edwindvinas/testdataset · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 72
ghosts, without any sequence of time or place. For instance, that time
when, at sixteen, she had blued a tubful of clothes too deeply. And the
time when, at eight, she had “stolen” some raspberry jam from Aunt
Wellington’s pantry. Valancy never heard the last of those two
misdemeanours. At almost every clan gathering they were raked up
against her as jokes. Uncle Benjamin hardly ever missed re-telling the
raspberry jam incident—he had been the one to catch her, her face all
stained and streaked.

“I have really done so few bad things that they have to keep harping on
the old ones,” thought Valancy. “Why, I’ve never even had a quarrel
with any one. I haven’t an enemy. What a spineless thing I must be not
to have even one enemy!”

There was that incident of the dust-pile at school when she was seven.
Valancy always recalled it when Dr. Stalling referred to the text, “To
him that hath shall be given and from him that hath not shall be taken
even that which he hath.” Other people might puzzle over that text but
it never puzzled Valancy. The whole relationship between herself and
Olive, dating from the day of the dust-pile, was a commentary on it.

She had been going to school a year, but Olive, who was a year younger,
had just begun and had about her all the glamour of “a new girl” and an
exceedingly pretty girl at that. It was at recess and all the girls,
big and little, were out on the road in front of the school making
dust-piles. The aim of each girl was to have the biggest pile. Valancy
was good at making dust-piles—there was an art in it—and she had secret
hopes of leading. But Olive, working off by herself, was suddenly
discovered to have a larger dust-pile than anybody. Valancy felt no
jealousy. Her dust-pile was quite big enough to please her. Then one of
the older girls had an inspiration.

“Let’s put all our dust on Olive’s pile and make a tremendous one,” she
exclaimed.

A frenzy seemed to seize the girls. They swooped down on the dust-piles
with pails and shovels and in a few seconds Olive’s pile was a
veritable pyramid. In vain Valancy, with scrawny, outstretched little
arms, tried to protect hers. She was ruthlessly swept aside, her
dust-pile scooped up and poured on Olive’s. Valancy turned away
resolutely and began building another dust-pile. Again a bigger girl
pounced on it. Valancy stood before it, flushed, indignant, arms
outspread.

“Don’t take it,” she pleaded. “Please don’t take it.”

“But _why_?” demanded the older girl. “Why won’t you help to build
Olive’s bigger?”

“I want my own little dust-pile,” said Valancy piteously.

Her plea went unheeded. While she argued with one girl another scraped
up her dust-pile. Valancy turned away, her heart swelling, her eyes
full of tears.

“Jealous—you’re jealous!” said the girls mockingly.

“You were very selfish,” said her mother coldly, when Valancy told her
about it at night. That was the first and last time Valancy had ever
taken any of her troubles to her mother.

Valancy was neither jealous nor selfish. It was only that she wanted a
dust-pile of her own—small or big mattered not. A team of horses came
down the street—Olive’s dust pile was scattered over the roadway—the
bell rang—the girls trooped into school and had forgotten the whole
affair before they reached their seats. Valancy never forgot it. To
this day she resented it in her secret soul. But was it not symbolical
of her life?

“I’ve never been able to have my own dust-pile,” thought Valancy.

The enormous red moon she had seen rising right at the end of the
street one autumn evening of her sixth year. She had been sick and cold
with the awful, uncanny horror of it. So near to her. So big. She had
run in trembling to her mother and her mother had laughed at her. She
had gone to bed and hidden her face under the clothes in terror lest
she might look at the window and see that horrible moon glaring in at
her through it.

The boy who had tried to kiss her at a party when she was fifteen. She
had not let him—she had evaded him and run. He was the only boy who had
ever tried to kiss her. Now, fourteen years later, Valancy found
herself wishing that she had let him.

The time she had been made to apologise to Olive for something she
hadn’t done. Olive had said that Valancy had pushed her into the mud
and spoiled her new shoes _on purpose_. Valancy knew she hadn’t. It had
been an accident—and even that wasn’t her fault—but nobody would
believe her. She had to apologise—and kiss Olive to “make up.” The
injustice of it burned in her soul tonight.

That summer when Olive had the most beautiful hat, trimmed with creamy
yellow net, with a wreath of red roses and little ribbon bows under the
chin. Valancy had wanted a hat like that more than she had ever wanted
anything. She pleaded for one and had been laughed at—all summer she
had to wear a horrid little brown sailor with elastic that cut behind
her ears. None of the girls would go around with her because she was so
shabby—nobody but Olive. People had thought Olive so sweet and
unselfish.

ghosts, without any sequence of time or place. For instance, that time

when, at sixteen, she had blued a tubful of clothes too deeply. And the

time when, at eight, she had “stolen” some raspberry jam from Aunt

Wellington’s pantry. Valancy never heard the last of those two

misdemeanours. At almost every clan gathering they were raked up

against her as jokes. Uncle Benjamin hardly ever missed re-telling the

raspberry jam incident—he had been the one to catch her, her face all

stained and streaked.

“I have really done so few bad things that they have to keep harping on

the old ones,” thought Valancy. “Why, I’ve never even had a quarrel

with any one. I haven’t an enemy. What a spineless thing I must be not

to have even one enemy!”

There was that incident of the dust-pile at school when she was seven.

Valancy always recalled it when Dr. Stalling referred to the text, “To

him that hath shall be given and from him that hath not shall be taken

even that which he hath.” Other people might puzzle over that text but

it never puzzled Valancy. The whole relationship between herself and

Olive, dating from the day of the dust-pile, was a commentary on it.

She had been going to school a year, but Olive, who was a year younger,

had just begun and had about her all the glamour of “a new girl” and an

exceedingly pretty girl at that. It was at recess and all the girls,

big and little, were out on the road in front of the school making

dust-piles. The aim of each girl was to have the biggest pile. Valancy

was good at making dust-piles—there was an art in it—and she had secret

hopes of leading. But Olive, working off by herself, was suddenly

discovered to have a larger dust-pile than anybody. Valancy felt no

jealousy. Her dust-pile was quite big enough to please her. Then one of

the older girls had an inspiration.

“Let’s put all our dust on Olive’s pile and make a tremendous one,” she

exclaimed.

A frenzy seemed to seize the girls. They swooped down on the dust-piles

with pails and shovels and in a few seconds Olive’s pile was a

veritable pyramid. In vain Valancy, with scrawny, outstretched little

arms, tried to protect hers. She was ruthlessly swept aside, her

dust-pile scooped up and poured on Olive’s. Valancy turned away

resolutely and began building another dust-pile. Again a bigger girl

pounced on it. Valancy stood before it, flushed, indignant, arms

outspread.

“Don’t take it,” she pleaded. “Please don’t take it.”

“But _why_?” demanded the older girl. “Why won’t you help to build

Olive’s bigger?”

“I want my own little dust-pile,” said Valancy piteously.

Her plea went unheeded. While she argued with one girl another scraped

up her dust-pile. Valancy turned away, her heart swelling, her eyes

full of tears.

“Jealous—you’re jealous!” said the girls mockingly.

“You were very selfish,” said her mother coldly, when Valancy told her

about it at night. That was the first and last time Valancy had ever

taken any of her troubles to her mother.

Valancy was neither jealous nor selfish. It was only that she wanted a

dust-pile of her own—small or big mattered not. A team of horses came

down the street—Olive’s dust pile was scattered over the roadway—the

bell rang—the girls trooped into school and had forgotten the whole

affair before they reached their seats. Valancy never forgot it. To

this day she resented it in her secret soul. But was it not symbolical

of her life?

“I’ve never been able to have my own dust-pile,” thought Valancy.

The enormous red moon she had seen rising right at the end of the

street one autumn evening of her sixth year. She had been sick and cold

with the awful, uncanny horror of it. So near to her. So big. She had

run in trembling to her mother and her mother had laughed at her. She

had gone to bed and hidden her face under the clothes in terror lest

she might look at the window and see that horrible moon glaring in at

her through it.

The boy who had tried to kiss her at a party when she was fifteen. She

had not let him—she had evaded him and run. He was the only boy who had

ever tried to kiss her. Now, fourteen years later, Valancy found

herself wishing that she had let him.

The time she had been made to apologise to Olive for something she

hadn’t done. Olive had said that Valancy had pushed her into the mud

and spoiled her new shoes _on purpose_. Valancy knew she hadn’t. It had

been an accident—and even that wasn’t her fault—but nobody would

believe her. She had to apologise—and kiss Olive to “make up.” The

injustice of it burned in her soul tonight.

That summer when Olive had the most beautiful hat, trimmed with creamy

yellow net, with a wreath of red roses and little ribbon bows under the

chin. Valancy had wanted a hat like that more than she had ever wanted

anything. She pleaded for one and had been laughed at—all summer she

had to wear a horrid little brown sailor with elastic that cut behind

her ears. None of the girls would go around with her because she was so

shabby—nobody but Olive. People had thought Olive so sweet and

unselfish.