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- 913
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.918Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
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- 844
- text
- coach-hammer and nails, and plenty of cords and screws into the box. And
you had better let him follow you in one of the farm wagons, with a
spare axle and some boards."
"No fear, sister; no fear;--I shall take the best of care of the old
phaeton. The quaint old arms on the panel, always remind me who it was
that first rode in it."
"I am glad you have that memory, brother Pierre."
"And who it was that _next_ rode in it."
"Bless you!--God bless you, my dear son!--always think of him and you
can never err; yes, always think of your dear perfect father, Pierre."
"Well, kiss me now, dear sister, for I must go."
"There; this is my cheek, and the other is Lucy's; though now that I
look at them both, I think that hers is getting to be the most blooming;
sweeter dews fall on that one, I suppose."
Pierre laughed, and ran out of the room, for old Christopher was getting
impatient. His mother went to the window and stood there.
"A noble boy, and docile"--she murmured--"he has all the frolicsomeness
of youth, with little of its giddiness. And he does not grow
vain-glorious in sophomorean wisdom. I thank heaven I sent him not to
college. A noble boy, and docile. A fine, proud, loving, docile,
vigorous boy. Pray God, he never becomes otherwise to me. His little
wife, that is to be, will not estrange him from me; for she too is
docile,--beautiful, and reverential, and most docile. Seldom yet have I
known such blue eyes as hers, that were not docile, and would not follow
a bold black one, as two meek blue-ribboned ewes, follow their martial
leader. How glad am I that Pierre loves her so, and not some dark-eyed
haughtiness, with whom I could never live in peace; but who would be
ever setting her young married state before my elderly widowed one, and
claiming all the homage of my dear boy--the fine, proud, loving, docile,
vigorous boy!--the lofty-minded, well-born, noble boy; and with such
sweet docilities! See his hair! He does in truth illustrate that fine
saying of his father's, that as the noblest colts, in three
points--abundant hair, swelling chest, and sweet docility--should
resemble a fine woman, so should a noble youth. Well, good-bye, Pierre,
and a merry morning to ye!"
So saying she crossed the room, and--resting in a corner--her glad proud
eye met the old General's baton, which the day before in one of his
frolic moods Pierre had taken from its accustomed place in the
pictured-bannered hall. She lifted it, and musingly swayed it to and
fro; then paused, and staff-wise rested with it in her hand. Her stately
beauty had ever somewhat martial in it; and now she looked the daughter
of a General, as she was; for Pierre's was a double revolutionary
descent. On both sides he sprang from heroes.
"This is his inheritance--this symbol of command! and I swell out to
think it. Yet but just now I fondled the conceit that Pierre was so
sweetly docile! Here sure is a most strange inconsistency! For is sweet
docility a general's badge? and is this baton but a distaff
then?--Here's something widely wrong. Now I almost wish him otherwise
than sweet and docile to me, seeing that it must be hard for man to be
an uncompromising hero and a commander among his race, and yet never
ruffle any domestic brow. Pray heaven he show his heroicness in some
smooth way of favoring fortune, not be called out to be a hero of some
dark hope forlorn;--of some dark hope forlorn, whose cruelness makes a
savage of a man. Give him, O God, regardful gales! Fan him with
unwavering prosperities! So shall he remain all docility to me, and yet
prove a haughty hero to the world!"
- title
- Chunk 3