"How can you say there's a soul there. How can you tell when the soul enters the flesh. Or whether you even have a soul?"
"It's murdering your own child, is what it is."
"Child, schmild. A complex protein molecule, is all."
"I guess on the rare occasions you bathe you wouldn't mind using Nazi soap made from one of those six million Jews."
"All right -" he was mad - "show me the difference."
After that it ceased being logical and phony and became emotional and phony. They were like a drunk with dry heaves: having brought up and expelled all manner of old words which had always, somehow, sat wrong, they then proceeded to fill the loft with futile yelling trying to heave up their own living tissue, organs which had no business anywhere but where they were.
As the sun went dawn she broke out of a point-by-point condemnation of Slab's moral code to assault Cheese Danish # 56, charging at it with windmilling nails.
"Go ahead," Slab said, "it will help the texture." He was on the phone. "Winsome's not home." He jittered the receiver, dialed information. "Where can I get 300 bills," he said. "No, the banks are closed . . . I am against usury." He quoted to the phone operator from Ezra Pound's Cantos.
"How come," he wondered, "all you phone operators talk through your nose." Laughter. "Fine, we'll try it sometime." Esther yelped, having just broken a fingernail. Slab hung up. "It fights back," he said. "Baby, we need 300. Somebody must have it." He decided to call all his friends who had savings accounts. A minute later this list was exhausted and he was no closer to financing Esther's trip south. Esther was tramping around looking for a bandage. She finally had to settle for a wad of toilet paper and a rubber band.
"I'll think of something," he said. "Stick by Slab, babe. Who is a humanitarian." They both knew she would. To whom else? She was the sticking sort.
So Slab sat thinking and Esther waved the paper ball at the end of her finger to a private tune, maybe an old love song. Though neither would admit it they also waited for Raoul and Melvin and the Crew to arrive for the party; while all the time the colors in the wall-size painting were shifting, reflecting new wavelengths to compensate for the wasting sun.
Rachel, out looking for Esther, didn't arrive at the party till late. Coming up the seven flights to the loft she passed at each landing, like frontier guards, nuzzling couples, hopelessly drunken boys, brooding types who read out of and scrawled cryptic notes in paper books stolen from Raoul, Slab and Melvin's library; all of whom informed her how she had missed all the fun. What this fun was she found out before she'd fairly wedged her way into the kitchen where all the Good People were.
Melvin was holding forth on his guitar, in an improvised folk song, about how humanitarian a cove his roommate Slab was; crediting him with being (a) a neo-Wobbly and reincarnation of Joe Hill, (b) the world's leading pacifist, (c) a rebel with taproots in the American Tradition, (d) in militant opposition to Fascism, private capital, the Republican administration and Westbrook Pegler.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Did Dickon and your mother like to hear you talk about me
Did Dickon and your mother like to hear you talk about me?""Why, our Dickon's eyes nearly started out o' his head,they got that round," answered Martha. "But mother, she wasput out about your seemin' to be all by yourself like.
She said, 'Hasn't Mr. Craven got no governess for her,nor no nurse?' and I said, 'No, he hasn't, though Mrs. Medlocksays he will when he thinks of it, but she says he mayn'tthink of it for two or three years.'""I don't want a governess," said Mary sharply.
"But mother says you ought to be learnin' your book by this timean'
you ought to have a woman to look after you, an' she says:
`Now, Martha, you just think how you'd feel yourself, in a bigplace like that, wanderin' about all alone, an' no mother.
You do your best to cheer her up,' she says, an' I said I would."Mary gave her a long, steady look.
"You do cheer me up," she said. "I like to hear you talk."Presently Martha went out of the room and came backwith something held in her hands under her apron.
"What does tha' think," she said, with a cheerful grin.
"I've brought thee a present.""A present!" exclaimed Mistress Mary. How could a cottagefull of fourteen hungry people give any one a present!
"A man was drivin' across the moor peddlin'," Martha explained.
"An' he stopped his cart at our door. He had pots an'
pans an' odds an' ends, but mother had no money to buyanythin'. Just as he was goin' away our 'Lizabeth Ellencalled out, `Mother, he's got skippin'-ropes with red an'
blue handles.' An' mother she calls out quite sudden,`Here, stop, mister! How much are they?' An' he says`Tuppence', an' mother she began fumblin' in her pocket an'
she says to me, `Martha, tha's brought me thy wages likea good lass, an' I've got four places to put every penny,but I'm just goin' to take tuppence out of it to buythat child a skippin'-rope,' an' she bought one an'
here it is."She brought it out from under her apron and exhibitedit quite proudly. It was a strong, slender ropewith a striped red and blue handle at each end,but Mary Lennox had never seen a skipping-rope before.
She gazed at it with a mystified expression.
"What is it for?" she asked curiously.
"For!" cried out Martha. "Does tha' mean that they've notgot skippin'-ropes in India, for all they've got elephantsand tigers and camels! No wonder most of 'em's black.
This is what it's for; just watch me."And she ran into the middle of the room and, taking ahandle in each hand, began to skip, and skip, and skip,while Mary turned in her chair to stare at her, and thequeer faces in the old portraits seemed to stare at her,too, and wonder what on earth this common little cottagerhad the impudence to be doing under their very noses.
But Martha did not even see them. The interest and curiosityin Mistress Mary's face delighted her, and she went on skippingand counted as she skipped until she had reached a hundred.
"I could skip longer than that," she said when she stopped.
"I've skipped as much as five hundred when I was twelve,but I wasn't as fat then as I am now, an' I was in practice."Mary got up from her chair beginning to feel excited herself.
She said, 'Hasn't Mr. Craven got no governess for her,nor no nurse?' and I said, 'No, he hasn't, though Mrs. Medlocksays he will when he thinks of it, but she says he mayn'tthink of it for two or three years.'""I don't want a governess," said Mary sharply.
"But mother says you ought to be learnin' your book by this timean'
you ought to have a woman to look after you, an' she says:
`Now, Martha, you just think how you'd feel yourself, in a bigplace like that, wanderin' about all alone, an' no mother.
You do your best to cheer her up,' she says, an' I said I would."Mary gave her a long, steady look.
"You do cheer me up," she said. "I like to hear you talk."Presently Martha went out of the room and came backwith something held in her hands under her apron.
"What does tha' think," she said, with a cheerful grin.
"I've brought thee a present.""A present!" exclaimed Mistress Mary. How could a cottagefull of fourteen hungry people give any one a present!
"A man was drivin' across the moor peddlin'," Martha explained.
"An' he stopped his cart at our door. He had pots an'
pans an' odds an' ends, but mother had no money to buyanythin'. Just as he was goin' away our 'Lizabeth Ellencalled out, `Mother, he's got skippin'-ropes with red an'
blue handles.' An' mother she calls out quite sudden,`Here, stop, mister! How much are they?' An' he says`Tuppence', an' mother she began fumblin' in her pocket an'
she says to me, `Martha, tha's brought me thy wages likea good lass, an' I've got four places to put every penny,but I'm just goin' to take tuppence out of it to buythat child a skippin'-rope,' an' she bought one an'
here it is."She brought it out from under her apron and exhibitedit quite proudly. It was a strong, slender ropewith a striped red and blue handle at each end,but Mary Lennox had never seen a skipping-rope before.
She gazed at it with a mystified expression.
"What is it for?" she asked curiously.
"For!" cried out Martha. "Does tha' mean that they've notgot skippin'-ropes in India, for all they've got elephantsand tigers and camels! No wonder most of 'em's black.
This is what it's for; just watch me."And she ran into the middle of the room and, taking ahandle in each hand, began to skip, and skip, and skip,while Mary turned in her chair to stare at her, and thequeer faces in the old portraits seemed to stare at her,too, and wonder what on earth this common little cottagerhad the impudence to be doing under their very noses.
But Martha did not even see them. The interest and curiosityin Mistress Mary's face delighted her, and she went on skippingand counted as she skipped until she had reached a hundred.
"I could skip longer than that," she said when she stopped.
"I've skipped as much as five hundred when I was twelve,but I wasn't as fat then as I am now, an' I was in practice."Mary got up from her chair beginning to feel excited herself.
Surrounded by fleeing cats
Surrounded by fleeing cats, the Monkey awaited Evelyn Burns. I went out on to the first-floor verandah to watch; from their verandahs, Sonny and Eyeslice and Hairoil and Cyrus were watching too. We saw Evie Burns appear from the direction of the Versailles Villa kitchens; she was blowing the smoke away from the barrel of her gun.
'You Indians c'n thank your stars you got me around,' Evie declared, 'or you'd just've got eaten by these cats!'
We saw Evie fall silent as she saw the thing sitting tensely in the Monkey's eyes; and then like a blur the Monkey descended on Evie and a battle began which lasted for what seemed like several hours (but it can only have been a few minutes). Shrouded in the dust of the circus-ring they rolled kicked scratched bit, small tufts of hair flew out of the dust-cloud and there were elbows and feet in dirtied white socks and knees and fragments of frock flying out of the cloud; grown-ups came running, servants couldn't pull them apart, and in the end Homi Catrack's gardener turned his hose on them to separate them... the Brass Monkey stood up a little crookedly and shook the sodden hem of her dress, ignoring the cries of retribution proceeding from the lips of Amina Sinai and Mary Pereira; because there in the hose-wet dirt of the circus-ring lay Evie Burns, her tooth-braces broken, her hair matted with dust and spittle, her spirit and her dominion over us broken for once and for all.
A few weeks later her father sent her home for good, 'To get a decent education away from these savages,' he was heard to remark; I only heard from her once, six months later, when right out of the blue she wrote me the letter which informed me that she had knifed an old lady who had objected to her assault on a cat. 'I gave it to her all right,' Evie wrote, 'Tell your sister she just got lucky.' I salute that unknown old woman: she paid the Monkey's bill.
More interesting than Evie's last message is a thought which occurs to me now, as I look back down the tunnel of time. Holding before my eyes the image of Monkey and Evie rolling in the dirt, I seem to discern the driving force behind their battle to the death, a motive far deeper than the mere persecution of cats: they were fighting over me. Evie and my sister (who were, in many ways, not at all dissimilar) kicked and scratched, ostensibly over the fate of a few thirsty strays; but perhaps Evie's kicks were aimed at me, perhaps they were the violence of her anger at my invasion of her head; and then maybe the strength of the Monkey was the strength of sibling-loyalty, and her act of war was actually an act of love.
Blood, then, was spilled in the circus-ring. Another rejected title for these pages - you may as well know - was 'Thicker Than Water'. In those days of water shortages, something thicker than water ran down the face of Evie Burns; the loyalties of blood motivated the Brass Monkey; and in the streets of the city, rioters spilled each other's blood. There were bloody murders, and perhaps it is not appropriate to end this sanguinary catalogue by mentioning, once again, the rushes of blood to my mother's cheeks. Twelve million votes were coloured red that year, and red is the colour of blood. More blood will flow soon: the types of blood, A and O, Alpha and Omega - and another, a third possibility - must be kept in mind. Also other factors: zygosity, and Kell antibodies, and that most mysterious of sanguinary attributes, known as rhesus, which is also a type of monkey.
'You Indians c'n thank your stars you got me around,' Evie declared, 'or you'd just've got eaten by these cats!'
We saw Evie fall silent as she saw the thing sitting tensely in the Monkey's eyes; and then like a blur the Monkey descended on Evie and a battle began which lasted for what seemed like several hours (but it can only have been a few minutes). Shrouded in the dust of the circus-ring they rolled kicked scratched bit, small tufts of hair flew out of the dust-cloud and there were elbows and feet in dirtied white socks and knees and fragments of frock flying out of the cloud; grown-ups came running, servants couldn't pull them apart, and in the end Homi Catrack's gardener turned his hose on them to separate them... the Brass Monkey stood up a little crookedly and shook the sodden hem of her dress, ignoring the cries of retribution proceeding from the lips of Amina Sinai and Mary Pereira; because there in the hose-wet dirt of the circus-ring lay Evie Burns, her tooth-braces broken, her hair matted with dust and spittle, her spirit and her dominion over us broken for once and for all.
A few weeks later her father sent her home for good, 'To get a decent education away from these savages,' he was heard to remark; I only heard from her once, six months later, when right out of the blue she wrote me the letter which informed me that she had knifed an old lady who had objected to her assault on a cat. 'I gave it to her all right,' Evie wrote, 'Tell your sister she just got lucky.' I salute that unknown old woman: she paid the Monkey's bill.
More interesting than Evie's last message is a thought which occurs to me now, as I look back down the tunnel of time. Holding before my eyes the image of Monkey and Evie rolling in the dirt, I seem to discern the driving force behind their battle to the death, a motive far deeper than the mere persecution of cats: they were fighting over me. Evie and my sister (who were, in many ways, not at all dissimilar) kicked and scratched, ostensibly over the fate of a few thirsty strays; but perhaps Evie's kicks were aimed at me, perhaps they were the violence of her anger at my invasion of her head; and then maybe the strength of the Monkey was the strength of sibling-loyalty, and her act of war was actually an act of love.
Blood, then, was spilled in the circus-ring. Another rejected title for these pages - you may as well know - was 'Thicker Than Water'. In those days of water shortages, something thicker than water ran down the face of Evie Burns; the loyalties of blood motivated the Brass Monkey; and in the streets of the city, rioters spilled each other's blood. There were bloody murders, and perhaps it is not appropriate to end this sanguinary catalogue by mentioning, once again, the rushes of blood to my mother's cheeks. Twelve million votes were coloured red that year, and red is the colour of blood. More blood will flow soon: the types of blood, A and O, Alpha and Omega - and another, a third possibility - must be kept in mind. Also other factors: zygosity, and Kell antibodies, and that most mysterious of sanguinary attributes, known as rhesus, which is also a type of monkey.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
She taught them all a song
She taught them all a song. Learned from a para on French leave from the fighting in Algeria:
Demain le noir matin,
Je fermerai la porte
Au nez des annees mortes;
J'irai par les chemins.
Je mendierai ma vie
Sur la terre et sur l'onde,
Du vieux au nouveau monde . . .
He had been short and built like the island of Malta itself: an inscrutable heart. She'd had only one night with him. Then he was off to the Piraeus.
Tomorrow, the black morning, I close the door in the face of the dead years. I will go on the road, bum my way over and sea, from the old to the new world ,jeremy scott adidas 2012. . . .
She taught Dewey Gland the chord changes and so they all round the table of Teflon's wintry kitchen,fake delaine ugg boots, while four gas flames on the stove ate up their oxygen; and sang, and sang. When Profane watched her eyes he thought she dreamed of the para - probably a man-of-no-politics as brave as anyone ever is in combat: but tired, was all, tired of relocating native villages and devising barbarities in the morning as brutal as'd come from the F.L.N. the night before. She wore a Miraculous Medal round her neck (given to her, maybe, by some random sailor she reminded of a good Catholic girl back in the States where sex is for free - or for marriage?). What sort of Catholic was she? Profane, who was only half Catholic (mother Jewish), whose morality was fragmentary (being derived from experience and not much of it), wondered what quaint Jesuit arguments had led her to come away with him, refuse to share a bed but still ask him to "be good."
The night before New Year's Eve they wandered away from the kitchen and out to a kosher delicatessen a few blocks away. On returning to Teflon's they found Pig and Dewey gone: "Gone out to get drunk," said the note. The place was lit up all Xmasy, a radio turned to WAVY and Pat Boone in one bedroom, sounds of objects being thrown in another. Somehow the young couple had wandered into a darkened room with this
"No," she said,fake uggs.
"Meaning yes."
Groan, went the bed. Before either of them knew it:
Click, went Teflon's Leica.
Profane did what was expected of him: came roaring off the bed, arm terminating in a fist. Teflon dodged it easily. "Now, now," he chuckled.
Outraged privacy was not so important; but the interruption had come just before the Big Moment.
"You don't mind," Teflon was telling him. Paola was hurrying into clothes.
"Out in the snow," Profane said, "is where that camera, Teflon, is sending us:"
"Here:" opened the camera, handed Profane the film, "you're going to be a horse's ass about it,Cheap Adidas Jeremy Scott Big Tongue Shoes."
Profane took the film but couldn't back down. So he dressed and topped off with the cowboy hat. Paola had put on a Navy greatcoat, too big for her.
"Out," Profane cried, "in the snow." Which in fact there was. They caught a ferry over to Norfolk and sat topside drinking black coffee out of paper cups and watching snow-shrouds flap silent against the big windows. There was nothing else to look at but a bum on a bench facing them, and each other. The engine thumped and labored down below, they could feel it through their buttocks, but neither could think of anything to say.
Demain le noir matin,
Je fermerai la porte
Au nez des annees mortes;
J'irai par les chemins.
Je mendierai ma vie
Sur la terre et sur l'onde,
Du vieux au nouveau monde . . .
He had been short and built like the island of Malta itself: an inscrutable heart. She'd had only one night with him. Then he was off to the Piraeus.
Tomorrow, the black morning, I close the door in the face of the dead years. I will go on the road, bum my way over and sea, from the old to the new world ,jeremy scott adidas 2012. . . .
She taught Dewey Gland the chord changes and so they all round the table of Teflon's wintry kitchen,fake delaine ugg boots, while four gas flames on the stove ate up their oxygen; and sang, and sang. When Profane watched her eyes he thought she dreamed of the para - probably a man-of-no-politics as brave as anyone ever is in combat: but tired, was all, tired of relocating native villages and devising barbarities in the morning as brutal as'd come from the F.L.N. the night before. She wore a Miraculous Medal round her neck (given to her, maybe, by some random sailor she reminded of a good Catholic girl back in the States where sex is for free - or for marriage?). What sort of Catholic was she? Profane, who was only half Catholic (mother Jewish), whose morality was fragmentary (being derived from experience and not much of it), wondered what quaint Jesuit arguments had led her to come away with him, refuse to share a bed but still ask him to "be good."
The night before New Year's Eve they wandered away from the kitchen and out to a kosher delicatessen a few blocks away. On returning to Teflon's they found Pig and Dewey gone: "Gone out to get drunk," said the note. The place was lit up all Xmasy, a radio turned to WAVY and Pat Boone in one bedroom, sounds of objects being thrown in another. Somehow the young couple had wandered into a darkened room with this
"No," she said,fake uggs.
"Meaning yes."
Groan, went the bed. Before either of them knew it:
Click, went Teflon's Leica.
Profane did what was expected of him: came roaring off the bed, arm terminating in a fist. Teflon dodged it easily. "Now, now," he chuckled.
Outraged privacy was not so important; but the interruption had come just before the Big Moment.
"You don't mind," Teflon was telling him. Paola was hurrying into clothes.
"Out in the snow," Profane said, "is where that camera, Teflon, is sending us:"
"Here:" opened the camera, handed Profane the film, "you're going to be a horse's ass about it,Cheap Adidas Jeremy Scott Big Tongue Shoes."
Profane took the film but couldn't back down. So he dressed and topped off with the cowboy hat. Paola had put on a Navy greatcoat, too big for her.
"Out," Profane cried, "in the snow." Which in fact there was. They caught a ferry over to Norfolk and sat topside drinking black coffee out of paper cups and watching snow-shrouds flap silent against the big windows. There was nothing else to look at but a bum on a bench facing them, and each other. The engine thumped and labored down below, they could feel it through their buttocks, but neither could think of anything to say.
But the minute I walk in
But the minute I walk in, backs turn. My exclusion is tangible, as if concrete walls have formed around me,rolex submariner replica watches. Hilly gives me a smirk, whips her head around to speak to someone else. I go deeper into the crowd and see Elizabeth. She smiles and I wave,fake uggs for sale. I want to talk to her about Mother, tell her I’m getting worried, but before I get too close, Elizabeth turns, head down, and walks away. I go to my seat. This is new, from her, here.
Instead of my usual seat up front, I slip in the back row, angry that Elizabeth wouldn’t even say hello. Beside me is Rachel Cole Brant. Rachel hardly ever comes to meetings, with three kids, working on her master’s in English from Millsaps College. I wish we were better friends but I know she’s too busy. On my other side is damn Leslie Fullerbean and her cloud of hairspray. She must risk her life every time she lights a cigarette. I wonder, if I pushed the top of her head, would aerosol spray out of her mouth.
Almost every girl in the room has her legs crossed, a lit cigarette in her hand. The smoke gathers and curls around the ceiling. I haven’t smoked in two months and the smell makes me feel ill. Hilly steps up to the podium and announces the upcoming gimme-drives (coat drive, can drive, book drive, and a plain old money drive), and then we get to Hilly’s favorite part of the meeting, the trouble list. This is where she gets to call out the names of anyone late on their dues or tardy for meetings or not fulfilling their philanthropic duties. I’m always on the trouble list nowadays for something.
Hilly’s wearing a red wool A-line dress with a cape coat over it, Sherlock Holmes-style, even though it’s hot as fire in here. Every once in a while, she tosses back the front flap like it’s in her way, but she looks like she enjoys this gesture too much for it to really be a problem. Her helper Mary Nell stands next to her, handing her notes. Mary Nell has the look of a blond lapdog, the Pekingese kind with tiny feet and a nose that perks on the end.
“Now, we have something very exciting to discuss.” Hilly accepts the notes from the lapdog and scans over them.
“The committee has decided that our newsletter could use a little updating.”
I sit up straighter. Shouldn’t I decide on changes to the newsletter?
“First of all, we’re changing the newsletter from a weekly to a monthly. It’s just too much with stamps going up to six cents and all. And we’re adding a fashion column, highlighting some of the best outfits worn by our members, and a makeup column with all the latest trends. Oh, and the trouble list of course. That’ll be in there too.” She nods her head, making eye contact with a few members.
“And finally,adidas jeremy scott, the most exciting change: we’ve decided to name this new correspondence The Tattler. After the European magazine all the ladies over there read.”
“Isn’t that the cutest name?” says Mary Lou White and Hilly’s so proud of herself, she doesn’t even bang the gavel at her for speaking out of turn,jeremy scott adidas wings.
“Okay then. It is time to choose an editor for our new, modern monthly. Any nominations?”
Several hands pop up. I sit very still.
Instead of my usual seat up front, I slip in the back row, angry that Elizabeth wouldn’t even say hello. Beside me is Rachel Cole Brant. Rachel hardly ever comes to meetings, with three kids, working on her master’s in English from Millsaps College. I wish we were better friends but I know she’s too busy. On my other side is damn Leslie Fullerbean and her cloud of hairspray. She must risk her life every time she lights a cigarette. I wonder, if I pushed the top of her head, would aerosol spray out of her mouth.
Almost every girl in the room has her legs crossed, a lit cigarette in her hand. The smoke gathers and curls around the ceiling. I haven’t smoked in two months and the smell makes me feel ill. Hilly steps up to the podium and announces the upcoming gimme-drives (coat drive, can drive, book drive, and a plain old money drive), and then we get to Hilly’s favorite part of the meeting, the trouble list. This is where she gets to call out the names of anyone late on their dues or tardy for meetings or not fulfilling their philanthropic duties. I’m always on the trouble list nowadays for something.
Hilly’s wearing a red wool A-line dress with a cape coat over it, Sherlock Holmes-style, even though it’s hot as fire in here. Every once in a while, she tosses back the front flap like it’s in her way, but she looks like she enjoys this gesture too much for it to really be a problem. Her helper Mary Nell stands next to her, handing her notes. Mary Nell has the look of a blond lapdog, the Pekingese kind with tiny feet and a nose that perks on the end.
“Now, we have something very exciting to discuss.” Hilly accepts the notes from the lapdog and scans over them.
“The committee has decided that our newsletter could use a little updating.”
I sit up straighter. Shouldn’t I decide on changes to the newsletter?
“First of all, we’re changing the newsletter from a weekly to a monthly. It’s just too much with stamps going up to six cents and all. And we’re adding a fashion column, highlighting some of the best outfits worn by our members, and a makeup column with all the latest trends. Oh, and the trouble list of course. That’ll be in there too.” She nods her head, making eye contact with a few members.
“And finally,adidas jeremy scott, the most exciting change: we’ve decided to name this new correspondence The Tattler. After the European magazine all the ladies over there read.”
“Isn’t that the cutest name?” says Mary Lou White and Hilly’s so proud of herself, she doesn’t even bang the gavel at her for speaking out of turn,jeremy scott adidas wings.
“Okay then. It is time to choose an editor for our new, modern monthly. Any nominations?”
Several hands pop up. I sit very still.
Friday, November 23, 2012
In his estimation
In his estimation, Rodanthe was exactly what it ap-peared to he: an old fishing village riding the water’s edge, a place where modern life had been slow in coming. Every home was made of wood, and though some were in better repair than others, with small, well-tended yards and a thin patch of dirt where bulbs would blossom in the spring, he could see evidence of the harshness of coastal life every-where he looked. Even homes that were no more than a dozen years old were decaying. Fences and mailboxes had small holes eaten away by the weather, paint had peeled, tin roofs were streaked with long, wide rows of rust. Scat-tered in the front yards were various items of everyday life in this part of the world: skiffs and broken boat engines, fishing nets used as decoration, ropes and chains used to keep strangers at bay.
Some homes were no more than shacks, and the walls seemed precariously balanced, as if the next strong wind might topple them over. In some cases, the front porches were sagging and had been propped up by an assortment of utilitarian items to keep them from giving way completely: concrete blocks or stacked bricks; two-by-fours that pro-truded from below like short chopsticks.
But there was activity here, even in the dawn, even in those homes that looked abandoned. As he ran, he saw smoke billowing from chimneys and watched men and women covering windows with plywood. The sound of hammering had begun to fill the air.
He turned at the next block, checked the street sign, and ran on. A few minutes later, he turned onto the street where Robert Torrelson lived. Robert Torrelson, he knew, lived at number thirty-four.
He passed number eighteen, then twenty, and raised his eyes, looking ahead. A couple of the neighbors stopped their work and watched him as he jogged by, their eyes wary. A moment later, he reached Robert Torrelson’s home, trying not to be obvious as he glanced toward it.
It was a home like most of the others along the street:
not exactly well tended, but not a shack, either. Rather, it was somewhere in between—a sort of stalemate between man and nature in their battle over the house. At least half a century old, the house was single storied with a tin roof; without gutters to divert runoff, the rain of a thousand storms had streaked the white paint with gray, On the porch were two weathered rockers angled toward each other. Around the windows, he could see a lone strand of Christmas lights.
Toward the back of the property was a small outbuilding with the front doors propped open. Inside were two work-benches, covered with nets and fishing rods, chests and tools. Two large grappling hooks were leaning against the wall, and he could see a yellow rain slicker hanging on a peg, just inside. From the shadows behind it, a man emerged, car-rying a bucket.
The figure caught Paul off guard, and he turned away be-fore the man could see him staring. It was too early to pay him a visit, nor did he want to do this in running clothes. Instead, he raised his chin against the breeze, turned at the next corner, and tried to find his earlier pace.
Some homes were no more than shacks, and the walls seemed precariously balanced, as if the next strong wind might topple them over. In some cases, the front porches were sagging and had been propped up by an assortment of utilitarian items to keep them from giving way completely: concrete blocks or stacked bricks; two-by-fours that pro-truded from below like short chopsticks.
But there was activity here, even in the dawn, even in those homes that looked abandoned. As he ran, he saw smoke billowing from chimneys and watched men and women covering windows with plywood. The sound of hammering had begun to fill the air.
He turned at the next block, checked the street sign, and ran on. A few minutes later, he turned onto the street where Robert Torrelson lived. Robert Torrelson, he knew, lived at number thirty-four.
He passed number eighteen, then twenty, and raised his eyes, looking ahead. A couple of the neighbors stopped their work and watched him as he jogged by, their eyes wary. A moment later, he reached Robert Torrelson’s home, trying not to be obvious as he glanced toward it.
It was a home like most of the others along the street:
not exactly well tended, but not a shack, either. Rather, it was somewhere in between—a sort of stalemate between man and nature in their battle over the house. At least half a century old, the house was single storied with a tin roof; without gutters to divert runoff, the rain of a thousand storms had streaked the white paint with gray, On the porch were two weathered rockers angled toward each other. Around the windows, he could see a lone strand of Christmas lights.
Toward the back of the property was a small outbuilding with the front doors propped open. Inside were two work-benches, covered with nets and fishing rods, chests and tools. Two large grappling hooks were leaning against the wall, and he could see a yellow rain slicker hanging on a peg, just inside. From the shadows behind it, a man emerged, car-rying a bucket.
The figure caught Paul off guard, and he turned away be-fore the man could see him staring. It was too early to pay him a visit, nor did he want to do this in running clothes. Instead, he raised his chin against the breeze, turned at the next corner, and tried to find his earlier pace.
Johnson
Mrs. Johnson, a kind, motherly woman, who had been excluded from the "gentleman's dinner party," and had devoted her time to superintending the dinner her husband had ordered, came in answer to his call for assistance, and found Ellinor lying back in her chair white and senseless.
"Bessy, Miss Wilkins has fainted; she has had a long journey, and is in a fidget about Dixon, the old fellow who was sentenced to be hung for that murder, you know. I can't stop here, I must go back to those men. You bring her round, and see her to bed. The blue room is empty since Horner left. She must stop here, and I'll see her in the morning. Take care of her, and keep her mind as easy as you can, will you, for she can do no good by fidgeting."
And, knowing that he left Ellinor in good hands, and with plenty of assistance about her, he returned to his friends.
Ellinor came to herself before long.
"It was very foolish of me, but I could not help it," said she, apologetically.
"No; to be sure not, dear. Here, drink this; it is some of Mr. Johnson's best port wine that he has sent out on purpose for you. Or would you rather have some white soup--or what? We've had everything you could think of for dinner, and you've only to ask and have. And then you must go to bed, my dear--Mr. Johnson says you must; and there's a well-aired room, for Mr. Horner only left us this morning."
"I must see Mr. Johnson again, please."
"But indeed you must not. You must not worry your poor head with business now; and Johnson would only talk to you on business. No; go to bed, and sleep soundly, and then you'll get up quite bright and strong, and fit to talk about business."
"I cannot sleep--I cannot rest till I have asked Mr. Johnson one or two more questions; indeed I cannot," pleaded Ellinor.
Mrs. Johnson knew that her husband's orders on such occasions were peremptory, and that she should come in for a good conjugal scolding if, after what he had said, she ventured to send for him again. Yet Ellinor looked so entreating and wistful that she could hardly find in her heart to refuse her. A bright thought struck her.
"Here is pen and paper, my dear. Could you not write the questions you wanted to ask? and he'll just jot down the answers upon the same piece of paper. I'll send it in by Jerry. He has got friends to dinner with him, you see."
Ellinor yielded. She sat, resting her weary head on her hand, and wondering what were the questions which would have come so readily to her tongue could she have been face to face with him. As it was, she only wrote this:
"How early can I see you to-morrow morning? Will you take all the necessary steps for my going to Dixon as soon as possible? Could I be admitted to him to-night?"
The pencilled answers were:
"Eight o'clock. Yes. No."
"I suppose he knows best," said Ellinor, sighing, as she read the last word. "But it seems wicked in me to be going to bed--and he so near, in prison."
When she rose up and stood, she felt the former dizziness return, and that reconciled her to seeking rest before she entered upon the duties which were becoming clearer before her, now that she knew all and was on the scene of action. Mrs. Johnson brought her white-wine whey instead of the tea she had asked for; and perhaps it was owing to this that she slept so soundly.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
[117] Why
[117] "Why?"
"It was a bastard. They acted quite correctly."
At the word bastard his heart moved painfully: it was as when a man in love hears a stranger name a flower which is also the name of a woman. Bastard: the word filled him with miserable happiness. It brought his own child nearer: he could see her under the tree by the rubbish-dump, unguarded. He repeated "Bastard?" as he might have repeated her name—with tenderness disguised as indifference.
"They said he was no fit father. But, of course, when the priests fled, she had to go to him. Where else could she go?" It was like a happy ending until she said: "Of course she hated him. They'd taught her about things." He could imagine the small set mouth of an educated woman. What was she doing here?
"Why is he in prison?"
"He had a crucifix."
The stench from the pail got worse all the time: the night stood round them like a wall, without ventilation, and he could hear somebody making water, drumming on the tin sides. He said: "They had no business ..."
"They were doing what was right, of course. It was a mortal sin."
"No right to make her hate him."
"They know what's right."
He said: "They were bad priests to do a thing like that. The sin was over. It was their duty to teach—well, love."
"You don't know what's right. The priests know."
He said after a moment's hesitation, very distinctly: "I am a priest."
It was like the end: there was no need to hope any longer. The ten years' hunt was over at last. There was silence all round him. This place was very like the world: overcrowded with lust and crime and unhappy love: it stank to heaven; but he realized that after all it was possible to find peace there, when you knew for certain that the time was short.
"A priest?" the woman said at last.
"Yes."
"Do they know?"
"Not yet."
[118] He could feel a hand fumbling at his sleeve. A voice said: "You shouldn't have told us. Father, there are all sorts here. Murderers ..."
The voice which had described the crime to him said: "You've no cause to abuse me. Because I kill a man it doesn't mean ..." Whispering started everywhere. The voice said bitterly: "I'm not an informer just because when a man says: 'Your mother's a whore ...' "
The priest said: "There's no need for anyone to inform on me. That would be a sin. When it's daylight they'll discover for themselves."
"They'll shoot you, father," the woman's voice said.
"Yes."
"Are you afraid?"
"Yes. Of course."
A new voice spoke, in the corner from which the sounds of pleasure had come. It said roughly and obstinately: "A man isn't afraid of a thing like that."
"No?" the priest said.
"A bit of pain. What do you expect? It has to come."
"All the same," the priest said, "I am afraid."
"Toothache is worse."
"We can't all be brave men."
The voice said with contempt: "You believers are all the same. Christianity makes you cowards."
"Yes. Perhaps you are right. You see I am a bad priest and a bad man. To die in a state of mortal sin"—he gave an uneasy chuckle—"it makes you think."
"It was a bastard. They acted quite correctly."
At the word bastard his heart moved painfully: it was as when a man in love hears a stranger name a flower which is also the name of a woman. Bastard: the word filled him with miserable happiness. It brought his own child nearer: he could see her under the tree by the rubbish-dump, unguarded. He repeated "Bastard?" as he might have repeated her name—with tenderness disguised as indifference.
"They said he was no fit father. But, of course, when the priests fled, she had to go to him. Where else could she go?" It was like a happy ending until she said: "Of course she hated him. They'd taught her about things." He could imagine the small set mouth of an educated woman. What was she doing here?
"Why is he in prison?"
"He had a crucifix."
The stench from the pail got worse all the time: the night stood round them like a wall, without ventilation, and he could hear somebody making water, drumming on the tin sides. He said: "They had no business ..."
"They were doing what was right, of course. It was a mortal sin."
"No right to make her hate him."
"They know what's right."
He said: "They were bad priests to do a thing like that. The sin was over. It was their duty to teach—well, love."
"You don't know what's right. The priests know."
He said after a moment's hesitation, very distinctly: "I am a priest."
It was like the end: there was no need to hope any longer. The ten years' hunt was over at last. There was silence all round him. This place was very like the world: overcrowded with lust and crime and unhappy love: it stank to heaven; but he realized that after all it was possible to find peace there, when you knew for certain that the time was short.
"A priest?" the woman said at last.
"Yes."
"Do they know?"
"Not yet."
[118] He could feel a hand fumbling at his sleeve. A voice said: "You shouldn't have told us. Father, there are all sorts here. Murderers ..."
The voice which had described the crime to him said: "You've no cause to abuse me. Because I kill a man it doesn't mean ..." Whispering started everywhere. The voice said bitterly: "I'm not an informer just because when a man says: 'Your mother's a whore ...' "
The priest said: "There's no need for anyone to inform on me. That would be a sin. When it's daylight they'll discover for themselves."
"They'll shoot you, father," the woman's voice said.
"Yes."
"Are you afraid?"
"Yes. Of course."
A new voice spoke, in the corner from which the sounds of pleasure had come. It said roughly and obstinately: "A man isn't afraid of a thing like that."
"No?" the priest said.
"A bit of pain. What do you expect? It has to come."
"All the same," the priest said, "I am afraid."
"Toothache is worse."
"We can't all be brave men."
The voice said with contempt: "You believers are all the same. Christianity makes you cowards."
"Yes. Perhaps you are right. You see I am a bad priest and a bad man. To die in a state of mortal sin"—he gave an uneasy chuckle—"it makes you think."
Jamila Singer was called north
Jamila Singer was called north, to serenade our worth-ten jawans. A servant paints blackout on the windows; at night, my father, in the stupidity of his second childhood, opens the windows and turns on the lights. Bricks and stones fly through the apertures: my eighteenth-birthday presents. And still events grow more and more confused: on August soth, did Indian troops cross the cease-fire line near Uri to 'chase out the Pakistan raiders' - or to initiate an attack? When, on September 1st, our ten-times-better soldiers crossed the line at Chhamb, were they aggressors or were they not?
Some certainties: that the voice of Jamila Singer sang Pakistani troops to their deaths; and that muezzins from their minarets - yes, even on Clayton Road - promised us that anyone who died in battle went straight to the camphor garden.
The mujahid philosophy of Syed Ahmad Barilwi ruled the air; we were invited to make sacrifices 'as never before'.
And on the radio, what destruction, what mayhem! In the first five days of the war Voice of Pakistan announced the destruction of more aircraft than India had ever possessed; in eight days, All-India Radio massacred the Pakistan Army down to, and considerably beyond, the last man. Utterly distracted by the double insanity of the war and my private life, I began to think desperate thoughts ...
Great sacrifices: for instance, at the battle for Lahore? - On September 6th, Indian troops crossed the Wagah border, thus hugely broadening the front of the war, which was no longer limited to Kashmir; and did great sacrifices take place, or not? Was it true that the city was virtually defenceless, because the Pak Army and Air Force were ail in the Kashmir sector? Voice of Pakistan said: O memorable day! O unarguable lesson in the fatality of delay! The Indians, confident of capturing the city, stopped for breakfast. All-India Radio announced the fall of Lahore; meanwhile, a private aircraft spotted the breakfasting invaders. While the B.B.C. picked up the A.I.R. story, the Lahore militia was mobilized. Hear the Voice of Pakistan! - old men, young boys, irate grandmothers fought the Indian Army; bridge by bridge they battled, with any available weapons! Lame men loaded their pockets with grenades, pulled out the pins, flung themselves beneath advancing Indian tanks; toothless old ladies disembowelled Indian babus with pitchforks! Down to the last man and child, they died: but they saved the city, holding off the Indians until air support arrived! Martyrs, Padma! Heroes, bound for the perfumed garden! Where the men would be given four beauteous houris, untouched by man or djinn; and the women, four equally virile males! Which of your Lord's blessings would you deny? What a thing this holy war is, in which with one supreme sacrifice men may atone for all their evils! No wonder Lahore was defended; what did the Indians have to look forward to? Only re-incarnation - as cockroaches, maybe, or scorpions, or green-medicine-wallahs - there's really no comparison.
But did it or didn't it? Was that how it happened? Or was All-India Radio -great tank battle, huge Pak losses, 450 tanks destroyed- telling the truth?
Some certainties: that the voice of Jamila Singer sang Pakistani troops to their deaths; and that muezzins from their minarets - yes, even on Clayton Road - promised us that anyone who died in battle went straight to the camphor garden.
The mujahid philosophy of Syed Ahmad Barilwi ruled the air; we were invited to make sacrifices 'as never before'.
And on the radio, what destruction, what mayhem! In the first five days of the war Voice of Pakistan announced the destruction of more aircraft than India had ever possessed; in eight days, All-India Radio massacred the Pakistan Army down to, and considerably beyond, the last man. Utterly distracted by the double insanity of the war and my private life, I began to think desperate thoughts ...
Great sacrifices: for instance, at the battle for Lahore? - On September 6th, Indian troops crossed the Wagah border, thus hugely broadening the front of the war, which was no longer limited to Kashmir; and did great sacrifices take place, or not? Was it true that the city was virtually defenceless, because the Pak Army and Air Force were ail in the Kashmir sector? Voice of Pakistan said: O memorable day! O unarguable lesson in the fatality of delay! The Indians, confident of capturing the city, stopped for breakfast. All-India Radio announced the fall of Lahore; meanwhile, a private aircraft spotted the breakfasting invaders. While the B.B.C. picked up the A.I.R. story, the Lahore militia was mobilized. Hear the Voice of Pakistan! - old men, young boys, irate grandmothers fought the Indian Army; bridge by bridge they battled, with any available weapons! Lame men loaded their pockets with grenades, pulled out the pins, flung themselves beneath advancing Indian tanks; toothless old ladies disembowelled Indian babus with pitchforks! Down to the last man and child, they died: but they saved the city, holding off the Indians until air support arrived! Martyrs, Padma! Heroes, bound for the perfumed garden! Where the men would be given four beauteous houris, untouched by man or djinn; and the women, four equally virile males! Which of your Lord's blessings would you deny? What a thing this holy war is, in which with one supreme sacrifice men may atone for all their evils! No wonder Lahore was defended; what did the Indians have to look forward to? Only re-incarnation - as cockroaches, maybe, or scorpions, or green-medicine-wallahs - there's really no comparison.
But did it or didn't it? Was that how it happened? Or was All-India Radio -great tank battle, huge Pak losses, 450 tanks destroyed- telling the truth?
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Excuse me
"Excuse me, sir," said he, "but am I addressing Dr. Watson?"
I bowed with a coldness which showed, I dare say, very plainly the impression which had been produced upon my mind.
"We thought that it was probably you, as your friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes is so well known. Would you mind coming over and speaking to Mrs. Douglas for one instant?"
I followed him with a dour face. Very clearly I could see in my mind's eye that shattered figure on the floor. Here within a few hours of the tragedy were his wife and his nearest friend laughing together behind a bush in the garden which had been his. I greeted the lady with reserve. I had grieved with her grief in the dining room. Now I met her appealing gaze with an unresponsive eye.
"I fear that you think me callous and hard-hearted," said she.
I shrugged my shoulders. "It is no business of mine," said I.
"Perhaps some day you will do me justice. If you only realized--"
"There is no need why Dr. Watson should realize," said Barker quickly. "As he has himself said, it is no possible business of his."
"Exactly," said I, "and so I will beg leave to resume my walk."
"One moment, Dr. Watson," cried the woman in a pleading voice. "There is one question which you can answer with more authority than anyone else in the world, and it may make a very great difference to me. You know Mr. Holmes and his relations with the police better than anyone else can. Supposing that a matter were brought confidentially to his knowledge, is it absolutely necessary that he should pass it on to the detectives?"
"Yes, that's it," said Barker eagerly. "Is he on his own or is he entirely in with them?"
"I really don't know that I should be justified in discussing such a point."
"I beg--I implore that you will, Dr. Watson! I assure you that you will be helping us--helping me greatly if you will guide us on that point."
There was such a ring of sincerity in the woman's voice that for the instant I forgot all about her levity and was moved only to do her will.
"Mr. Holmes is an independent investigator," I said. "He is his own master, and would act as his own judgment directed. At the same time, he would naturally feel loyalty towards the officials who were working on the same case, and he would not conceal from them anything which would help them in bringing a criminal to justice. Beyond this I can say nothing, and I would refer you to Mr. Holmes himself if you wanted fuller information."
So saying I raised my hat and went upon my way, leaving them still seated behind that concealing hedge. I looked back as I rounded the far end of it, and saw that they were still talking very earnestly together, and, as they were gazing after me, it was clear that it was our interview that was the subject of their debate.
"I wish none of their confidences," said Holmes, when I reported to him what had occurred. He had spent the whole afternoon at the Manor House in consultation with his two colleagues, and returned about five with a ravenous appetite for a high tea which I had ordered for him. "No confidences, Watson; for they are mighty awkward if it comes to an arrest for conspiracy and murder."
I bowed with a coldness which showed, I dare say, very plainly the impression which had been produced upon my mind.
"We thought that it was probably you, as your friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes is so well known. Would you mind coming over and speaking to Mrs. Douglas for one instant?"
I followed him with a dour face. Very clearly I could see in my mind's eye that shattered figure on the floor. Here within a few hours of the tragedy were his wife and his nearest friend laughing together behind a bush in the garden which had been his. I greeted the lady with reserve. I had grieved with her grief in the dining room. Now I met her appealing gaze with an unresponsive eye.
"I fear that you think me callous and hard-hearted," said she.
I shrugged my shoulders. "It is no business of mine," said I.
"Perhaps some day you will do me justice. If you only realized--"
"There is no need why Dr. Watson should realize," said Barker quickly. "As he has himself said, it is no possible business of his."
"Exactly," said I, "and so I will beg leave to resume my walk."
"One moment, Dr. Watson," cried the woman in a pleading voice. "There is one question which you can answer with more authority than anyone else in the world, and it may make a very great difference to me. You know Mr. Holmes and his relations with the police better than anyone else can. Supposing that a matter were brought confidentially to his knowledge, is it absolutely necessary that he should pass it on to the detectives?"
"Yes, that's it," said Barker eagerly. "Is he on his own or is he entirely in with them?"
"I really don't know that I should be justified in discussing such a point."
"I beg--I implore that you will, Dr. Watson! I assure you that you will be helping us--helping me greatly if you will guide us on that point."
There was such a ring of sincerity in the woman's voice that for the instant I forgot all about her levity and was moved only to do her will.
"Mr. Holmes is an independent investigator," I said. "He is his own master, and would act as his own judgment directed. At the same time, he would naturally feel loyalty towards the officials who were working on the same case, and he would not conceal from them anything which would help them in bringing a criminal to justice. Beyond this I can say nothing, and I would refer you to Mr. Holmes himself if you wanted fuller information."
So saying I raised my hat and went upon my way, leaving them still seated behind that concealing hedge. I looked back as I rounded the far end of it, and saw that they were still talking very earnestly together, and, as they were gazing after me, it was clear that it was our interview that was the subject of their debate.
"I wish none of their confidences," said Holmes, when I reported to him what had occurred. He had spent the whole afternoon at the Manor House in consultation with his two colleagues, and returned about five with a ravenous appetite for a high tea which I had ordered for him. "No confidences, Watson; for they are mighty awkward if it comes to an arrest for conspiracy and murder."
“Skeeter
“Skeeter,” she says. “You have a minute?”
I stand there blinking, surprised. No one’s asked me for even a second, much less a minute, in over eight months. “Um, sure,” I say, wary.
Lou Anne glances out the window and I see Elizabeth heading for her car, a milkshake in hand. Lou Anne motions me closer, by the shampoos and detanglers.
“Your mama,Link, I hope she’s still doing better?” Lou Anne asks. Her smile is not quite as beaming as usual. She pulls at the long sleeves of her dress, even though a fine sweat covers her forehead.
“She’s fine. Still . . . in remission.”
“I’m so glad.” She nods and we stand there awkwardly, looking at each other. Lou Anne takes a deep breath. “I know we haven’t talked in a while but,” she lowers her voice, “I just thought you should know what Hilly’s saying. She’s saying you wrote that book... about the maids.”
“I heard that book was written anonymously,” is my quick answer, not sure I even want to act like I’ve read it. Even though everyone in town’s reading it,cheap jeremy scott adidas wings. All three bookstores are sold out and the library has a two-month waiting list.
She holds up her palm, like a stop sign. “I don’t want to know if it’s true. But Hilly . . .” She steps closer to me. “Hilly Holbrook called me the other day and told me to fire my maid Louvenia.” Her jaw tightens and she shakes her head.
Please. I hold my breath. Please don’t say you fired her.
“Skeeter, Louvenia . . .” Lou Anne looks me in the eye, says, “she’s the only reason I can get out of bed sometimes.”
I don’t say anything. Maybe this is a trap Hilly’s set.
“And I’m sure you think I’m just some dumb girl ,adidas jeremy scott. . . that I agree with everything Hilly says.” Tears come up in her eyes. Her lips are trembling. “The doctors want me to go up to Memphis for... shock treatment . . .” She covers her face but a tear slips through her fingers. “For the depression and the . . . the tries,” she whispers.
I look down at her long sleeves and I wonder if that’s what she’s been hiding. I hope I’m not right, but I shudder.
“Of course, Henry says I need to shape up or ship out.” She makes a marching motion, trying to smile, but it falls quickly and the sadness flickers back into her face.
“Skeeter, Louvenia is the bravest person I know. Even with all her own troubles, she sits down and talks to me. She helps me get through my days. When I read what she wrote about me, about helping her with her grandson, I’ve never been so grateful in my life. It was the best I’d felt in months,Cheap Adidas Jeremy Scott Big Tongue Shoes.”
I don’t know what to say. This is the only good thing I’ve heard about the book and I want her to tell me more. I guess Aibileen hasn’t heard this yet, either. But I’m worried too because, clearly, Lou Anne knows.
“If you did write it, if Hilly’s rumor is true, I just want you to know, I will never fire Louvenia. I told Hilly I’d think about it, but if Hilly Holbrook ever says that to me again, I will tell her to her face she deserved that pie and more.”
“How do—what makes you think that was Hilly?” Our protection—our insurance, it’s gone if the pie secret is out.
“Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. But that’s the talk.” Lou Anne shakes her head. “Then this morning I heard Hilly’s telling everybody the book’s not even about Jackson. Who knows why.”
I stand there blinking, surprised. No one’s asked me for even a second, much less a minute, in over eight months. “Um, sure,” I say, wary.
Lou Anne glances out the window and I see Elizabeth heading for her car, a milkshake in hand. Lou Anne motions me closer, by the shampoos and detanglers.
“Your mama,Link, I hope she’s still doing better?” Lou Anne asks. Her smile is not quite as beaming as usual. She pulls at the long sleeves of her dress, even though a fine sweat covers her forehead.
“She’s fine. Still . . . in remission.”
“I’m so glad.” She nods and we stand there awkwardly, looking at each other. Lou Anne takes a deep breath. “I know we haven’t talked in a while but,” she lowers her voice, “I just thought you should know what Hilly’s saying. She’s saying you wrote that book... about the maids.”
“I heard that book was written anonymously,” is my quick answer, not sure I even want to act like I’ve read it. Even though everyone in town’s reading it,cheap jeremy scott adidas wings. All three bookstores are sold out and the library has a two-month waiting list.
She holds up her palm, like a stop sign. “I don’t want to know if it’s true. But Hilly . . .” She steps closer to me. “Hilly Holbrook called me the other day and told me to fire my maid Louvenia.” Her jaw tightens and she shakes her head.
Please. I hold my breath. Please don’t say you fired her.
“Skeeter, Louvenia . . .” Lou Anne looks me in the eye, says, “she’s the only reason I can get out of bed sometimes.”
I don’t say anything. Maybe this is a trap Hilly’s set.
“And I’m sure you think I’m just some dumb girl ,adidas jeremy scott. . . that I agree with everything Hilly says.” Tears come up in her eyes. Her lips are trembling. “The doctors want me to go up to Memphis for... shock treatment . . .” She covers her face but a tear slips through her fingers. “For the depression and the . . . the tries,” she whispers.
I look down at her long sleeves and I wonder if that’s what she’s been hiding. I hope I’m not right, but I shudder.
“Of course, Henry says I need to shape up or ship out.” She makes a marching motion, trying to smile, but it falls quickly and the sadness flickers back into her face.
“Skeeter, Louvenia is the bravest person I know. Even with all her own troubles, she sits down and talks to me. She helps me get through my days. When I read what she wrote about me, about helping her with her grandson, I’ve never been so grateful in my life. It was the best I’d felt in months,Cheap Adidas Jeremy Scott Big Tongue Shoes.”
I don’t know what to say. This is the only good thing I’ve heard about the book and I want her to tell me more. I guess Aibileen hasn’t heard this yet, either. But I’m worried too because, clearly, Lou Anne knows.
“If you did write it, if Hilly’s rumor is true, I just want you to know, I will never fire Louvenia. I told Hilly I’d think about it, but if Hilly Holbrook ever says that to me again, I will tell her to her face she deserved that pie and more.”
“How do—what makes you think that was Hilly?” Our protection—our insurance, it’s gone if the pie secret is out.
“Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. But that’s the talk.” Lou Anne shakes her head. “Then this morning I heard Hilly’s telling everybody the book’s not even about Jackson. Who knows why.”
We can either stay here and let the others find us
"We can either stay here and let the others find us," Harry explains to his granddaughter, "or we can go back and look for them. Maybe we're too tired and hot to do anything but stay here. We could play a game seeing how many different states' license plates we can find."
This breaks her sniffling into a wet little laugh. "Then we'd get lost again." Her eyelids are reddened by the friction of tears and tiny flakes of light shine in her green irises like the microscopic facets that give metallic paint its tinselly quality.
"Look," he tells her. "Here's Minnesota, with its little clump of pine trees. Ten Thousand Lakes, it says. Score one for Grandpa."
Judy merely smiles this time, not granting him a laugh, she knows he's trying to get her to forgive his mistake in losing the others.
"It's not us who are lost, we know where we are," he says. "It's them." He stops crouching beside her, the hoity?toity little snip, and stands up, to uncreak his knees, and also to ease the crowded feeling in his chest.
He sees them. Just this side of the zebra crossing, coming this way, struggling with suitcases. He first sees Nelson, carrying Roy on his shoulders like a two?headed monster, and then Pru's head of red hair puffed out like the Sphinx, and Janice's white tennis dress. Harry, up to his chest in car roofs, waves his arm back and forth like a man on a desert island. Janice waves back,jeremy scott adidas 2012, a quick toss of her hand as if he's far from what they're talking about.
But when they're all reunited Nelson is furious. His face is pale and his upper lip stiff and bristling. "Jesus Christ, Dad, where did you disappear to? We went all the way back upstairs to that stupid candy store when you didn't show up in the baggage area."
"We were there, weren't we,rolex submariner replica, Judy?" Harry says, marvelling at his son's growing baldness, exposed mercilessly by the Florida sunlight beating down through the thinned strands, and at his mustache, a mouse?colored stray blur like those fuzzballs that collect under furniture. He has noticed these developments before in recent years but they still have the power to astonish him, along with the crow's feet and bitter cheek lines time has etched in his child's face, sharp in the sunlight. "We didn't take more than a minute in the candy store and came right down the escalator to the baggage place," Rabbit says, pleased to be remembering so exactly, exactly visualizing the two candy bars, the extra nickel he had to fish up for the black counter woman's upturned silver?polish?colored palm, the skin magazines with the girls' open mouths, the interleaved teeth of the escalator steps he was afraid Judy might catch her foot on. "We must have slipped by each other in the crowd," he adds, trying to be helpful and innocuous. His son frightens him.
Janice unlocks the Canny. The baking heat of its interior, released like a ghost,fake uggs for sale, brushes past their faces,Cheap Adidas Jeremy Scott Big Tongue Shoes. They put the suitcases in the way?back. Pru lifts the groggy boy off Nelson's shoulders and arranges him in the shadows of the back seat; Roy's thumb is stuck in his mouth and his dark eyes open for an unseeing second. Nelson, his hands at last freed, slaps the top of the Camry and cries in his agony of irritation, "God damn it, Dad, we've been frantic, because of you! We thought you might have lost her!" There is a look Nelson gets when he's angry or frightened that Harry has always thought of as "white around the gills" ? a tension draining color from the child's face and pulling his eyes back into his head. He gets the look from his mother, and Janice got it from hers, dark plump old Bessie, who was a hot?tempered Koerner, she liked to tell them.
V The landing strip was eight miles from the town
V
The landing strip was eight miles from the town. Before dusk the procession started. Some had somehow contrived to hire peasant carts. Most went on foot, bowed and laden. At ten o’clock Major Gordon drove out and found them, a dark mass, on the embankment of what had once been a railway. Most were asleep. There was mist on the ground. He said to the Squadron Leader: “Is this going to lift?” “It’s been getting thicker for the last hour.” “Will they be able to land,http://www.rolexsubmarinerreplica1.com?” “Not a chance.” “We’d better get these people home.” “Yes, I’m just sending the cancellation signal now.” Major Gordon could not bear to wait. He drove back alone but could not rest; hours later, he went out and waited in the mist at the junction of lane and road until the weary people hobbled past into the town. Twice in the next three weeks the grim scene was repeated. On the second occasion the fires were lit, the aeroplanes were overhead and could be heard circling, recircling and at length heading west again. That evening, Major Gordon prayed: “Please God make it all right. You’ve done things like that before. Just make the mist clear. Please God help these people.” But the sound of the engines dwindled and died away, and the hopeless Jews stirred themselves and set off again on the way they had come. That week came the first heavy fall of snow. There would be no more landing until the spring. Major Gordon despaired of doing anything for the Jews, but powerful forces were at work on their behalf in Bari. He soon received a signal: “Expect special drop shortly relief supplies for Jews stop Explain partisan HQ these supplies only repeat only for distribution Jews.” He called on the General with this communication. “What supplies?” “I presume food and clothing and medicine.” “For three months I have been asking for these things for my men. The Third Corps have no boots. In the hospital they are operating without anaesthetics,Cheap Adidas Jeremy Scott Big Tongue Shoes. Last week we had to withdraw from two forward positions because there were no rations.” “I know. I have signalled about it repeatedly,Home Page.” “Why is there food and clothes for the Jews and not for my men?” “I cannot explain. All I have come to ask is whether you can guarantee distribution.” “I will see,fake uggs.” Major Gordon signalled: “Respectfully submit most injudicious discriminate in favour of Jews stop Will endeavour secure proportionate share for them of general relief supplies,” and received in answer: “Three aircraft will drop Jewish supplies point C 1130 hrs 21st stop These supplies from private source not military stop Distribute according previous signal.” On the afternoon of the 21st the Squadron Leader came to see Major Gordon. “What’s the idea?” he said. “I’ve just been having the hell of a schemozzle with the Air Liaison comrade about tonight’s drop. He wants the stuff put in bond or something till he gets orders from higher up. He’s a reasonable sort of chap usually. I’ve never seen him on such a high horse. Wanted everything checked in the presence of the Minister of the Interior and put under joint guard. Never heard such a lot of rot. I suppose someone at Bari has been playing at politics as usual.” That night the air was full of parachutes and of “free-drops” whistling down like bombs. The Anti-Fascist Youth retrieved them. They were loaded on carts, taken to a barn near the General’s headquarters and formally impounded.
The landing strip was eight miles from the town. Before dusk the procession started. Some had somehow contrived to hire peasant carts. Most went on foot, bowed and laden. At ten o’clock Major Gordon drove out and found them, a dark mass, on the embankment of what had once been a railway. Most were asleep. There was mist on the ground. He said to the Squadron Leader: “Is this going to lift?” “It’s been getting thicker for the last hour.” “Will they be able to land,http://www.rolexsubmarinerreplica1.com?” “Not a chance.” “We’d better get these people home.” “Yes, I’m just sending the cancellation signal now.” Major Gordon could not bear to wait. He drove back alone but could not rest; hours later, he went out and waited in the mist at the junction of lane and road until the weary people hobbled past into the town. Twice in the next three weeks the grim scene was repeated. On the second occasion the fires were lit, the aeroplanes were overhead and could be heard circling, recircling and at length heading west again. That evening, Major Gordon prayed: “Please God make it all right. You’ve done things like that before. Just make the mist clear. Please God help these people.” But the sound of the engines dwindled and died away, and the hopeless Jews stirred themselves and set off again on the way they had come. That week came the first heavy fall of snow. There would be no more landing until the spring. Major Gordon despaired of doing anything for the Jews, but powerful forces were at work on their behalf in Bari. He soon received a signal: “Expect special drop shortly relief supplies for Jews stop Explain partisan HQ these supplies only repeat only for distribution Jews.” He called on the General with this communication. “What supplies?” “I presume food and clothing and medicine.” “For three months I have been asking for these things for my men. The Third Corps have no boots. In the hospital they are operating without anaesthetics,Cheap Adidas Jeremy Scott Big Tongue Shoes. Last week we had to withdraw from two forward positions because there were no rations.” “I know. I have signalled about it repeatedly,Home Page.” “Why is there food and clothes for the Jews and not for my men?” “I cannot explain. All I have come to ask is whether you can guarantee distribution.” “I will see,fake uggs.” Major Gordon signalled: “Respectfully submit most injudicious discriminate in favour of Jews stop Will endeavour secure proportionate share for them of general relief supplies,” and received in answer: “Three aircraft will drop Jewish supplies point C 1130 hrs 21st stop These supplies from private source not military stop Distribute according previous signal.” On the afternoon of the 21st the Squadron Leader came to see Major Gordon. “What’s the idea?” he said. “I’ve just been having the hell of a schemozzle with the Air Liaison comrade about tonight’s drop. He wants the stuff put in bond or something till he gets orders from higher up. He’s a reasonable sort of chap usually. I’ve never seen him on such a high horse. Wanted everything checked in the presence of the Minister of the Interior and put under joint guard. Never heard such a lot of rot. I suppose someone at Bari has been playing at politics as usual.” That night the air was full of parachutes and of “free-drops” whistling down like bombs. The Anti-Fascist Youth retrieved them. They were loaded on carts, taken to a barn near the General’s headquarters and formally impounded.
These three had elaborated old Major's teachings into a complete system of thought
These three had elaborated old Major's teachings into a complete system of thought, to which they gave the name of Animalism. Several nights a week, after Mr. Jones was asleep, they held secret meetings in the barn and expounded the principles of Animalism to the others. At the beginning they met with much stupidity and apathy. Some of the animals talked of the duty of loyalty to Mr. Jones, whom they referred to as "Master," or made elementary remarks such as "Mr. Jones feeds us. If he were gone, we should starve to death." Others asked such questions as "Why should we care what happens after we are dead?" or "If this Rebellion is to happen anyway, what difference does it make whether we work for it or not?", and the pigs had great difficulty in making them see that this was contrary to the spirit of Animalism. The stupidest questions of all were asked by Mollie,fake uggs usa, the white mare. The very first question she asked Snowball was: "Will there still be sugar after the Rebellion?"
"No," said Snowball firmly. "We have no means of making sugar on this farm. Besides, you do not need sugar. You will have all the oats and hay you want."
"And shall I still be allowed to wear ribbons in my mane?" asked Mollie.
"Comrade," said Snowball, "those ribbons that you are so devoted to are the badge of slavery. Can you not understand that liberty is worth more than ribbons? "
Mollie agreed, but she did not sound very convinced.
The pigs had an even harder struggle to counteract the lies put about by Moses, the tame raven. Moses, who was Mr,Link. Jones's especial pet, was a spy and a tale-bearer, but he was also a clever talker. He claimed to know of the existence of a mysterious country called Sugarcandy Mountain, to which all animals went when they died. It was situated somewhere up in the sky, a little distance beyond the clouds, Moses said. In Sugarcandy Mountain it was Sunday seven days a week, clover was in season all the year round, and lump sugar and linseed cake grew on the hedges. The animals hated Moses because he told tales and did no work, but some of them believed in Sugarcandy Mountain, and the pigs had to argue very hard to persuade them that there was no such place.
Their most faithful disciples were the two cart-horses, Boxer and Clover,adidas jeremy scott. These two had great difficulty in thinking anything out for themselves, but having once accepted the pigs as their teachers, they absorbed everything that they were told, and passed it on to the other animals by simple arguments. They were unfailing in their attendance at the secret meetings in the barn, and led the singing of Beasts of England, with which the meetings always ended.
Now, as it turned out,http://www.rolexsubmarinerreplica1.com, the Rebellion was achieved much earlier and more easily than anyone had expected. In past years Mr. Jones, although a hard master, had been a capable farmer, but of late he had fallen on evil days. He had become much disheartened after losing money in a lawsuit, and had taken to drinking more than was good for him. For whole days at a time he would lounge in his Windsor chair in the kitchen, reading the newspapers, drinking, and occasionally feeding Moses on crusts of bread soaked in beer. His men were idle and dishonest, the fields were full of weeds, the buildings wanted roofing, the hedges were neglected, and the animals were underfed.
"No," said Snowball firmly. "We have no means of making sugar on this farm. Besides, you do not need sugar. You will have all the oats and hay you want."
"And shall I still be allowed to wear ribbons in my mane?" asked Mollie.
"Comrade," said Snowball, "those ribbons that you are so devoted to are the badge of slavery. Can you not understand that liberty is worth more than ribbons? "
Mollie agreed, but she did not sound very convinced.
The pigs had an even harder struggle to counteract the lies put about by Moses, the tame raven. Moses, who was Mr,Link. Jones's especial pet, was a spy and a tale-bearer, but he was also a clever talker. He claimed to know of the existence of a mysterious country called Sugarcandy Mountain, to which all animals went when they died. It was situated somewhere up in the sky, a little distance beyond the clouds, Moses said. In Sugarcandy Mountain it was Sunday seven days a week, clover was in season all the year round, and lump sugar and linseed cake grew on the hedges. The animals hated Moses because he told tales and did no work, but some of them believed in Sugarcandy Mountain, and the pigs had to argue very hard to persuade them that there was no such place.
Their most faithful disciples were the two cart-horses, Boxer and Clover,adidas jeremy scott. These two had great difficulty in thinking anything out for themselves, but having once accepted the pigs as their teachers, they absorbed everything that they were told, and passed it on to the other animals by simple arguments. They were unfailing in their attendance at the secret meetings in the barn, and led the singing of Beasts of England, with which the meetings always ended.
Now, as it turned out,http://www.rolexsubmarinerreplica1.com, the Rebellion was achieved much earlier and more easily than anyone had expected. In past years Mr. Jones, although a hard master, had been a capable farmer, but of late he had fallen on evil days. He had become much disheartened after losing money in a lawsuit, and had taken to drinking more than was good for him. For whole days at a time he would lounge in his Windsor chair in the kitchen, reading the newspapers, drinking, and occasionally feeding Moses on crusts of bread soaked in beer. His men were idle and dishonest, the fields were full of weeds, the buildings wanted roofing, the hedges were neglected, and the animals were underfed.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Again he prospered
Again he prospered. But, more important, he acquired knowledge and contacts and experience. And he piled up good deeds as a banker piles up securities. For in the following years it became clear that Vito Corleone was not only a man of talent but, in his way, a genius.
He made himself the protector of the Italian families who set themselves up as small speakeasies in their homes, selling whiskey at fifteen cents a glass to bachelor laborers. He became godfather t Mrs. Colombo's youngest son when the lad made his confirmation and gave a handsome present of a twenty-dollar gold piece. Meanwhile, since it was inevitable that some of his trucks be stopped by the police, Genco Abbandando hired a fine lawyer with many contacts in the Police Department and the judiciary. A system of payoffs was set up and soon the Corleone organization had a sizable "sheet," the list of officials entitled to a monthly sum. When the lawyer tried to keep this list down, apologizing for the expense, Vito Corleone reassured him. "No; no," he said. "Get everyone on it even if they can't help us right now. I believe in friendship and I am willing to show my friendship first."
As time went by the Corleone empire became larger, more trucks were added, the "sheet" grew longer. Also the men working directly for Tessio and Clemenza grew in number. The whole thing was becoming unwieldy. Finally Vito Corleone worked out a system of organization. He gave Clemenza and Tessio each the title of Caporegime, or captain, and the men who worked beneath them the rank of soldier. He named Genco Abbandando his counselor, or Consigliere. He put layers of insulation between himself and any operational act,Link. When he gave an order it was to Genco or to one of the caporegimes alone. Rarely did he have a witness to any order he gave any particular one of them. Then he split Tessio's group and made it responsible for Brooklyn. He also split Tessio off from Clemenza and made it clear over the years that he did not want the two men to associate even socially except when absolutely necessary. He explained this to the more intelligent Tessio, who caught his drift immediately, though Vito explained it as a security measure against the law. Tessio understood that Vito did not want his two caporegimes to have any opportunity to conspire against him and he also understood there was no ill will involved, merely a tactical precaution. In return Vito gave Tessio a free hand in Brooklyn while he kept Clemenza's Bronx life very much under his thumb,adidas jeremy scott. Clemenza was the braver, more reckless, the crueler man despite his outward jollity, and needed a tighter rein.
The Great Depression increased the power of Vito Corleone. And indeed it was about that time he came to be called Don Corleone. Everywhere in the city, honest men begged for honest work in vain. Proud men demeaned themselves and their families to accept official charity from a contemptuous officialdom. But the men of Don Corleone walked the streets with their heads held high, their pockets stuffed with silver and paper money. With no fear of losing their jobs. And even Don Corleone, that mgt modest of men, could not help feeling a sense of pride,cheap jeremy scott adidas wings. He was taking care of his world,http://www.rolexsubmarinerreplica1.com, his people. He had not failed those who depended on him and gave him the sweat of their brows, risked their freedom and their lives in his service. And when an employee of his was arrested and sent to prison by some mischance, that unfortunate man's family received a living allowance; and not a miserly, beggarly, begrudging pittance but the same amount the man earned when free.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Steve
"Steve, what made you do it,adidas jeremy scott?""Oh, I reckoned you could do with having the kid to yourself for aspell," said Steve awkwardly.
"You're all right, Steve. But how did you manage it? I shouldn't havethought it possible,jeremy scott adidas wings.""Oh, it wasn't so hard, that part. I just hid in the house, and--butsay, let's forget it; it makes me feel kind of mean, somehow. It seemsto me I may have lost Mamie her job. It's mighty hard to do the rightthing by every one in this world, ain't it? Come along in and see thekid. He's great. Are you feeling ready for supper? Him and me was justgoing to start."It occurred to Kirk for the first time that he was hungry.
"Have you got anything to eat, Steve?"Steve brightened again.
"Have we?" he said. "We've got everything there is in Connecticut! Why,say, we're celebrating. This is our big day. Know what's happened?
Why--"He stopped short, as if somebody had choked him. They had gone into thesitting-room while he was speaking. The table was laid for supper. Achafing-dish stood at one end, and the remainder of the available spacewas filled with a collection of foods, from cold chicken to candy,which did credit to Steve's imagination.
But it was not the sight of these that checked his flow of speech. Itwas the look on Mamie's face as he caught sight of it in the lamplight.
The White Hope was sitting at the table in the attitude of one who hasheard the gong and is anxious to begin; while Mamie, bending over him,raised her head as the two men entered and fixed Steve with a balefulstare.
"What have you been doing to the poor mite?" she demanded fiercely, "toget his face scratched this way?"There was no doubt about the scratch. It was a long, angry red linerunning from temple to chin. The White Hope, becoming conscious of thefact that the attention of the public was upon him, and diagnosing thecause, volunteered an explanation.
"Bad boy," he said, and looked meaningly again at the candy.
"What does he mean by 'bad boy'?""Just what he says, Mamie, honest. Gee,fake uggs for sale! you don't think _I_ doneit, do you?""Have you been letting the precious lamb _fight_?" cried Mamie,her eyes two circles of blue indignation.
Steve's enthusiasm overcame his sense of guilt. He uttered a whoop.
"_Letting_ him! Gee! Listen to her! Why, say, that kid don't haveto be let! He's a scrapper from Swatville-on-the-Bingle. Honest! That'swhat all this food is about. We're celebrating. This is a little suppergiven in his honour by a few of his admirers and backers, meaning me.
Why, say, Kirk, that kid of yours is just the greatest thing that everhappened. Get that chafing-dish going and I'll tell you all about it.""How did he come by that scratch?" said Mamie, coldly sticking to herpoint.
"I'll tell you quick enough. But let's start in on the eats first. Youwouldn't keep a coming champ waiting for his grub, would you? Look howhe's lamping that candy.""Were you going to let the poor mite stuff himself with candy, SteveDingle,chanel bags cheap?""Sure. Whatever he says goes. He owns the joint after this afternoon."Mamie swiftly removed the unwholesome delicacy.
"You're all right, Steve. But how did you manage it? I shouldn't havethought it possible,jeremy scott adidas wings.""Oh, it wasn't so hard, that part. I just hid in the house, and--butsay, let's forget it; it makes me feel kind of mean, somehow. It seemsto me I may have lost Mamie her job. It's mighty hard to do the rightthing by every one in this world, ain't it? Come along in and see thekid. He's great. Are you feeling ready for supper? Him and me was justgoing to start."It occurred to Kirk for the first time that he was hungry.
"Have you got anything to eat, Steve?"Steve brightened again.
"Have we?" he said. "We've got everything there is in Connecticut! Why,say, we're celebrating. This is our big day. Know what's happened?
Why--"He stopped short, as if somebody had choked him. They had gone into thesitting-room while he was speaking. The table was laid for supper. Achafing-dish stood at one end, and the remainder of the available spacewas filled with a collection of foods, from cold chicken to candy,which did credit to Steve's imagination.
But it was not the sight of these that checked his flow of speech. Itwas the look on Mamie's face as he caught sight of it in the lamplight.
The White Hope was sitting at the table in the attitude of one who hasheard the gong and is anxious to begin; while Mamie, bending over him,raised her head as the two men entered and fixed Steve with a balefulstare.
"What have you been doing to the poor mite?" she demanded fiercely, "toget his face scratched this way?"There was no doubt about the scratch. It was a long, angry red linerunning from temple to chin. The White Hope, becoming conscious of thefact that the attention of the public was upon him, and diagnosing thecause, volunteered an explanation.
"Bad boy," he said, and looked meaningly again at the candy.
"What does he mean by 'bad boy'?""Just what he says, Mamie, honest. Gee,fake uggs for sale! you don't think _I_ doneit, do you?""Have you been letting the precious lamb _fight_?" cried Mamie,her eyes two circles of blue indignation.
Steve's enthusiasm overcame his sense of guilt. He uttered a whoop.
"_Letting_ him! Gee! Listen to her! Why, say, that kid don't haveto be let! He's a scrapper from Swatville-on-the-Bingle. Honest! That'swhat all this food is about. We're celebrating. This is a little suppergiven in his honour by a few of his admirers and backers, meaning me.
Why, say, Kirk, that kid of yours is just the greatest thing that everhappened. Get that chafing-dish going and I'll tell you all about it.""How did he come by that scratch?" said Mamie, coldly sticking to herpoint.
"I'll tell you quick enough. But let's start in on the eats first. Youwouldn't keep a coming champ waiting for his grub, would you? Look howhe's lamping that candy.""Were you going to let the poor mite stuff himself with candy, SteveDingle,chanel bags cheap?""Sure. Whatever he says goes. He owns the joint after this afternoon."Mamie swiftly removed the unwholesome delicacy.
The boathouse was simply a little creek covered over with boards and capable of sheltering an ordina
The boathouse was simply a little creek covered over with boards and capable of sheltering an ordinary rowing boat,adidas jeremy scott. Jimmy ran the canoe in just as the storm began, and turned her broadside on so that they could watch the rain,fake chanel bags, which was sweeping over the lake in sheets.
"Just in time," he said, shipping the paddle. "Snug in here, isn't it?"
"We _should_ have got wet in another minute! I hope it won't last long,cheap chanel bags."
"I hope it will, because I've got something very important to say to you, and I don't want to have to hurry it. Are you quite comfortable?"
"Yes, thanks."
"I don't know how to put it exactly. I mean, I don't want to offend you or anything. What I mean to say is--do you mind if I smoke? Thanks. I don't know why it is, but I always talk easier if I've got a cigarette going."
He rolled one with great deliberation and care. Molly watched him admiringly.
"You're the only man I've ever seen roll a cigarette properly, Jimmy," she said. "Everybody else leaves them all flabby at the ends."
"I learned the trick from a little Italian who kept a clothing store in the Bowery. It was the only useful thing he could do."
"Look at the rain!"
Jimmy leaned forward.
"Molly----"
"I wonder if poor Mr. Wesson got indoors before it began. I do hope he did."
Jimmy sat back again. He scowled. Every man is liable on occasion to behave like a sulky schoolboy. Jimmy did so.
"You seem to spend most of your time thinking about Wesson," he said savagely.
Molly had begun to hum a tune to herself as she watched the rain. She stopped. A profound and ghastly silence brooded over the canoe.
"Molly," said Jimmy at last, "I'm sorry."
No reply.
"Molly."
"Well?"
"I'm sorry."
Molly turned.
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that, Jimmy. It hurts--from you."
He could see that there were tears in her eyes.
"Molly, don't!"
She turned her head away once more.
"I can't help it, Jimmy. It hurts. Everything's so changed. I'm miserable. You wouldn't have said a thing like that in the old days."
"Molly, if you knew----"
"It's all right, Jimmy. It was silly of me. I'm all right now! The rain has stopped. Let's go back, shall we?"
"Not yet. For God's sake, not yet! This is my only chance. Directly we get back, it will be the same miserable business all over again; the same that it's been every day since I came to this place. Heavens! When you first told me that you were living at the abbey, I was absolutely happy, like a fool. I might have known how it would be. Every day there's a crowd round you. I never get a chance of talking to you. I consider myself lucky if you speak a couple of words to me. If I'd known the slow torture it was going to be, I'd have taken the next train back to London. I can't stand it. Molly, you remember what friends we were in the old days. Was it ever anything more with you? Was it? Is it now?"
"I was very fond of you, Jimmy." He could hardly hear the words.
"Was it ever anything more than that? Is it now? That was three years ago. You were a child,jeremy scott adidas 2012. We were just good friends then. I don't want friendship now. It's not enough. I want you--_you_. You were right a moment ago. Everything _has_ changed. For me, at least. Has it for you? Has it for you, Molly?"
"Just in time," he said, shipping the paddle. "Snug in here, isn't it?"
"We _should_ have got wet in another minute! I hope it won't last long,cheap chanel bags."
"I hope it will, because I've got something very important to say to you, and I don't want to have to hurry it. Are you quite comfortable?"
"Yes, thanks."
"I don't know how to put it exactly. I mean, I don't want to offend you or anything. What I mean to say is--do you mind if I smoke? Thanks. I don't know why it is, but I always talk easier if I've got a cigarette going."
He rolled one with great deliberation and care. Molly watched him admiringly.
"You're the only man I've ever seen roll a cigarette properly, Jimmy," she said. "Everybody else leaves them all flabby at the ends."
"I learned the trick from a little Italian who kept a clothing store in the Bowery. It was the only useful thing he could do."
"Look at the rain!"
Jimmy leaned forward.
"Molly----"
"I wonder if poor Mr. Wesson got indoors before it began. I do hope he did."
Jimmy sat back again. He scowled. Every man is liable on occasion to behave like a sulky schoolboy. Jimmy did so.
"You seem to spend most of your time thinking about Wesson," he said savagely.
Molly had begun to hum a tune to herself as she watched the rain. She stopped. A profound and ghastly silence brooded over the canoe.
"Molly," said Jimmy at last, "I'm sorry."
No reply.
"Molly."
"Well?"
"I'm sorry."
Molly turned.
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that, Jimmy. It hurts--from you."
He could see that there were tears in her eyes.
"Molly, don't!"
She turned her head away once more.
"I can't help it, Jimmy. It hurts. Everything's so changed. I'm miserable. You wouldn't have said a thing like that in the old days."
"Molly, if you knew----"
"It's all right, Jimmy. It was silly of me. I'm all right now! The rain has stopped. Let's go back, shall we?"
"Not yet. For God's sake, not yet! This is my only chance. Directly we get back, it will be the same miserable business all over again; the same that it's been every day since I came to this place. Heavens! When you first told me that you were living at the abbey, I was absolutely happy, like a fool. I might have known how it would be. Every day there's a crowd round you. I never get a chance of talking to you. I consider myself lucky if you speak a couple of words to me. If I'd known the slow torture it was going to be, I'd have taken the next train back to London. I can't stand it. Molly, you remember what friends we were in the old days. Was it ever anything more with you? Was it? Is it now?"
"I was very fond of you, Jimmy." He could hardly hear the words.
"Was it ever anything more than that? Is it now? That was three years ago. You were a child,jeremy scott adidas 2012. We were just good friends then. I don't want friendship now. It's not enough. I want you--_you_. You were right a moment ago. Everything _has_ changed. For me, at least. Has it for you? Has it for you, Molly?"
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Among the motley crowd which had made the studio a home in the days ofKirk's bachelorhood ha
* * * * *Among the motley crowd which had made the studio a home in the days ofKirk's bachelorhood had been an artist--one might almost say anex-artist--named Robert Dwight Penway. An over-fondness for rye whiskyat the Brevoort cafe had handicapped Robert as an active force in theworld of New York art. As a practical worker he was not greatlyesteemed--least of all by the editors of magazines, who had paidadvance cheques to him for work which, when delivered at all, wasdelivered too late for publication. These, once bitten, were now twiceshy of Mr. Penway. They did not deny his great talents, which were,indeed, indisputable; but they were fixed in their determination not tomake use of them.
Fate could have provided no more suitable ally for Kirk. It wasuniversally admitted around Washington Square and--grudgingly--down-townthat in the matter of theory Mr. Penway excelled. He could teach toperfection what he was too erratic to practise.
Robert Dwight Penway, run to earth one sultry evening in the Brevoort,welcomed Kirk as a brother, as a rich brother. Even when his firstimpression, that he was to have the run of the house on Fifth Avenueand mix freely with touchable multi-millionaires, had been corrected,his altitude was still brotherly. He parted from Kirk with many solemnpromises to present himself at the studio daily and teach him enoughart to put him clear at the top of the profession. "Way above allthese other dubs," asserted Mr. Penway.
Robert Dwight Penway's attitude toward his contemporaries in art bore astriking resemblance to Steve's estimate of his successors in themiddle-weight department of the American prize-ring.
Surprisingly to those who knew him, Mr. Penway was as good as his word.
Certainly Kirk's terms had been extremely generous,fake uggs; but he had thrownaway many a contract of equal value in his palmy days,moncler womens jackets. Possibly hisactivity was due to his liking for Kirk; or it may have been that theprospect of sitting by with a cigar while somebody else worked, withnothing to do all day except offer criticism, and advice, appealed tohim.
At any rate, he appeared at the studio on the following afternoon,completely sober and excessively critical. He examined the canvaseswhich Kirk had hauled from shelves and corners for his inspection. Oneafter another he gazed upon them in an increasingly significantsilence. When the last one was laid aside he delivered judgment.
"Golly!" he said.
Kirk flushed. It was not that he was not in complete agreement with theverdict. Looking at these paintings, some of which he had in the olddays thought extremely good, he was forced to admit that "Golly" wasthe only possible criticism.
He had not seen them for a long time, and absence had enabled him tocorrect first impressions. Moreover, something had happened to him,causing him to detect flaws where he had seen only merits,retro jordans. Life hadsharpened his powers of judgment. He was a grown man looking at thefollies of his youth.
"Burn them!" said Mr,replica chanel handbags. Penway, lighting a cigar with the air of onerestoring his tissues after a strenuous ordeal. "Burn the lot. They'reawful. Darned amateur nightmares. They offend the eye. Cast them into aburning fiery furnace."Kirk nodded. The criticism was just. It erred, if at all, on the sideof mildness. Certainly something had happened to him since heperpetrated those daubs. He had developed. He saw things with new eyes.
Fate could have provided no more suitable ally for Kirk. It wasuniversally admitted around Washington Square and--grudgingly--down-townthat in the matter of theory Mr. Penway excelled. He could teach toperfection what he was too erratic to practise.
Robert Dwight Penway, run to earth one sultry evening in the Brevoort,welcomed Kirk as a brother, as a rich brother. Even when his firstimpression, that he was to have the run of the house on Fifth Avenueand mix freely with touchable multi-millionaires, had been corrected,his altitude was still brotherly. He parted from Kirk with many solemnpromises to present himself at the studio daily and teach him enoughart to put him clear at the top of the profession. "Way above allthese other dubs," asserted Mr. Penway.
Robert Dwight Penway's attitude toward his contemporaries in art bore astriking resemblance to Steve's estimate of his successors in themiddle-weight department of the American prize-ring.
Surprisingly to those who knew him, Mr. Penway was as good as his word.
Certainly Kirk's terms had been extremely generous,fake uggs; but he had thrownaway many a contract of equal value in his palmy days,moncler womens jackets. Possibly hisactivity was due to his liking for Kirk; or it may have been that theprospect of sitting by with a cigar while somebody else worked, withnothing to do all day except offer criticism, and advice, appealed tohim.
At any rate, he appeared at the studio on the following afternoon,completely sober and excessively critical. He examined the canvaseswhich Kirk had hauled from shelves and corners for his inspection. Oneafter another he gazed upon them in an increasingly significantsilence. When the last one was laid aside he delivered judgment.
"Golly!" he said.
Kirk flushed. It was not that he was not in complete agreement with theverdict. Looking at these paintings, some of which he had in the olddays thought extremely good, he was forced to admit that "Golly" wasthe only possible criticism.
He had not seen them for a long time, and absence had enabled him tocorrect first impressions. Moreover, something had happened to him,causing him to detect flaws where he had seen only merits,retro jordans. Life hadsharpened his powers of judgment. He was a grown man looking at thefollies of his youth.
"Burn them!" said Mr,replica chanel handbags. Penway, lighting a cigar with the air of onerestoring his tissues after a strenuous ordeal. "Burn the lot. They'reawful. Darned amateur nightmares. They offend the eye. Cast them into aburning fiery furnace."Kirk nodded. The criticism was just. It erred, if at all, on the sideof mildness. Certainly something had happened to him since heperpetrated those daubs. He had developed. He saw things with new eyes.
I find it not a little difficult to state what kept me back from proposing marriage to Margaret that
I find it not a little difficult to state what kept me back from proposing marriage to Margaret that summer, and what urged me forward at last to marry her. It is so much easier to remember one's resolutions than to remember the moods and suggestions that produced them.
Marrying and getting married was, I think, a pretty simple affair to Altiora; it was something that happened to the adolescent and unmarried when you threw them together under the circumstances of health, warmth and leisure. It happened with the kindly and approving smiles of the more experienced elders who had organised these proximities. The young people married,cheap chanel bags, settled down, children ensued,Home Page, and father and mother turned their minds, now decently and properly disillusioned, to other things. That to Altiora was the normal sexual life, and she believed it to be the quality of the great bulk of the life about her.
One of the great barriers to human understanding is the wide temperamental difference one finds in the values of things relating to sex. It is the issue upon which people most need training in charity and imaginative sympathy. Here are no universal standards at all, and indeed for no single man nor woman does there seem to be any fixed standard,moncler clerance, so much do the accidents of circumstances and one's physical phases affect one's interpretations. There is nothing in the whole range of sexual fact that may not seem supremely beautiful or humanly jolly or magnificently wicked or disgusting or trivial or utterly insignificant, according to the eye that sees or the mood that colours,replica chanel handbags. Here is something that may fill the skies and every waking hour or be almost completely banished from a life. It may be everything on Monday and less than nothing on Saturday. And we make our laws and rules as though in these matters all men and women were commensurable one with another, with an equal steadfast passion and an equal constant duty....
I don't know what dreams Altiora may have had in her schoolroom days, I always suspected her of suppressed and forgotten phases, but certainly her general effect now was of an entirely passionless worldliness in these matters. Indeed so far as I could get at her, she regarded sexual passion as being hardly more legitimate in a civilised person than--let us say--homicidal mania. She must have forgotten--and Bailey too. I suspect she forgot before she married him. I don't suppose either of them had the slightest intimation of the dimensions sexual love can take in the thoughts of the great majority of people with whom they come in contact. They loved in their way--an intellectual way it was and a fond way--but it had no relation to beauty and physical sensation--except that there seemed a decree of exile against these things. They got their glow in high moments of altruistic ambition--and in moments of vivid worldly success. They sat at opposite ends of their dinner table with so and so "captured," and so and so, flushed with a mutual approval. They saw people in love forgetful and distraught about them, and just put it down to forgetfulness and distraction. At any rate Altiora manifestly viewed my situation and Margaret's with an abnormal and entirely misleading simplicity. There was the girl, rich, with an acceptable claim to be beautiful, shiningly virtuous, quite capable of political interests, and there was I, talented, ambitious and full of political and social passion, in need of just the money, devotion and regularisation Margaret could provide. We were both unmarried--white sheets of uninscribed paper. Was there ever a simpler situation? What more could we possibly want?
Marrying and getting married was, I think, a pretty simple affair to Altiora; it was something that happened to the adolescent and unmarried when you threw them together under the circumstances of health, warmth and leisure. It happened with the kindly and approving smiles of the more experienced elders who had organised these proximities. The young people married,cheap chanel bags, settled down, children ensued,Home Page, and father and mother turned their minds, now decently and properly disillusioned, to other things. That to Altiora was the normal sexual life, and she believed it to be the quality of the great bulk of the life about her.
One of the great barriers to human understanding is the wide temperamental difference one finds in the values of things relating to sex. It is the issue upon which people most need training in charity and imaginative sympathy. Here are no universal standards at all, and indeed for no single man nor woman does there seem to be any fixed standard,moncler clerance, so much do the accidents of circumstances and one's physical phases affect one's interpretations. There is nothing in the whole range of sexual fact that may not seem supremely beautiful or humanly jolly or magnificently wicked or disgusting or trivial or utterly insignificant, according to the eye that sees or the mood that colours,replica chanel handbags. Here is something that may fill the skies and every waking hour or be almost completely banished from a life. It may be everything on Monday and less than nothing on Saturday. And we make our laws and rules as though in these matters all men and women were commensurable one with another, with an equal steadfast passion and an equal constant duty....
I don't know what dreams Altiora may have had in her schoolroom days, I always suspected her of suppressed and forgotten phases, but certainly her general effect now was of an entirely passionless worldliness in these matters. Indeed so far as I could get at her, she regarded sexual passion as being hardly more legitimate in a civilised person than--let us say--homicidal mania. She must have forgotten--and Bailey too. I suspect she forgot before she married him. I don't suppose either of them had the slightest intimation of the dimensions sexual love can take in the thoughts of the great majority of people with whom they come in contact. They loved in their way--an intellectual way it was and a fond way--but it had no relation to beauty and physical sensation--except that there seemed a decree of exile against these things. They got their glow in high moments of altruistic ambition--and in moments of vivid worldly success. They sat at opposite ends of their dinner table with so and so "captured," and so and so, flushed with a mutual approval. They saw people in love forgetful and distraught about them, and just put it down to forgetfulness and distraction. At any rate Altiora manifestly viewed my situation and Margaret's with an abnormal and entirely misleading simplicity. There was the girl, rich, with an acceptable claim to be beautiful, shiningly virtuous, quite capable of political interests, and there was I, talented, ambitious and full of political and social passion, in need of just the money, devotion and regularisation Margaret could provide. We were both unmarried--white sheets of uninscribed paper. Was there ever a simpler situation? What more could we possibly want?
But the ideas of continence and disregard were unpleasant ideas to Prothero that day
But the ideas of continence and disregard were unpleasant ideas to Prothero that day.
"Mankind," said Benham, "is overcharged with this sex. It suffocates us. It gives life only to consume it. We struggle out of the urgent necessities of a mere animal existence. We are not so much living as being married and given in marriage. All life is swamped in the love story,fake chanel bags...."
"Man is only overcharged because he is unsatisfied," said Prothero, sticking stoutly to his own view.
12
It was only as they sat at a little table in the orchard at Grantchester after their lunch that Benham could make head against Prothero and recover that largeness of outlook which had so easily touched the imagination of Amanda. And then he did not so much dispose of Prothero's troubles as soar over them. It is the last triumph of the human understanding to sympathize with desires we do not share, and to Benham who now believed himself to be loved beyond the chances of life, who was satisfied and tranquil and austerely content, it was impossible that Prothero's demands should seem anything more than the grotesque and squalid squealings of the beast that has to be overridden and rejected altogether. It is a freakish fact of our composition that these most intense feelings in life are just those that are most rapidly and completely forgotten; hate one may recall for years, but the magic of love and the flame of desire serve their purpose in our lives and vanish, leaving no trace, like the snows of Venice. Benham was still not a year and a half from the meretricious delights of Mrs. Skelmersdale, and he looked at Prothero as a marble angel might look at a swine in its sty....
What he had now in mind was an expedition to Russia. When at last he could sufficiently release Prothero's attention, he unfolded the project that had been developing steadily in him since his honeymoon experience.
He had discovered a new reason for travelling. The last country we can see clearly,retro jordans for sale, he had discovered, is our own country. It is as hard to see one's own country as it is to see the back of one's head. It is too much behind us, too much ourselves. But Russia is like England with everything larger,chanel classic bags, more vivid, cruder; one felt that directly one walked about St. Petersburg. St. Petersburg upon its Neva was like a savage untamed London on a larger Thames; they were seagull-haunted tidal cities, like no other capitals in Europe. The shipping and buildings mingled in their effects. Like London it looked over the heads of its own people to a limitless polyglot empire,cheap moncler jackets. And Russia was an aristocratic land, with a middle-class that had no pride in itself as a class; it had a British toughness and incompetence, a British disregard of logic and meticulous care. Russia, like England, was outside Catholic Christendom, it had a state church and the opposition to that church was not secularism but dissent. One could draw a score of such contrasted parallels. And now it was in a state of intolerable stress, that laid bare the elemental facts of a great social organization. It was having its South African war, its war at the other end of the earth, with a certain defeat instead of a dubious victory....
"Mankind," said Benham, "is overcharged with this sex. It suffocates us. It gives life only to consume it. We struggle out of the urgent necessities of a mere animal existence. We are not so much living as being married and given in marriage. All life is swamped in the love story,fake chanel bags...."
"Man is only overcharged because he is unsatisfied," said Prothero, sticking stoutly to his own view.
12
It was only as they sat at a little table in the orchard at Grantchester after their lunch that Benham could make head against Prothero and recover that largeness of outlook which had so easily touched the imagination of Amanda. And then he did not so much dispose of Prothero's troubles as soar over them. It is the last triumph of the human understanding to sympathize with desires we do not share, and to Benham who now believed himself to be loved beyond the chances of life, who was satisfied and tranquil and austerely content, it was impossible that Prothero's demands should seem anything more than the grotesque and squalid squealings of the beast that has to be overridden and rejected altogether. It is a freakish fact of our composition that these most intense feelings in life are just those that are most rapidly and completely forgotten; hate one may recall for years, but the magic of love and the flame of desire serve their purpose in our lives and vanish, leaving no trace, like the snows of Venice. Benham was still not a year and a half from the meretricious delights of Mrs. Skelmersdale, and he looked at Prothero as a marble angel might look at a swine in its sty....
What he had now in mind was an expedition to Russia. When at last he could sufficiently release Prothero's attention, he unfolded the project that had been developing steadily in him since his honeymoon experience.
He had discovered a new reason for travelling. The last country we can see clearly,retro jordans for sale, he had discovered, is our own country. It is as hard to see one's own country as it is to see the back of one's head. It is too much behind us, too much ourselves. But Russia is like England with everything larger,chanel classic bags, more vivid, cruder; one felt that directly one walked about St. Petersburg. St. Petersburg upon its Neva was like a savage untamed London on a larger Thames; they were seagull-haunted tidal cities, like no other capitals in Europe. The shipping and buildings mingled in their effects. Like London it looked over the heads of its own people to a limitless polyglot empire,cheap moncler jackets. And Russia was an aristocratic land, with a middle-class that had no pride in itself as a class; it had a British toughness and incompetence, a British disregard of logic and meticulous care. Russia, like England, was outside Catholic Christendom, it had a state church and the opposition to that church was not secularism but dissent. One could draw a score of such contrasted parallels. And now it was in a state of intolerable stress, that laid bare the elemental facts of a great social organization. It was having its South African war, its war at the other end of the earth, with a certain defeat instead of a dubious victory....
The staff of _The Glow Worm_ conducted Jim to the starting-place
The staff of _The Glow Worm_ conducted Jim to the starting-place, and did their best to relieve his obvious nervousness with light conversation.
'Eh, old chap?' said Jim. He had been saying 'Eh?' to everything throughout the afternoon.
'I said, "Is my hat on straight, and does it suit the colour of my eyes?"' said Charteris.
'Oh, yes. Yes, rather. Ripping,' in a far-off voice.
'And have you a theory of the Universe?'
'Eh, old chap?'
'I said, "Did you want your legs rubbed before you start?" I believe it's an excellent specific for the gout.'
'Gout? What? No, I don't think so, thanks.'
'And you'll write to us sometimes, Jim, and give my love to little Henry, and _always_ wear flannel next your skin, my dear boy?' said Charteris.
This seemed to strike even Jim as irrelevant.
'Do shut up for goodness sake, Alderman,' he said irritably. 'Why can't you go and rag somebody else?'
'My place is by your side. Go, my son, or else they'll be starting without you. Give us your blazer. And take my tip, the tip of an old runner, and don't pocket your opponent's ball in your own twenty-five. And come back victorious, or on the shields of your soldiers. All right, sir (to the starter), he's just making his will. Good-bye Jim. Buck up, or I'll lynch you after the race.'
Jim answered by muffling him in his blazer, and walking to the line. There were six competitors in all, each of whom owned a name ranking alphabetically higher than Thomson. Jim, therefore, had the outside berth. Drake had the one next to the inside, which fell to Adamson, the victim of the lost two pounds episode.
Both Drake and Jim got off well at the sound of the pistol, and the pace was warm from the start. Jim evidently had his eye on the inside berth, and, after half a lap had been completed, he got it, Drake falling back. Jim continued to make the running, and led at the end of the first lap by about five yards. Then came Adamson, followed by a batch of three, and finally Drake, taking things exceedingly coolly, a couple of yards behind them. The distance separating him from Jim was little over a dozen yards. A roar of applause greeted the runners as they started on the second lap, and it was significant that while Jim's supporters shouted, 'Well run', those of Drake were fain to substitute advice for approval, and cry 'Go it'. Drake, however, had not the least intention of 'going it' in the generally accepted meaning of the phrase. A yard or two to the rear meant nothing in the first lap, and he was running quite well enough to satisfy himself, with a nice, springy stride, which he hoped would begin to tell soon.
With the end of the second lap the real business of the race began, for the survival of the fittest had resulted in eliminations and changes of order. Jim still led, but now by only eight or nine yards. Drake had come up to second, and Adamson had dropped to a bad third. Two of the runners had given the race up, and retired, and the last man was a long way behind, and, to all practical purposes, out of the running. There were only three laps, and, as the last lap began, the pace quickened, fast as it had been before. Jim was exerting every particle of his strength. He was not a runner who depended overmuch on his final dash. He hoped to gain so much ground before Drake made his sprint as to neutralize it when it came. Adamson he did not fear.
'Eh, old chap?' said Jim. He had been saying 'Eh?' to everything throughout the afternoon.
'I said, "Is my hat on straight, and does it suit the colour of my eyes?"' said Charteris.
'Oh, yes. Yes, rather. Ripping,' in a far-off voice.
'And have you a theory of the Universe?'
'Eh, old chap?'
'I said, "Did you want your legs rubbed before you start?" I believe it's an excellent specific for the gout.'
'Gout? What? No, I don't think so, thanks.'
'And you'll write to us sometimes, Jim, and give my love to little Henry, and _always_ wear flannel next your skin, my dear boy?' said Charteris.
This seemed to strike even Jim as irrelevant.
'Do shut up for goodness sake, Alderman,' he said irritably. 'Why can't you go and rag somebody else?'
'My place is by your side. Go, my son, or else they'll be starting without you. Give us your blazer. And take my tip, the tip of an old runner, and don't pocket your opponent's ball in your own twenty-five. And come back victorious, or on the shields of your soldiers. All right, sir (to the starter), he's just making his will. Good-bye Jim. Buck up, or I'll lynch you after the race.'
Jim answered by muffling him in his blazer, and walking to the line. There were six competitors in all, each of whom owned a name ranking alphabetically higher than Thomson. Jim, therefore, had the outside berth. Drake had the one next to the inside, which fell to Adamson, the victim of the lost two pounds episode.
Both Drake and Jim got off well at the sound of the pistol, and the pace was warm from the start. Jim evidently had his eye on the inside berth, and, after half a lap had been completed, he got it, Drake falling back. Jim continued to make the running, and led at the end of the first lap by about five yards. Then came Adamson, followed by a batch of three, and finally Drake, taking things exceedingly coolly, a couple of yards behind them. The distance separating him from Jim was little over a dozen yards. A roar of applause greeted the runners as they started on the second lap, and it was significant that while Jim's supporters shouted, 'Well run', those of Drake were fain to substitute advice for approval, and cry 'Go it'. Drake, however, had not the least intention of 'going it' in the generally accepted meaning of the phrase. A yard or two to the rear meant nothing in the first lap, and he was running quite well enough to satisfy himself, with a nice, springy stride, which he hoped would begin to tell soon.
With the end of the second lap the real business of the race began, for the survival of the fittest had resulted in eliminations and changes of order. Jim still led, but now by only eight or nine yards. Drake had come up to second, and Adamson had dropped to a bad third. Two of the runners had given the race up, and retired, and the last man was a long way behind, and, to all practical purposes, out of the running. There were only three laps, and, as the last lap began, the pace quickened, fast as it had been before. Jim was exerting every particle of his strength. He was not a runner who depended overmuch on his final dash. He hoped to gain so much ground before Drake made his sprint as to neutralize it when it came. Adamson he did not fear.
Uncle Doc
Uncle Doc, Bell, Geoff, Polly, Meg, and I started for the top of Pico Negro the other morning. Bell rode Villikins, and Polly took a mule, because she thought the animal would be especially sure-footed. He was; in fact, he was so sure-footed that he didn't care to move at all, and we had to take turns in beating him up to the top. We boys walked for exercise, which we got to our hearts' content.
It is only five or six miles from the old Mountain Mill (a picture of which Jack will send you), and the ascent is pretty stiff climbing, though nothing terrific. We lost the trail once, and floundered about in the chaparral for half an hour, till Bell began to make a poem on the occasion, when we became desperate, and dashed through a thicket of brush, tearing ourselves to bits, but stumbling on the trail at last. The view from the top is simply superb. The valleys below are all yellow with grain-fields and green with vineyards, with here and there the roofs of a straggling little settlement. The depression in the side of the mountain (you will observe it in the picture) Polly says has evidently been 'bitten out' by a prehistoric animal, and it turns out to be the loveliest little canyon imaginable.
We have had one novel experience--that of seeing a tarantula fight; and not between two, but five, tarantulas. We were about twenty miles from camp, loping along a stretch of hot, dusty road. Jack got off to cinch his saddle, and so we all stopped a moment to let our horses breathe. As I was looking about, at nothing in particular, I noticed a black ball in the deep dust at the side of the road. It suddenly rolled over on itself and I called to the boys to watch the fun. We got off, hitched our horses, and approached cautiously, for I had seen a battle of the same kind before. There they were--five huge, hairy, dirty, black creatures, as large as the palm of Dicky's hand, all locked in deadly combat. They writhed and struggled and embraced, their long, curling legs fastening on each other with a sound that was actually like the cracking of bones. It takes a little courage to stand and watch such a proceeding, for you feel as if the hideous fellows might turn and jump for you; but they were doubtless absorbed in their own battle, and we wanted to see the affair to the end, so we took the risk, if there was any. At last they showed signs of weariness, but we prodded them up with our riding-whips, preferring that they should kill each other, rather than do the thing ourselves. Finally, four of them lay in the dust, doubled up and harmless, slain, I suppose, by their own poison. One, the conquering hero, remained, and we dexterously scooped him into a tomato-can that Jack had tied to his saddle for a drinking-cup, covered him up with a handkerchief, and drew lots as to who should carry him home to Dr. Paul.
Knowing that the little beasts were gregarious, we hunted about for a nest, which we might send to you after ousting its disagreeable occupant. After much searching, we found a group of them--quite a tarantula village, in fact. Their wonderful little houses are closed on the outside by a circular, many-webbed mesh, two or three inches across, and this web betrays the spider's den to the person who knows the tricks of the trade. Directly underneath it you come upon the tiny circular trap-door, which you will notice in the nest we send with these letters. You will see how wonderfully it is made, with its silken weaving inside, and its bits of bark and leaves outside; and I know you will admire the hinge, which the tarantula must have invented, and which is as pretty a bit of workmanship as the most accomplished mechanic could turn out. We tore away the web and the door from one of the nests, and then poured water down the hole. The spider was at home, came out as fact as his clumsy legs would carry him, and clutched the end of the stick Jack held out to him. Then we tumbled him into the tomato-can just as he appeared to be making for us. The two didn't agree at all. One of them despatched the other on the way home--the same hero who had killed the other four; but, on hearing his bloody record, Aunt Truth refused to have him about the camp; so we gave him an alcohol bath, and you shall see his lordship when you come. As Dr. Paul says, they have been known to clear fourteen feet at a jump, perhaps you will feel happier to know that he is in alcohol, though their bite is not necessarily fatal if it is rightly cared for.
It is only five or six miles from the old Mountain Mill (a picture of which Jack will send you), and the ascent is pretty stiff climbing, though nothing terrific. We lost the trail once, and floundered about in the chaparral for half an hour, till Bell began to make a poem on the occasion, when we became desperate, and dashed through a thicket of brush, tearing ourselves to bits, but stumbling on the trail at last. The view from the top is simply superb. The valleys below are all yellow with grain-fields and green with vineyards, with here and there the roofs of a straggling little settlement. The depression in the side of the mountain (you will observe it in the picture) Polly says has evidently been 'bitten out' by a prehistoric animal, and it turns out to be the loveliest little canyon imaginable.
We have had one novel experience--that of seeing a tarantula fight; and not between two, but five, tarantulas. We were about twenty miles from camp, loping along a stretch of hot, dusty road. Jack got off to cinch his saddle, and so we all stopped a moment to let our horses breathe. As I was looking about, at nothing in particular, I noticed a black ball in the deep dust at the side of the road. It suddenly rolled over on itself and I called to the boys to watch the fun. We got off, hitched our horses, and approached cautiously, for I had seen a battle of the same kind before. There they were--five huge, hairy, dirty, black creatures, as large as the palm of Dicky's hand, all locked in deadly combat. They writhed and struggled and embraced, their long, curling legs fastening on each other with a sound that was actually like the cracking of bones. It takes a little courage to stand and watch such a proceeding, for you feel as if the hideous fellows might turn and jump for you; but they were doubtless absorbed in their own battle, and we wanted to see the affair to the end, so we took the risk, if there was any. At last they showed signs of weariness, but we prodded them up with our riding-whips, preferring that they should kill each other, rather than do the thing ourselves. Finally, four of them lay in the dust, doubled up and harmless, slain, I suppose, by their own poison. One, the conquering hero, remained, and we dexterously scooped him into a tomato-can that Jack had tied to his saddle for a drinking-cup, covered him up with a handkerchief, and drew lots as to who should carry him home to Dr. Paul.
Knowing that the little beasts were gregarious, we hunted about for a nest, which we might send to you after ousting its disagreeable occupant. After much searching, we found a group of them--quite a tarantula village, in fact. Their wonderful little houses are closed on the outside by a circular, many-webbed mesh, two or three inches across, and this web betrays the spider's den to the person who knows the tricks of the trade. Directly underneath it you come upon the tiny circular trap-door, which you will notice in the nest we send with these letters. You will see how wonderfully it is made, with its silken weaving inside, and its bits of bark and leaves outside; and I know you will admire the hinge, which the tarantula must have invented, and which is as pretty a bit of workmanship as the most accomplished mechanic could turn out. We tore away the web and the door from one of the nests, and then poured water down the hole. The spider was at home, came out as fact as his clumsy legs would carry him, and clutched the end of the stick Jack held out to him. Then we tumbled him into the tomato-can just as he appeared to be making for us. The two didn't agree at all. One of them despatched the other on the way home--the same hero who had killed the other four; but, on hearing his bloody record, Aunt Truth refused to have him about the camp; so we gave him an alcohol bath, and you shall see his lordship when you come. As Dr. Paul says, they have been known to clear fourteen feet at a jump, perhaps you will feel happier to know that he is in alcohol, though their bite is not necessarily fatal if it is rightly cared for.
In India
In India, too, I no longer foresee, as once I was inclined to see, disaster. The English rule in India is surely one of the most extraordinary accidents that has ever happened in history. We are there like a man who has fallen off a ladder on to the neck of an elephant, and doesn't know what to do or how to get down. Until something happens he remains. Our functions in India are absurd. We English do not own that country, do not even rule it. We make nothing happen; at the most we prevent things happening. We suppress our own literature there. Most English people cannot even go to this land they possess; the authorities would prevent it. If Messrs. Perowne or Cook organised a cheap tour of Manchester operatives, it would be stopped. No one dare bring the average English voter face to face with the reality of India, or let the Indian native have a glimpse of the English voter. In my time I have talked to English statesmen, Indian officials and ex-officials, viceroys, soldiers, every one who might be supposed to know what India signifies, and I have prayed them to tell me what they thought we were up to there. I am not writing without my book in these matters. And beyond a phrase or so about "even-handed justice"--and look at our sedition trials!--they told me nothing. Time after time I have heard of that apocryphal native ruler in the north-west, who, when asked what would happen if we left India, replied that in a week his men would be in the saddle, and in six months not a rupee nor a virgin would be left in Lower Bengal. That is always given as our conclusive justification. But is it our business to preserve the rupees and virgins of Lower Bengal in a sort of magic inconclusiveness? Better plunder than paralysis, better fire and sword than futility. Our flag is spread over the peninsula, without plans, without intentions--a vast preventive. The sum total of our policy is to arrest any discussion, any conferences that would enable the Indians to work out a tolerable scheme of the future for themselves. But that does not arrest the resentment of men held back from life. Consider what it must be for the educated Indian sitting at the feast of contemporary possibilities with his mouth gagged and his hands bound behind him! The spirit of insurrection breaks out in spite of espionage and seizures. Our conflict for inaction develops stupendous absurdities. The other day the British Empire was taking off and examining printed cotton stomach wraps for seditious emblems and inscriptions....
In some manner we shall have to come out of India. We have had our chance, and we have demonstrated nothing but the appalling dulness of our national imagination. We are not good enough to do anything with India. Codger and Flack, and Gates and Dayton, Cladingbowl in the club, and the HOME CHURCHMAN in the home, cant about "character," worship of strenuous force and contempt of truth; for the sake of such men and things as these, we must abandon in fact, if not in appearance, that empty domination. Had we great schools and a powerful teaching, could we boast great men, had we the spirit of truth and creation in our lives, then indeed it might be different. But a race that bears a sceptre must carry gifts to justify it.
In some manner we shall have to come out of India. We have had our chance, and we have demonstrated nothing but the appalling dulness of our national imagination. We are not good enough to do anything with India. Codger and Flack, and Gates and Dayton, Cladingbowl in the club, and the HOME CHURCHMAN in the home, cant about "character," worship of strenuous force and contempt of truth; for the sake of such men and things as these, we must abandon in fact, if not in appearance, that empty domination. Had we great schools and a powerful teaching, could we boast great men, had we the spirit of truth and creation in our lives, then indeed it might be different. But a race that bears a sceptre must carry gifts to justify it.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
A quiet sideward look from Mrs
A quiet sideward look from Mrs. Dawson, told Mr,chanel wallet. Rodney as plainly as words, that in the event of his partie-carrée failing him, he might count upon her for a tête-à-tête .
Part 1 Chapter 11 The Self-Assumed Burden
The wedding was over,retro jordans for sale. Hosmer and Fanny had been married in the small library of their Unitarian minister whom they had found intent upon the shaping of his Sunday sermon.
Out of deference, he had been briefly told the outward circumstances of the case, which he knew already; for these two had been formerly members of his congregation, and gossip had not been reluctant in telling their story. Hosmer, of course, had drifted away from his knowledge,retro jordans, and in late years, he had seen little of Fanny, who when moved to attend church at all usually went to the Redemptorist’s Rock Church with her friend Belle Worthington. This lady was a good Catholic to the necessary extent of hearing a mass on Sundays, abstaining from meat on Fridays and Ember days, and making her “Easters.” Which concessions were not without their attendant discomforts, counterbalanced, however, by the soothing assurance which they gave her of keeping on the safe side.
The minister had been much impressed with the significance of this re-marriage which he was called upon to perform, and had offered some few and well chosen expressions of salutary advice as to its future guidance. The sexton and housekeeper had been called in as witnesses. Then Hosmer had taken Fanny back home in a cab as she requested, because of her eyes that were red and swollen.
Inside the little hall-way he took her in his arms and kissed her, calling her “my child.” He could not have told why, except that it expressed the responsibility he accepted of bearing all things that a father must bear from the child to whom he has given life.
“I should like to go out for an hour, Fanny,cheap moncler jackets; but if you would rather not, I shall stay.”
“No, David, I want to be alone,” she said, turning into the little parlor, with eyes big and heavy from weariness and inward clashing emotions.
Along the length of Lindell avenue from Grand avenue west to Forest park, reaches for two miles on either side of the wide and well kept gravel drive a smooth stone walk, bordered its full extent with a double row of trees which were young and still uncertain, when Hosmer walked between them.
Had it been Sunday, he would have found himself making one of a fashionable throng of promenaders; it being at that time a fad with society people to walk to Forest park and back of a Sunday afternoon. Driving was then considered a respectable diversion only on the six work days of the week.
But it was not Sunday and this inviting promenade was almost deserted. An occasional laborer would walk clumsily by; apathetic; swinging his tin bucket and bearing some implement of toil with the yellow clay yet clinging to it. Or it might be a brace of strong-minded girls walking with long and springing stride, which was then fashionable; looking not to the right nor left; indulging in no exchange of friendly and girlish chatter, but grimly intent upon the purpose of their walk.
Part 1 Chapter 11 The Self-Assumed Burden
The wedding was over,retro jordans for sale. Hosmer and Fanny had been married in the small library of their Unitarian minister whom they had found intent upon the shaping of his Sunday sermon.
Out of deference, he had been briefly told the outward circumstances of the case, which he knew already; for these two had been formerly members of his congregation, and gossip had not been reluctant in telling their story. Hosmer, of course, had drifted away from his knowledge,retro jordans, and in late years, he had seen little of Fanny, who when moved to attend church at all usually went to the Redemptorist’s Rock Church with her friend Belle Worthington. This lady was a good Catholic to the necessary extent of hearing a mass on Sundays, abstaining from meat on Fridays and Ember days, and making her “Easters.” Which concessions were not without their attendant discomforts, counterbalanced, however, by the soothing assurance which they gave her of keeping on the safe side.
The minister had been much impressed with the significance of this re-marriage which he was called upon to perform, and had offered some few and well chosen expressions of salutary advice as to its future guidance. The sexton and housekeeper had been called in as witnesses. Then Hosmer had taken Fanny back home in a cab as she requested, because of her eyes that were red and swollen.
Inside the little hall-way he took her in his arms and kissed her, calling her “my child.” He could not have told why, except that it expressed the responsibility he accepted of bearing all things that a father must bear from the child to whom he has given life.
“I should like to go out for an hour, Fanny,cheap moncler jackets; but if you would rather not, I shall stay.”
“No, David, I want to be alone,” she said, turning into the little parlor, with eyes big and heavy from weariness and inward clashing emotions.
Along the length of Lindell avenue from Grand avenue west to Forest park, reaches for two miles on either side of the wide and well kept gravel drive a smooth stone walk, bordered its full extent with a double row of trees which were young and still uncertain, when Hosmer walked between them.
Had it been Sunday, he would have found himself making one of a fashionable throng of promenaders; it being at that time a fad with society people to walk to Forest park and back of a Sunday afternoon. Driving was then considered a respectable diversion only on the six work days of the week.
But it was not Sunday and this inviting promenade was almost deserted. An occasional laborer would walk clumsily by; apathetic; swinging his tin bucket and bearing some implement of toil with the yellow clay yet clinging to it. Or it might be a brace of strong-minded girls walking with long and springing stride, which was then fashionable; looking not to the right nor left; indulging in no exchange of friendly and girlish chatter, but grimly intent upon the purpose of their walk.
What message does the maiden bring to her white brothers
"What message does the maiden bring to her white brothers?"
"Listen!" she commanded, in a clear, musical voice. "I am Manikawan, the daughter of Sishetakushin, whose lodge is pitched on the shores of the Great Lake, to the north. Yesterday some men of the South visited the lodge of my father."
"Mingens!" exclaimed Dick,cheap chanel bags.
"They told him," she continued, not heeding the interruption, "that five suns back they had found a lodge built where the big river broadens. The lodge was newly made. It was a white man's lodge, for it was built of trees,jordan 11. The men of the South waited in hiding at the end of the portage that was once used by my people. It is above the place where evil spirits dwell."
"How many of the men of the South were there?" asked Dick, again interrupting,chanel 2.55 bags.
"Six," she answered promptly. "While they waited two white men passed with a painted canoe and much provisions. Then, while they still waited, the white men returned with the canoe empty.
"They fired their guns at the white men. Then the evil spirits that dwell where the river falls reached up for the canoe and dragged it down to the place of thunder.
"I have come to tell you this, and to ask if White Brother of the Snow and his friend are here. All night and all day have I travelled, for I am afraid for White Brother of the Snow. He has lived in the lodge of Sishetakushin, my father. He is one of my people, and I am afraid for him."
Her rapid speech, her dramatic pose and gestures, and her intensely earnest manner left no doubt in Dick Blake's mind that she spoke the truth. Neither had he any doubt that she referred to Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge as the two white men, for no other white men were in the region, or, he was sure, within several hundred miles of the place, at the time to which she referred.
"No," said he, after a moment's pause, "White Brother of the Snow and his friend are not with us."
"They are not here!" she wailed, lifting her arms in a gesture of despair. "Where is he? Tell me! It was not White Brother of the Snow sent to the torment of evil spirits?"
"I'm afraid, Manikawan, it was. There were no other white men here than White Brother of the Snow and his friend,cheap jordans."
Manikawan's hands dropped at her side, and for an instant she stood, a picture of mingled horror and grief. But it was for only an instant. Then her face grew hard and vengeful, and in low, even tones she said:
"These men of the South killed White Brother of the Snow. They are no longer of my people. They must die."
"They must die," echoed Dick.
"Come!" she said laconically, reaching for her bow and slinging it on her back.
"No, we will rest to-night, and to-morrow at dawn we will go. Rest to-night and be strong for the chase to-morrow," Dick counselled, kindly, as she turned toward the portage trail leading around the rapids.
"I cannot rest," she answered. "I go now;" and like a shadow, and as silently, she melted into the darkening forest.
Big Dick Blake's heart was full of vengeance, as he strode down the trail to rejoin his companions.
"What speech were th' Injun maid tryin' t' get rid of, now?" asked Ed Matheson, pausing in his work of unloading the canoe as Dick appeared.
"Listen!" she commanded, in a clear, musical voice. "I am Manikawan, the daughter of Sishetakushin, whose lodge is pitched on the shores of the Great Lake, to the north. Yesterday some men of the South visited the lodge of my father."
"Mingens!" exclaimed Dick,cheap chanel bags.
"They told him," she continued, not heeding the interruption, "that five suns back they had found a lodge built where the big river broadens. The lodge was newly made. It was a white man's lodge, for it was built of trees,jordan 11. The men of the South waited in hiding at the end of the portage that was once used by my people. It is above the place where evil spirits dwell."
"How many of the men of the South were there?" asked Dick, again interrupting,chanel 2.55 bags.
"Six," she answered promptly. "While they waited two white men passed with a painted canoe and much provisions. Then, while they still waited, the white men returned with the canoe empty.
"They fired their guns at the white men. Then the evil spirits that dwell where the river falls reached up for the canoe and dragged it down to the place of thunder.
"I have come to tell you this, and to ask if White Brother of the Snow and his friend are here. All night and all day have I travelled, for I am afraid for White Brother of the Snow. He has lived in the lodge of Sishetakushin, my father. He is one of my people, and I am afraid for him."
Her rapid speech, her dramatic pose and gestures, and her intensely earnest manner left no doubt in Dick Blake's mind that she spoke the truth. Neither had he any doubt that she referred to Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge as the two white men, for no other white men were in the region, or, he was sure, within several hundred miles of the place, at the time to which she referred.
"No," said he, after a moment's pause, "White Brother of the Snow and his friend are not with us."
"They are not here!" she wailed, lifting her arms in a gesture of despair. "Where is he? Tell me! It was not White Brother of the Snow sent to the torment of evil spirits?"
"I'm afraid, Manikawan, it was. There were no other white men here than White Brother of the Snow and his friend,cheap jordans."
Manikawan's hands dropped at her side, and for an instant she stood, a picture of mingled horror and grief. But it was for only an instant. Then her face grew hard and vengeful, and in low, even tones she said:
"These men of the South killed White Brother of the Snow. They are no longer of my people. They must die."
"They must die," echoed Dick.
"Come!" she said laconically, reaching for her bow and slinging it on her back.
"No, we will rest to-night, and to-morrow at dawn we will go. Rest to-night and be strong for the chase to-morrow," Dick counselled, kindly, as she turned toward the portage trail leading around the rapids.
"I cannot rest," she answered. "I go now;" and like a shadow, and as silently, she melted into the darkening forest.
Big Dick Blake's heart was full of vengeance, as he strode down the trail to rejoin his companions.
"What speech were th' Injun maid tryin' t' get rid of, now?" asked Ed Matheson, pausing in his work of unloading the canoe as Dick appeared.
one marten
"Aye, one marten, an' I shoots a wolf last evenin'--a wonderful poor wolf, an' his skin ain't much account. Three of un were after me on th' trail all day, but I only gets one."
"Three wolves, now--an' poor uns," commented Dick. "Wolves ain't follerin' a man all day unless they's hungry, an' they ain't like t' be hungry where they's deer."
"No," agreed Ed, who had lighted his pipe, one moccasined heel drawn up on the edge of the bunk upon which he lounged, the other long leg stretched out,jordans for sale. "Wolves follers th' deer, but when they ain't no deer t' faller they don't faller un. Which means they ain't no deer in this part o' th' country, an' so they just naturally fallers Bill as th' next best meat,cheap retro jordan."
"An' bein' poor means they's hungry, an' bein' hungry means they's lickin' their chops for Bill," continued Dick.
"Were it night, now?" asked Ed.
"No, 'twere broad day," answered Bill, undisturbed.
"Now if 'twere night, I'd say they was follerin' you because your red hair lights th' trail up for un."
"'Tain't no redder 'n your'n," retorted Bill.
"Never mind un, Bill," said Bob sympathetically. "Ed's jealous because your hair's curly an' his 'n ain't."
"Now, how about gettin' grub?" suggested Ed, when the laugh had subsided. "They ain't nothin' t' kill, an' we got t' haul grub in from th' Bay. I'm thinkin' t' start down Friday, an' if one o' you wants t' go along, we'll both haul up a load on our flatsleds. How'd you like t' go, Bill? They's a moon, an' by travellin' some at night we'll make th' Bay for th' New Year, goin' light, an' be back by th' first o' February, whatever, with our loads."
"I'd like wonderful well t' go,cheap moncler jackets!" answered Bill, elated at the prospect of a visit to the Bay, brief as it would be.
"What you think of un?" asked Ed, addressing Dick and Bob jointly.
"We got t' have grub if we stays on th' trails," agreed Dick, "an' they's no sign o' killin' any meat."
"Aye, we'll all have t' leave th' trails by th' first o' March, whatever, unless some of us goes for grub," said Bob.
"Bill an' me bein' away'll stretch th' grub we has, for Bill be a wonderful eater--" Bill interjected a protest, but Ed, ignoring it,chanel classic bags, continued: "An' what we hauls back on th' flatsleds'll carry us over th' spring trappin'. We'll be startin' early on Friday. We'll go down your trail an' spring your traps up on th' way out, Bill."
A late breakfast of fried ptarmigans, and a late afternoon dinner of boiled goose, with an evening "snack" of ptarmigan before retiring--the last of the game reserved from the fall shooting--together with camp bread and tea, comprised the Christmas menu.
Directly after breakfast Ed and Bill made ready for packing on their toboggans the light outfit which they were to use on their outward trip; and this done, the four held a service of song in which all joined heartily, and spent the remainder of the day luxuriously lounging in the tilt and telling stories.
Shad was sincerely missed. He had looked forward keenly to the Christmas feast, and many hearty good wishes were expressed for him--that even among the Indians he might pass a pleasant day--that he would not find the hardships so great as his friends had feared--and that he would soon return to them in safety and none the worse for his experiences.
"Three wolves, now--an' poor uns," commented Dick. "Wolves ain't follerin' a man all day unless they's hungry, an' they ain't like t' be hungry where they's deer."
"No," agreed Ed, who had lighted his pipe, one moccasined heel drawn up on the edge of the bunk upon which he lounged, the other long leg stretched out,jordans for sale. "Wolves follers th' deer, but when they ain't no deer t' faller they don't faller un. Which means they ain't no deer in this part o' th' country, an' so they just naturally fallers Bill as th' next best meat,cheap retro jordan."
"An' bein' poor means they's hungry, an' bein' hungry means they's lickin' their chops for Bill," continued Dick.
"Were it night, now?" asked Ed.
"No, 'twere broad day," answered Bill, undisturbed.
"Now if 'twere night, I'd say they was follerin' you because your red hair lights th' trail up for un."
"'Tain't no redder 'n your'n," retorted Bill.
"Never mind un, Bill," said Bob sympathetically. "Ed's jealous because your hair's curly an' his 'n ain't."
"Now, how about gettin' grub?" suggested Ed, when the laugh had subsided. "They ain't nothin' t' kill, an' we got t' haul grub in from th' Bay. I'm thinkin' t' start down Friday, an' if one o' you wants t' go along, we'll both haul up a load on our flatsleds. How'd you like t' go, Bill? They's a moon, an' by travellin' some at night we'll make th' Bay for th' New Year, goin' light, an' be back by th' first o' February, whatever, with our loads."
"I'd like wonderful well t' go,cheap moncler jackets!" answered Bill, elated at the prospect of a visit to the Bay, brief as it would be.
"What you think of un?" asked Ed, addressing Dick and Bob jointly.
"We got t' have grub if we stays on th' trails," agreed Dick, "an' they's no sign o' killin' any meat."
"Aye, we'll all have t' leave th' trails by th' first o' March, whatever, unless some of us goes for grub," said Bob.
"Bill an' me bein' away'll stretch th' grub we has, for Bill be a wonderful eater--" Bill interjected a protest, but Ed, ignoring it,chanel classic bags, continued: "An' what we hauls back on th' flatsleds'll carry us over th' spring trappin'. We'll be startin' early on Friday. We'll go down your trail an' spring your traps up on th' way out, Bill."
A late breakfast of fried ptarmigans, and a late afternoon dinner of boiled goose, with an evening "snack" of ptarmigan before retiring--the last of the game reserved from the fall shooting--together with camp bread and tea, comprised the Christmas menu.
Directly after breakfast Ed and Bill made ready for packing on their toboggans the light outfit which they were to use on their outward trip; and this done, the four held a service of song in which all joined heartily, and spent the remainder of the day luxuriously lounging in the tilt and telling stories.
Shad was sincerely missed. He had looked forward keenly to the Christmas feast, and many hearty good wishes were expressed for him--that even among the Indians he might pass a pleasant day--that he would not find the hardships so great as his friends had feared--and that he would soon return to them in safety and none the worse for his experiences.
Friday, November 2, 2012
coach outlet factory Never mind me
"Never mind me," called the man, who was about twenty-two or three years old, "I can hold on behind until we get ashore!"
"Is she alive?" asked the other girl, as she was helped into the boat,jordans for sale, looking fearfully at the girl lying in the stern. "Very much so," answered Pepper, who had been feeling her pulse. "The first thing to do is to get some of the water out of her lungs, if there is any there. Hold her with her head down. That's all right! Now, then, let's get ashore as fast as we can."
As the canoe had overturned the captain of the Dart, who was in the pilot house, seeing the accident, had rung for slow speed and, putting the yacht about, hurried back to the place. But, except for the fortunate presence of the boys, it is doubtful if he would have arrived in time to be of any assistance.
"Can we help you in any way?" called Mr,retro jordans for sale. Whilden, the owner of the yacht, who was standing at the gangway as it ran down close to the boat. "I was afraid we wouldn't get here in time."
"There is an unconscious girl here that would be better on your boat," replied Rand.
"All right," responded Mr. Whilden, "we'll take her on board. Can you come alongside?" This end was shortly accomplished,chanel wallet, then, lifting the girl up in their arms, Donald and Rand passed her to Mr. Whilden and the captain.
"Have you a doctor on board?" called Pepper. "She needs attention right away."
"Yes," responded a gentleman who was standing by. "I am a physician, I will take care of her."
At this moment there was a scream from a lady on the yacht as she caught sight of the girl. "Why it is Nellie! She is dead!" she cried, and would have fallen to the deck if she had not been caught by Mr. Whilden.
"Impossible!" he exclaimed. "How in the world could Nellie get here?" adding a moment later as he looked more closely: "Surely it is she. Is there any hope for her, Doctor?"
"Of course there is," replied the physician. "She is coming around all right, thanks to these young men, who rescued her."
"And where are they?" asked Mr. Whilden. "I had almost forgotten them in the excitement," turning to the boys, who had come on board to learn as to the fate of the girl. Shaking hands with them again and again, he explained: "She is my daughter. I hadn't any idea she was anywhere near, and I don't see how it happened yet,cheap chanel bags. Why, hello, Frank!" addressing the young man who had been in the canoe, and who was now wringing the water from his clothes. "What in the world were you doing here?"
"Why, Nellie and I," explained Frank, agitatedly--he had not yet recovered from the shock of his experience--"came down to visit Mabel, and we went out for a cruise on the river."
"But how did it happen?" interrupted Mr. Whilden, "I thought you knew how to handle a canoe."
"I thought I did, too," replied Frank, "but Nellie saw you on the deck and, forgetting where she was, attempted to stand up to wave her handkerchief to you, and, the next thing we knew we were all in the water."
"I can't thank you enough," began Mr. Whilden, again turning to the boys.
"Not at all," protested Rand, "we are very glad we were in time. Come on, boys, it is time we were getting along."
"Is she alive?" asked the other girl, as she was helped into the boat,jordans for sale, looking fearfully at the girl lying in the stern. "Very much so," answered Pepper, who had been feeling her pulse. "The first thing to do is to get some of the water out of her lungs, if there is any there. Hold her with her head down. That's all right! Now, then, let's get ashore as fast as we can."
As the canoe had overturned the captain of the Dart, who was in the pilot house, seeing the accident, had rung for slow speed and, putting the yacht about, hurried back to the place. But, except for the fortunate presence of the boys, it is doubtful if he would have arrived in time to be of any assistance.
"Can we help you in any way?" called Mr,retro jordans for sale. Whilden, the owner of the yacht, who was standing at the gangway as it ran down close to the boat. "I was afraid we wouldn't get here in time."
"There is an unconscious girl here that would be better on your boat," replied Rand.
"All right," responded Mr. Whilden, "we'll take her on board. Can you come alongside?" This end was shortly accomplished,chanel wallet, then, lifting the girl up in their arms, Donald and Rand passed her to Mr. Whilden and the captain.
"Have you a doctor on board?" called Pepper. "She needs attention right away."
"Yes," responded a gentleman who was standing by. "I am a physician, I will take care of her."
At this moment there was a scream from a lady on the yacht as she caught sight of the girl. "Why it is Nellie! She is dead!" she cried, and would have fallen to the deck if she had not been caught by Mr. Whilden.
"Impossible!" he exclaimed. "How in the world could Nellie get here?" adding a moment later as he looked more closely: "Surely it is she. Is there any hope for her, Doctor?"
"Of course there is," replied the physician. "She is coming around all right, thanks to these young men, who rescued her."
"And where are they?" asked Mr. Whilden. "I had almost forgotten them in the excitement," turning to the boys, who had come on board to learn as to the fate of the girl. Shaking hands with them again and again, he explained: "She is my daughter. I hadn't any idea she was anywhere near, and I don't see how it happened yet,cheap chanel bags. Why, hello, Frank!" addressing the young man who had been in the canoe, and who was now wringing the water from his clothes. "What in the world were you doing here?"
"Why, Nellie and I," explained Frank, agitatedly--he had not yet recovered from the shock of his experience--"came down to visit Mabel, and we went out for a cruise on the river."
"But how did it happen?" interrupted Mr. Whilden, "I thought you knew how to handle a canoe."
"I thought I did, too," replied Frank, "but Nellie saw you on the deck and, forgetting where she was, attempted to stand up to wave her handkerchief to you, and, the next thing we knew we were all in the water."
"I can't thank you enough," began Mr. Whilden, again turning to the boys.
"Not at all," protested Rand, "we are very glad we were in time. Come on, boys, it is time we were getting along."
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