Who can describe the pleasure and delight,the peace of mind and soft tranquillity,the sickly
coach bags felt in the balmy air,and among the green hills and rich woods,of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places,and carry their own freshness,deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in crowded,pent-up streets,through lives of toil,and who have never wished for change; men,to whom custom has indeed been second nature,and who have come almost to love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks; even they,with the hand of death upon them,have been known to yearn at last for one short glimpse of Nature's face; and,carried far from the scenes of their old pains and pleasures,have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being.Crawling forth,from day to day,to some green sunny spot,they have had such memories wakened up within them by the sight of the sky,and hill and plain,and glistening water,that a foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their quick decline,and they have sunk into their tombs,as peacefully as the sun whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but a few hours before,faded from their dim and feeble sight! The
coach outlet which peaceful country scenes call up,are not of this world,nor of its thoughts and hopes.Their gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we loved: may purify our thoughts,and bear down before it old enmity and hatred; but beneath all this,there lingers,in the least reflective mind,a vague and half-formed consciousness of having held such feelings long before,in some remote and distant time,which calls up solemn thoughts of distant times to come,and bends down pride and worldliness beneath it.
It was a happy time.The days were peaceful and serene; the nights brought with them neither fear nor care; no languishing in a wretched prison,or associating with wretched men; nothing but pleasant and happy thoughts.Every morning he went to a white-headed old gentleman,who lived near the little church: who taught him to read better,and to write: and who spoke so kindly,and took such
coach handbags,that Oliver could never try enough to please him.Then,he would walk with Mrs.Maylie and Rose,and hear them talk of books; or perhaps sit near them,in some shady place,and listen whilst the young lady read: which he could have done,until it grew too dark to see the letters.Then,he had his own lesson for the next day to prepare; and at this,he would work hard,in a little room which looked into the garden,till evening came slowly on,when the ladies would walk out again,and he with them: listening with such pleasure to all they said: and so happy if they wanted a flower that he could climb to reach,or had forgotten anything he could run to fetch: that he could never be quick enough about it.When it became quite dark,and they returned home,the young cheap coach bags would sit down to the piano,and play some pleasant air,or sing,in a low and gentle voice,some old song which it pleased her aunt to hear.There would be no candles lighted at such times as these; and Oliver would sit by one of the windows,listening to the sweet music,in a perfect rapture.
In the morning,Oliver would be a-foot by six o'clock,roaming the fields,and plundering the hedges,far and wide,for nosegays of wild flowers,with which he would return laden,home; and which it took great care and consideration to arrange,to the best advantage,for the embellishment of the breakfast-table.There was fresh groundsel,too,for Miss Maylie's birds,with which Oliver,who had been studying the subject under the able tuition of the village clerk,would decorate the cages,in the most approved taste.When the birds were made all spruce and smart for the day,there was usually some little commission of charity to execute in the
coach bags; or,failing that,there was rare cricket-playing,sometimes,on the green; or,failing that,there was always something to do in the garden,or about the plants,to which Oliver (who had studied this science also,under the same master,who was a gardener by trade,) applied himself with hearty good-will,until Miss Rose made her appearance: when there were a thousand commendations to be bestowed on all he had done.This article was written by lianzongjian on 2010-2-26 from us-trade company.
coach bags felt in the balmy air,and among the green hills and rich woods,of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places,and carry their own freshness,deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in crowded,pent-up streets,through lives of toil,and who have never wished for change; men,to whom custom has indeed been second nature,and who have come almost to love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks; even they,with the hand of death upon them,have been known to yearn at last for one short glimpse of Nature's face; and,carried far from the scenes of their old pains and pleasures,have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being.Crawling forth,from day to day,to some green sunny spot,they have had such memories wakened up within them by the sight of the sky,and hill and plain,and glistening water,that a foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their quick decline,and they have sunk into their tombs,as peacefully as the sun whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but a few hours before,faded from their dim and feeble sight! The
coach outlet which peaceful country scenes call up,are not of this world,nor of its thoughts and hopes.Their gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we loved: may purify our thoughts,and bear down before it old enmity and hatred; but beneath all this,there lingers,in the least reflective mind,a vague and half-formed consciousness of having held such feelings long before,in some remote and distant time,which calls up solemn thoughts of distant times to come,and bends down pride and worldliness beneath it.
It was a happy time.The days were peaceful and serene; the nights brought with them neither fear nor care; no languishing in a wretched prison,or associating with wretched men; nothing but pleasant and happy thoughts.Every morning he went to a white-headed old gentleman,who lived near the little church: who taught him to read better,and to write: and who spoke so kindly,and took such
coach handbags,that Oliver could never try enough to please him.Then,he would walk with Mrs.Maylie and Rose,and hear them talk of books; or perhaps sit near them,in some shady place,and listen whilst the young lady read: which he could have done,until it grew too dark to see the letters.Then,he had his own lesson for the next day to prepare; and at this,he would work hard,in a little room which looked into the garden,till evening came slowly on,when the ladies would walk out again,and he with them: listening with such pleasure to all they said: and so happy if they wanted a flower that he could climb to reach,or had forgotten anything he could run to fetch: that he could never be quick enough about it.When it became quite dark,and they returned home,the young cheap coach bags would sit down to the piano,and play some pleasant air,or sing,in a low and gentle voice,some old song which it pleased her aunt to hear.There would be no candles lighted at such times as these; and Oliver would sit by one of the windows,listening to the sweet music,in a perfect rapture.
In the morning,Oliver would be a-foot by six o'clock,roaming the fields,and plundering the hedges,far and wide,for nosegays of wild flowers,with which he would return laden,home; and which it took great care and consideration to arrange,to the best advantage,for the embellishment of the breakfast-table.There was fresh groundsel,too,for Miss Maylie's birds,with which Oliver,who had been studying the subject under the able tuition of the village clerk,would decorate the cages,in the most approved taste.When the birds were made all spruce and smart for the day,there was usually some little commission of charity to execute in the
coach bags; or,failing that,there was rare cricket-playing,sometimes,on the green; or,failing that,there was always something to do in the garden,or about the plants,to which Oliver (who had studied this science also,under the same master,who was a gardener by trade,) applied himself with hearty good-will,until Miss Rose made her appearance: when there were a thousand commendations to be bestowed on all he had done.This article was written by lianzongjian on 2010-2-26 from us-trade company.