'
'It is not I that make nonsense!' said Gillian, 'why, don't you see,
Dolly, which way the sun and everything moves?'
'This is the evening star,' said Dolores, sulkily. 'It was just
rising.'
'I do believe you think it rises in the west.'
'You always see it there. You showed it to me only last Sunday.'
'Do you think it had just risen?'
'Of course the stars rise when the sun sets.'
Gillian could hardly move for laughing. 'My dear Dolores, you to be
daughter to a scientific man! Don't you know that the stars are in the
sky, going on all the time, only we can't see them till the sunlight is
gone?'
But Dolores was too much offended to attend, and only grunted. She
wanted to get the cutting away from Gillian, but there was no doing so.
'The mist is rising o'er the mead,
With silver hiding grass and reed;
'Tis silent all, on hill and heath,
The evening winds, they hardly breathe;
What sudden breaks the silent charm,
The echo wakes with wild alarm.
With rapid, loud, and furious rattle,
Sure 'tis the voice of deadly battle,
Bidding the rustic swain to fly
Before his country's enemy.'
'Did anybody ever hear of a sham fight in the evening?' cried the
soldier's daughter indignantly. 'There, I can't see any more of it.'
'Give it to me, then.'
'You are welcome! Where did it come from? Let me look.
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