edwindvinas/testdataset · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 72
had marked in the new Foster book Barney had brought her from the
Port—with an adjuration not to expect _him_ to read or listen to it.

“‘All the tintings of winter woods are extremely delicate and
elusive,’” recalled Valancy. “‘When the brief afternoon wanes and the
sun just touches the tops of the hills, there seems to be all over the
woods an abundance, not of colour, but of the spirit of colour. There
is really nothing but pure white after all, but one has the impression
of fairy-like blendings of rose and violet, opal and heliotrope on the
slopes—in the dingles and along the curves of the forest-land. You feel
sure the tint is there, but when you look at it directly it is gone.
From the corner of your eye you are aware that it is lurking over
yonder in a spot where there was nothing but pale purity a moment ago.
Only just when the sun is setting is there a fleeting moment of real
colour. Then the redness streams out over the snow and incarnadines the
hills and rivers and smites the crest of the pines with flame. Just a
few minutes of transfiguration and revelation—and it is gone.’

“I wonder if John Foster ever spent a winter in Mistawis,” said
Valancy.

“Not likely,” scoffed Barney. “People who write tosh like that
generally write it in a warm house on some smug city street.”

“You are too hard on John Foster,” said Valancy severely. “No one could
have written that little paragraph I read you last night without having
seen it first—you know he couldn’t.”

“I didn’t listen to it,” said Barney morosely. “You know I told you I
wouldn’t.”

“Then you’ve got to listen to it now,” persisted Valancy. She made him
stand still on his snowshoes while she repeated it.

“‘She is a rare artist, this old Mother Nature, who works “for the joy
of working” and not in any spirit of vain show. Today the fir woods are
a symphony of greens and greys, so subtle that you cannot tell where
one shade begins to be the other. Grey trunk, green bough, grey-green
moss above the white, grey-shadowed floor. Yet the old gypsy doesn’t
like unrelieved monotones. She must have a dash of colour. See it. A
broken dead fir bough, of a beautiful red-brown, swinging among the
beards of moss.’”

“Good Lord, do you learn all that fellow’s books by heart?” was
Barney’s disgusted reaction as he strode off.

“John Foster’s books were all that saved my soul alive the past five
years,” averred Valancy. “Oh, Barney, look at that exquisite filigree
of snow in the furrows of that old elm-tree trunk.”

When they came out to the lake they changed from snowshoes to skates
and skated home. For a wonder Valancy had learned, when she was a
little schoolgirl, to skate on the pond behind the Deerwood school. She
never had any skates of her own, but some of the other girls had lent
her theirs and she seemed to have a natural knack of it. Uncle Benjamin
had once promised her a pair of skates for Christmas, but when
Christmas came he had given her rubbers instead. She had never skated
since she grew up, but the old trick came back quickly, and glorious
were the hours she and Barney spent skimming over the white lakes and
past the dark islands where the summer cottages were closed and silent.
Tonight they flew down Mistawis before the wind, in an exhilaration
that crimsoned Valancy’s cheeks under her white tam. And at the end was
her dear little house, on the island of pines, with a coating of snow
on its roof, sparkling in the moonlight. Its windows glinted impishly
at her in the stay gleams.

“Looks exactly like a picture-book, doesn’t it?” said Barney.

They had a lovely Christmas. No rush. No scramble. No niggling attempts
to make ends meet. No wild effort to remember whether she hadn’t given
the same kind of present to the same person two Christmases before—no
mob of last-minute shoppers—no dreary family “reunions” where she sat
mute and unimportant—no attacks of “nerves.” They decorated the Blue
Castle with pine boughs, and Valancy made delightful little tinsel
stars and hung them up amid the greenery. She cooked a dinner to which
Barney did full justice, while Good Luck and Banjo picked the bones.

“A land that can produce a goose like that is an admirable land,” vowed
Barney. “Canada forever!” And they drank to the Union Jack a bottle of
dandelion wine that Cousin Georgiana had given Valancy along with the
bedspread.

“One never knows,” Cousin Georgiana had said solemnly, “when one may
need a little stimulant.”

Barney had asked Valancy what she wanted for a Christmas present.

“Something frivolous and unnecessary,” said Valancy, who had got a pair
of goloshes last Christmas and two long-sleeved, woolen undervests the
year before. And so on back.

To her delight, Barney gave her a necklace of pearl beads. Valancy had
wanted a string of milky pearl beads—like congealed moonshine—all her
life. And these were so pretty. All that worried her was that they were
really too good. They must have cost a great deal—fifteen dollars, at
least. Could Barney afford that? She didn’t know a thing about his
finances. She had refused to let him buy any of her clothes—she had
enough for that, she told him, as long as she would need clothes. In a
round, black jar on the chimney-piece Barney put money for their
household expenses—always enough. The jar was never empty, though

had marked in the new Foster book Barney had brought her from the

Port—with an adjuration not to expect _him_ to read or listen to it.

“‘All the tintings of winter woods are extremely delicate and

elusive,’” recalled Valancy. “‘When the brief afternoon wanes and the

sun just touches the tops of the hills, there seems to be all over the

woods an abundance, not of colour, but of the spirit of colour. There

is really nothing but pure white after all, but one has the impression

of fairy-like blendings of rose and violet, opal and heliotrope on the

slopes—in the dingles and along the curves of the forest-land. You feel

sure the tint is there, but when you look at it directly it is gone.

From the corner of your eye you are aware that it is lurking over

yonder in a spot where there was nothing but pale purity a moment ago.

Only just when the sun is setting is there a fleeting moment of real

colour. Then the redness streams out over the snow and incarnadines the

hills and rivers and smites the crest of the pines with flame. Just a

few minutes of transfiguration and revelation—and it is gone.’

“I wonder if John Foster ever spent a winter in Mistawis,” said

Valancy.

“Not likely,” scoffed Barney. “People who write tosh like that

generally write it in a warm house on some smug city street.”

“You are too hard on John Foster,” said Valancy severely. “No one could

have written that little paragraph I read you last night without having

seen it first—you know he couldn’t.”

“I didn’t listen to it,” said Barney morosely. “You know I told you I

wouldn’t.”

“Then you’ve got to listen to it now,” persisted Valancy. She made him

stand still on his snowshoes while she repeated it.

“‘She is a rare artist, this old Mother Nature, who works “for the joy

of working” and not in any spirit of vain show. Today the fir woods are

a symphony of greens and greys, so subtle that you cannot tell where

one shade begins to be the other. Grey trunk, green bough, grey-green

moss above the white, grey-shadowed floor. Yet the old gypsy doesn’t

like unrelieved monotones. She must have a dash of colour. See it. A

broken dead fir bough, of a beautiful red-brown, swinging among the

beards of moss.’”

“Good Lord, do you learn all that fellow’s books by heart?” was

Barney’s disgusted reaction as he strode off.

“John Foster’s books were all that saved my soul alive the past five

years,” averred Valancy. “Oh, Barney, look at that exquisite filigree

of snow in the furrows of that old elm-tree trunk.”

When they came out to the lake they changed from snowshoes to skates

and skated home. For a wonder Valancy had learned, when she was a

little schoolgirl, to skate on the pond behind the Deerwood school. She

never had any skates of her own, but some of the other girls had lent

her theirs and she seemed to have a natural knack of it. Uncle Benjamin

had once promised her a pair of skates for Christmas, but when

Christmas came he had given her rubbers instead. She had never skated

since she grew up, but the old trick came back quickly, and glorious

were the hours she and Barney spent skimming over the white lakes and

past the dark islands where the summer cottages were closed and silent.

Tonight they flew down Mistawis before the wind, in an exhilaration

that crimsoned Valancy’s cheeks under her white tam. And at the end was

her dear little house, on the island of pines, with a coating of snow

on its roof, sparkling in the moonlight. Its windows glinted impishly

at her in the stay gleams.

“Looks exactly like a picture-book, doesn’t it?” said Barney.

They had a lovely Christmas. No rush. No scramble. No niggling attempts

to make ends meet. No wild effort to remember whether she hadn’t given

the same kind of present to the same person two Christmases before—no

mob of last-minute shoppers—no dreary family “reunions” where she sat

mute and unimportant—no attacks of “nerves.” They decorated the Blue

Castle with pine boughs, and Valancy made delightful little tinsel

stars and hung them up amid the greenery. She cooked a dinner to which

Barney did full justice, while Good Luck and Banjo picked the bones.

“A land that can produce a goose like that is an admirable land,” vowed

Barney. “Canada forever!” And they drank to the Union Jack a bottle of

dandelion wine that Cousin Georgiana had given Valancy along with the

bedspread.

“One never knows,” Cousin Georgiana had said solemnly, “when one may

need a little stimulant.”

Barney had asked Valancy what she wanted for a Christmas present.

“Something frivolous and unnecessary,” said Valancy, who had got a pair

of goloshes last Christmas and two long-sleeved, woolen undervests the

year before. And so on back.

To her delight, Barney gave her a necklace of pearl beads. Valancy had

wanted a string of milky pearl beads—like congealed moonshine—all her

life. And these were so pretty. All that worried her was that they were

really too good. They must have cost a great deal—fifteen dollars, at

least. Could Barney afford that? She didn’t know a thing about his

finances. She had refused to let him buy any of her clothes—she had

enough for that, she told him, as long as she would need clothes. In a

round, black jar on the chimney-piece Barney put money for their

household expenses—always enough. The jar was never empty, though