“Let us make a snowchild,” said the old man to his wife. What a lovely snowchild it was, that they made. Small, with a tiny nose and mouth and eyes and ears. And as they watched, the snowchild’s eyes suddenly blinked. The old lady could not believe her eyes. Was the snow playing tricks? Slowly, in front of their eyes, the snowchild turned into a lovely baby girl.

Arrived per tramway before alluded to, they [the coins] are now pyxed by the senior officers. […] The pyxing at the Mint is a short operation, and after it the coins are ready for delivery to the Bank.

He sat there, pointlessly tossing the ball into the air and letting it fall, over and over.

I had three large axes, and abundance of hatchets (for we carried the hatchets for traffic with the Indians).