If we do so, you just say to us, as old Chloe
did in UNCLE TOM, `Tink ob yer marcies, chillen
Her whole plump countenance beams with satisfaction and contentment from under her well-starched checked turban, bearing on it, however, if we must confess it, a little of that tinge of self-consciousness which becomes the first cook of the neighborhood, as Aunt Chloe was universally held and acknowledged to be.
Just at present, however, Aunt Chloe is looking into the bake-pan; in which congenial operation we shall leave her till we finish our picture of the cottage.
On this piece of carpeting Aunt Chloe took her stand, as being decidedly in the upper walks of life; and it and the bed by which it lay, and the whole corner, in fact, were treated with distinguished consideration, and made, so far as possible, sacred from the marauding inroads and desecrations of little folks.
said Aunt Chloe, pausing while she was greasing a griddle with a scrap of bacon on her fork, and regarding young Master George with pride.
To me it seemed absolutely Arcadian, and I thought of Daphnis and Chloe
and the early world.
It were a falsehood, Chloe, thee to name; Such evil with such goodness cannot live; And against Heaven I dare not charge the blame, I only know it is my fate to die.
I only said Chloe," replied Don Quixote; "and that no doubt, is the name of the lady of whom the author of the sonnet complains; and, faith, he must be a tolerable poet, or I know little of the craft.
I can see you, my Daphnis, with the light of young love in your eyes, tender, enraptured, and ardent; while Chloe
in your arms, so young and soft and fresh, vowing she would ne'er consent--consented.
All people, young or old (that is, all people in those ante-reform times), would have thought her an interesting object if they had referred the glow in her eyes and cheeks to the newly awakened ordinary images of young love: the illusions of Chloe
about Strephon have been sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as the pathetic loveliness of all spontaneous trust ought to be.
To this day I do not know whether in any given instance it was the champion of Chloe
or of Sylvia that carried off the prize for his fair, but I dare say it does not much matter.
The poor little old man knew some pale and vapid little songs, long out of date, about Chloe
, and Phyllis, and Strephon being wounded by the son of Venus; and for Mrs Plornish there was no such music at the Opera as the small internal flutterings and chirpings wherein he would discharge himself of these ditties, like a weak, little, broken barrel-organ, ground by a baby.