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From: Get L. on www.wu96.c. <she...@fe...> - 2010-01-30 09:29:51
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From: Henn B. <mes...@ge...> - 2009-12-05 20:58:08
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Anny Fox. "By and by I'll bring you some Meadow Mouse for your breakfast," and Granny Fox chuckled to think how smart she was and how she was going to catch Danny Meadow Mouse. [Illustration] VIII Brother North Wind Proves a Friend Danny Meadow Mouse had seen nothing of old Granny Fox or Reddy Fox for several days. Every morning the first thing he did, even before he had breakfast, was to climb up to one of his little round doorways and peep out over the beautiful white meadows, to see if there was any danger near. But every time he did this, Danny used a different doorway. "For," said Danny to himself, "if anyone should happen, just happen, to see me this morning, they might be waiting just outside my doorway to catch me tomorrow morning." You see, there is a great deal of wisdom in the little head that Danny Meadow Mouse carries on his shoulders. But the first day and the second day and the third day he saw nothing of old Granny Fox or of Reddy Fox, and he began to enjoy running through his tunnels under the snow and scurrying across from one doorway to another on top of the snow, just as he had before the Foxes had tried so hard to catch him. But he hadn't forgotten, as Granny Fox had hoped he would. No, indeed, Danny Meadow Mouse hadn't forgotten. He was too wise for that. One morning, when he started to climb up to one of his little doorways, he found that it was closed. Yes, Sir, it was closed. In fact, there wasn't any doorway. More snow had fallen from the clouds in the night and had covered up every one of the little round doorways of Danny Meadow Mouse. "Ha!" said Danny, "I shall have a busy day, a very busy day, opening all my doorways. I'll eat my breakfast, and then I'll go to work." So Danny Meadow Mouse ate a good breakfast of seeds which he had stor |
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From: Cryderman B. <wh...@no...> - 2009-09-04 21:14:02
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The same mother and her three daughters under the three names that still stick to them to this day,--the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life. But it was reserved for John Bunyan to fill up and to finish those outlines of Scripture and to pour over the whole work his own depth and strength of colour, till, altogether, Madam Bubble stands out as yet another masterpiece of our dreamer's astonishing genius. Let us take our stand before this heaving canvas, then, till we have taken attentive note of some of John Bunyan's inimitable touches and strokes and triumphs of truth and art. "One in very pleasant attire, but old . . . This woman is a witch . . . I am the mistress of the world, she said, and men are made happy by me . . . A tall, comely dame, something of a swarthy complexion." In the newly discovered portrait of a woman, by Albert Durer, one of the marks of its genuineness is the way that the great artist's initials A. D. are pencilled in on the embroidery of the lady's bodice. And you will note in this gentlewoman's open dress also how J. B. is inextricably woven in. "She we |
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From: Nyseth <lo...@fo...> - 2009-08-26 22:20:30
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He family, has created a great evil,--namely, individualism. In the depths of this solitude where their girlhood was spent, Angelique and Eugenie seldom saw their father, and when he did enter the grand apartment of his wife on the first floor, he brought with him a saddened face. In his own home he always wore the grave and solemn look of a magistrate on the bench. When the little girls had passed the age of dolls and toys, when they began, about twelve, to use their minds (an |
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From: Silveria <syn...@sc...> - 2009-08-22 22:36:52
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Ed to give you years of happiness for the short day of your suffering. I only knew of one way." "Ah! but it was not my way!" she replied. "Could you give me happiness without life? Life!" she repeated with sudden energy that sent the word ringing over the sea. "Life that means power and love," she added in a low voice. "That!" said Almayer, pointing his finger at Dain standing close by and looking at them in curious wonder. "Yes, that!" she replied, looking her father full in the face and noticing for the first time with a slight gasp of fear the unnatural rigidity of his features. "I would have rather strangled you with my own hands," said Almayer, in an expressionless voice which was such a contrast to the d |
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From: Harrop V. <sle...@ne...> - 2009-08-18 06:12:59
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Which has more fancy than is common in Bryant, and which Poe pronounced
his best poem, has an obvious resemblance to Wordsworth's "Three years
she grew in sun and shade," and both of these nameless pieces might
fitly be {516} entitled--as Wordsworth's is in Mr. Palgrave's _Golden
Treasury_--"The Education of Nature." Although Bryant's career is
identified with New York, his poetry is all of New England. His heart
was always turning back fondly to the woods and streams of the Berkshire
hills. There was nothing of that urban strain in him which appears in
Holmes and Willis. He was, in especial, the poet of autumn, of the
American October and the New England Indian Summer, that season of
"dropping nuts" and "smoky light," to whose subtle analogy with the
decay of the young by the New England disease, consumption, he gave such
tender expression in the _Death of the Flowers_; and amid whose "bright,
late quiet," he wished himself to pass away. Bryant is our poet of "the
melancholy days," as Lowell is of June. If, by chance, he touches upon
June, it is not with the exultant gladness of Lowell in meadows full of
bobolinks, and in the summer day that is "--simply perfect from its own
resource As to the bee the new campanula's Illuminate seclusion swung in
air." Rather, the stir of new life in the clod suggests to Bryant by
contrast the thought of death; and there is nowhere in his poetry a
passage of deeper feeling than the closing stanzas of _June_, in which
he speaks of himself, by anticipation, as of one "Whose part in all the
pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills Is--that his grave is
green." {517} Bryant is, _par excellence_, the poet of New England wild
flowers, the yellow violet, the fringed gentian--to each of which he
dedicated an entire poem--the orchis and the golden rod, "the aster in
the wood and the yellow sunflower by the brook." With these his name
will be associated as Wordsworth's with the daffodil and the lesser
celandine, and Emerson's with the rhodora. Except when writing of nature
he was apt to be commonplace, and there are not many such energetic
lines in his purely reflective verse as these famous ones from the
_Battle Field_: "Truth crushed to earth shall rise again; The eternal
years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies
among his worshipers." He added but slowly to the number of his poems,
publishing a new collection
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From: Vining <cov...@gn...> - 2009-08-17 01:00:49
|
"but no sane person would do it. They'd have to swarm up the face of the building in full view of anyone that might be passing at the time." "Exactly," said Stillman, stiffening under what he was half inclined to consider a rebuff. "Well, that eliminates _that_ possibility. Now to the next one. Who occupied the building besides the murdered man?" "A man named Berg keeps a delicatessen store on the first floor. His place in no way communicates with the rest of the building. The third and fourth floors are used for storage purposes by a furrier. Except in the spring and fall, so Mrs. Dwyer tells me, he seldom visits the building." "Is there any way of getting in from the top of the house--the roof?" asked the coroner. A look of something like respect came into Osborne's face. Clearly the question was one which he considered worth while. "There is a scuttle," he replied. "The bolt is rusted and broken; it has probably not been fastened for months, perhaps years." "Now we are beginning to come at something," cried Stillman, well pleased. "In all probability the assassin entered by way of the scuttle." He turned as though for the approval of the stolid-faced man. "Eh, Curran? What do you think of that?" "It looks very like it, Mr. Stillman." "At all events," spoke the coroner, "we will now examine the rooms." He advanced and tried the door of the show room. "Ah, locked!" said he. He turned and entered the store room, the others following. The gas was still burning; the coroner stuck a pair of big-lensed eyeglasses upon his rather high nose and gazed about him intently. "There seems to be nothing of an informing nature here," said he, after a time. "Where is the body?" Osborne led the way into the front room. After a glance at the ghastly, huddled figure upon the carpet near the desk, the coroner took a careful survey of the apartment. "Did Mr. Hume employ any person to assist him?" he asked. "The scrub-woman told me that there was a young man here always when she came during the business day for her wages. A sort of clerk, she thought." "He will be able to tell us if anything has been disturbed, no doubt," remarked Stillman. Then he examined the body minutely. In the pockets were found a wallet containing a large sum of money, a massive, old-fashioned gold wat |
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