappy change!) now senseless, pale, he found,
Stretch'd forth, and gash'd with many a gaping wound.
Meantime, unwearied with his heavenly way,
In ocean's waves the unwilling light of day
Quench'd his red orb, at Juno's high command,
And from their labours eased the Achaian band.
The frighted Trojans (panting from the war,
Their steeds unharness'd from the weary car)
A sudden council call'd: each chief appear'd
In haste, and standing; for to sit they fear'd.
'Twas now no season for prolong'd debate;
They saw Achilles, and in him their fate.
Silent they stood: Polydamas at last,
Skill'd to discern the future by the past,
The son of Panthus, thus express'd his fears
(The friend of Hector, and of equal years;
The self-same night to both a being gave,
One wise in council, one in action brave):
[Illustration: JUNO COMMANDING THE SUN TO SET.]
JUNO COMMANDING THE SUN TO SET.
"In free debate, my friends, your sentence speak;
For me, I move, before the morning break,
To raise our camp: too dangerous here our post,
Far from Troy walls, and on a naked coast.
I deem'd not Greece so dreadful, while engaged
In mutual feuds her king and hero raged;
Then, while we hoped our armies might prevail
We boldly camp'd beside a thousand sail.
I dread Pelides now: his rage of mind
Not long continues to the shores confined,
Nor to the fields, where long in equal fray
Contending nations won and lost the day;
For Troy, for Troy, shall henceforth be the strife,
And the hard contest not for fame, but life.
Haste then to Ilion, while the favouring night
Detains these terrors, keeps that arm from fight.
If but the morrow's sun behold us here,
That arm, those terrors, we shall feel, not fear;
And hearts that now disdain, shall leap with joy,
If heaven permit them then to enter Troy.
Let