edwindvinas/testdataset · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 72

“The mouse wishes to harm the cheese and Doss wishes to charm the
he’s.”

Valancy had heard him ask that riddle fifty times and every time she
wanted to throw something at him. But she never did. In the first
place, the Stirlings simply did not throw things; in the second place,
Uncle Benjamin was a wealthy and childless old widower and Valancy had
been brought up in the fear and admonition of his money. If she
offended him he would cut her out of his will—supposing she were in it.
Valancy did not want to be cut out of Uncle Benjamin’s will. She had
been poor all her life and knew the galling bitterness of it. So she
endured his riddles and even smiled tortured little smiles over them.

Aunt Isabel, downright and disagreeable as an east wind, would
criticise her in some way—Valancy could not predict just how, for Aunt
Isabel never repeated a criticism—she found something new with which to
jab you every time. Aunt Isabel prided herself on saying what she
thought, but didn’t like it so well when other people said what _they_
thought to _her_. Valancy never said what _she_ thought.

Cousin Georgiana—named after her great-great-grand-mother, who had been
named after George the Fourth—would recount dolorously the names of all
relatives and friends who had died since the last picnic and wonder
“which of us will be the first to go next.”

Oppressively competent, Aunt Mildred would talk endlessly of her
husband and her odious prodigies of babies to Valancy, because Valancy
would be the only one she could find to put up with it. For the same
reason, Cousin Gladys—really First Cousin Gladys once removed,
according to the strict way in which the Stirlings tabulated
relationship—a tall, thin lady who admitted she had a sensitive
disposition, would describe minutely the tortures of her neuritis. And
Olive, the wonder girl of the whole Stirling clan, who had everything
Valancy had not—beauty, popularity, love,—would show off her beauty and
presume on her popularity and flaunt her diamond insignia of love in
Valancy’s dazzled, envious eyes.

There would be none of all this today. And there would be no packing up
of teaspoons. The packing up was always left for Valancy and Cousin
Stickles. And once, six years ago, a silver teaspoon from Aunt
Wellington’s wedding set had been lost. Valancy never heard the last of
that silver teaspoon. Its ghost appeared Banquo-like at every
subsequent family feast.

Oh, yes, Valancy knew exactly what the picnic would be like and she
blessed the rain that had saved her from it. There would be no picnic
this year. If Aunt Wellington could not celebrate on the sacred day
itself she would have no celebration at all. Thank whatever gods there
were for that.

Since there would be no picnic, Valancy made up her mind that, if the
rain held up in the afternoon, she would go up to the library and get
another of John Foster’s books. Valancy was never allowed to read
novels, but John Foster’s books were not novels. They were “nature
books”—so the librarian told Mrs. Frederick Stirling—“all about the
woods and birds and bugs and things like that, you know.” So Valancy
was allowed to read them—under protest, for it was only too evident
that she enjoyed them too much. It was permissible, even laudable, to
read to improve your mind and your religion, but a book that was
enjoyable was dangerous. Valancy did not know whether her mind was
being improved or not; but she felt vaguely that if she had come across
John Foster’s books years ago life might have been a different thing
for her. They seemed to her to yield glimpses of a world into which she
might once have entered, though the door was forever barred to her now.
It was only within the last year that John Foster’s books had been in
the Deerwood library, though the librarian told Valancy that he had
been a well-known writer for several years.

“Where does he live?” Valancy had asked.

“Nobody knows. From his books he must be a Canadian, but no more
information can be had. His publishers won’t say a word. Quite likely
John Foster is a nom de plume. His books are so popular we can’t keep
them in at all, though I really can’t see what people find in them to
rave over.”

“I think they’re wonderful,” said Valancy, timidly.

“Oh—well—” Miss Clarkson smiled in a patronising fashion that relegated
Valancy’s opinions to limbo, “I can’t say I care much for bugs myself.
But certainly Foster seems to know all there is to know about them.”

Valancy didn’t know whether she cared much for bugs either. It was not
John Foster’s uncanny knowledge of wild creatures and insect life that
enthralled her. She could hardly say what it was—some tantalising lure
of a mystery never revealed—some hint of a great secret just a little
further on—some faint, elusive echo of lovely, forgotten things—John
Foster’s magic was indefinable.

Yes, she would get a new Foster book. It was a month since she had
_Thistle Harvest_, so surely Mother could not object. Valancy had read
it four times—she knew whole passages off by heart.

And—she almost thought she would go and see Dr. Trent about that queer
pain around the heart. It had come rather often lately, and the
palpitations were becoming annoying, not to speak of an occasional
dizzy moment and a queer shortness of breath. But could she go to see
him without telling any one? It was a most daring thought. None of the
Stirlings ever consulted a doctor without holding a family council and

“The mouse wishes to harm the cheese and Doss wishes to charm the

he’s.”

Valancy had heard him ask that riddle fifty times and every time she

wanted to throw something at him. But she never did. In the first

place, the Stirlings simply did not throw things; in the second place,

Uncle Benjamin was a wealthy and childless old widower and Valancy had

been brought up in the fear and admonition of his money. If she

offended him he would cut her out of his will—supposing she were in it.

Valancy did not want to be cut out of Uncle Benjamin’s will. She had

been poor all her life and knew the galling bitterness of it. So she

endured his riddles and even smiled tortured little smiles over them.

Aunt Isabel, downright and disagreeable as an east wind, would

criticise her in some way—Valancy could not predict just how, for Aunt

Isabel never repeated a criticism—she found something new with which to

jab you every time. Aunt Isabel prided herself on saying what she

thought, but didn’t like it so well when other people said what _they_

thought to _her_. Valancy never said what _she_ thought.

Cousin Georgiana—named after her great-great-grand-mother, who had been

named after George the Fourth—would recount dolorously the names of all

relatives and friends who had died since the last picnic and wonder

“which of us will be the first to go next.”

Oppressively competent, Aunt Mildred would talk endlessly of her

husband and her odious prodigies of babies to Valancy, because Valancy

would be the only one she could find to put up with it. For the same

reason, Cousin Gladys—really First Cousin Gladys once removed,

according to the strict way in which the Stirlings tabulated

relationship—a tall, thin lady who admitted she had a sensitive

disposition, would describe minutely the tortures of her neuritis. And

Olive, the wonder girl of the whole Stirling clan, who had everything

Valancy had not—beauty, popularity, love,—would show off her beauty and

presume on her popularity and flaunt her diamond insignia of love in

Valancy’s dazzled, envious eyes.

There would be none of all this today. And there would be no packing up

of teaspoons. The packing up was always left for Valancy and Cousin

Stickles. And once, six years ago, a silver teaspoon from Aunt

Wellington’s wedding set had been lost. Valancy never heard the last of

that silver teaspoon. Its ghost appeared Banquo-like at every

subsequent family feast.

Oh, yes, Valancy knew exactly what the picnic would be like and she

blessed the rain that had saved her from it. There would be no picnic

this year. If Aunt Wellington could not celebrate on the sacred day

itself she would have no celebration at all. Thank whatever gods there

were for that.

Since there would be no picnic, Valancy made up her mind that, if the

rain held up in the afternoon, she would go up to the library and get

another of John Foster’s books. Valancy was never allowed to read

novels, but John Foster’s books were not novels. They were “nature

books”—so the librarian told Mrs. Frederick Stirling—“all about the

woods and birds and bugs and things like that, you know.” So Valancy

was allowed to read them—under protest, for it was only too evident

that she enjoyed them too much. It was permissible, even laudable, to

read to improve your mind and your religion, but a book that was

enjoyable was dangerous. Valancy did not know whether her mind was

being improved or not; but she felt vaguely that if she had come across

John Foster’s books years ago life might have been a different thing

for her. They seemed to her to yield glimpses of a world into which she

might once have entered, though the door was forever barred to her now.

It was only within the last year that John Foster’s books had been in

the Deerwood library, though the librarian told Valancy that he had

been a well-known writer for several years.

“Where does he live?” Valancy had asked.

“Nobody knows. From his books he must be a Canadian, but no more

information can be had. His publishers won’t say a word. Quite likely

John Foster is a nom de plume. His books are so popular we can’t keep

them in at all, though I really can’t see what people find in them to

rave over.”

“I think they’re wonderful,” said Valancy, timidly.

“Oh—well—” Miss Clarkson smiled in a patronising fashion that relegated

Valancy’s opinions to limbo, “I can’t say I care much for bugs myself.

But certainly Foster seems to know all there is to know about them.”

Valancy didn’t know whether she cared much for bugs either. It was not

John Foster’s uncanny knowledge of wild creatures and insect life that

enthralled her. She could hardly say what it was—some tantalising lure

of a mystery never revealed—some hint of a great secret just a little

further on—some faint, elusive echo of lovely, forgotten things—John

Foster’s magic was indefinable.

Yes, she would get a new Foster book. It was a month since she had

_Thistle Harvest_, so surely Mother could not object. Valancy had read

it four times—she knew whole passages off by heart.

And—she almost thought she would go and see Dr. Trent about that queer

pain around the heart. It had come rather often lately, and the

palpitations were becoming annoying, not to speak of an occasional

dizzy moment and a queer shortness of breath. But could she go to see

him without telling any one? It was a most daring thought. None of the

Stirlings ever consulted a doctor without holding a family council and