As a matter of fact, all you could see was a row of funny little roundhouses, looking very much like large beehives, put together with mud and sticks and called hogans. A street of hogans in each of which lived a whole family of Indians, a few goats and sheep, a stray dog or two, an Indian woman sitting outside her hogan weaving a blanket, perhaps a child running with a dog this, then, was a Navajo village.

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“Is this Toronto?” I asked of the Pullman conductor, as I peered through the window of the car.

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Other colours, of course, rise immediately to one's mind as being a hundred times more potent than blue for a genealogy of morals:--for instance, grey, by which I mean authentic facts capable of definite proof and having actually existed, or, to put it shortly, the whole of that long hieroglyphic script about the past history of human morals. 

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On our journey up the Mississippi, I give you my honor we were on fire three times, and burned our cook room down. The deck at night was a great firework the chimney spouted myriads of stars, which fell blackening on our garments, sparkling onto the deck, or gleaming into the mighty stream through which we labored the mighty yellow stream with all its snags.

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"All of the little meadow people and forest folks turned to look down the Lone Little Path, but it was so dark none could see, none but Hooty the Owl, whose eyes are made to see in the dark.

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“‘What are those dogs after?’ asked Cepheus. Orion had left them with Sagittarius, in the Zodiac, for fear of accidents.

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Slips emblazoned with the question: Have you read "The Vital Thing"?  fell from the pages of popular novels and whitened the floors of crowded street cars. The query, in large lettering, assaulted the traveller at the railway bookstall, confronted him on the walls of "elevated" stations, and seemed, in its ascending scale, about to supplant the interrogations as to soap and stove polish which animate our rural scenery.

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We arrived at Dallas at night with the prisoners. The following morning the Chief of Police, Jim Arnold, and myself picked up and arrested the other two accomplices. One of them had been a respectable and prominent cotton buyer up to his connection with the swindle. The other was an educated man and somewhat noted for having been mixed up in crooked dealings. 

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Ever since my return from my newly purchased farm in Connecticut, however, I had not been working for money or popular approval, but for my own pleasure. There was a work upon which I spent only special hours of delicious leisure and infinite labor. It held all that was forbidden to popular compositions; depth and sorrow and dissonances dearer than harmony. 

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Mr. Withers, under these favorable circumstances, became quite well

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