"I bleeve it's down at 'tother end. Sounds so, anyway. Pap used to sleep there, sometimes, 'long with the hogs, but laws bless you, he just lifts things when he snores. Besides, I reckon he ain't ever coming back to this town any more."
The spirit of adventure rose in the boys' souls once more.
"Hucky, do you das't to go if I lead?"
"I don't like to, much. Tom, s'pose it's Injun Joe!"
Tom quailed. But presently the temptation rose up strong again and the boys agreed to try, with the understanding that they would take to their heels if the snoring stopped. So they went tiptoeing stealthily down, the one behind the other. When they had got to within five steps of the snorer, Tom stepped on a stick, and it broke with a sharp snap. The man moaned, writhed a little, and his face came into the moonlight. It was Muff Potter. The boys' hearts had stood still, and their hopes too, when the man moved, but their fears passed away now. They
-116-tiptoed out, through the broken weather-boarding, and stopped at a little distance to exchange a parting word. That long, lugubrious howl rose on the night air again! They turned and saw the strange dog standing within a few feet of where Potter was lying, and facing Potter, with his nose pointing heavenward.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Romanello Now and Forever Panel painting
There was a late look in the light, a late sense in the atmosphere. He was startled. Why had he not been called -- persecuted till he was up, as usual? The thought filled him with bodings. Within five minutes he was dressed and down-stairs, feeling sore and drowsy. The family were still at table, but they had finished breakfast. There was no voice of rebuke; but there were averted eyes; there was a silence and an air of solemnity that struck a chill to the culprit's heart. He sat down and tried to seem gay, but it was up-hill work; it roused no smile, no response, and he lapsed into silence and let his heart sink down to the depths.
After breakfast his aunt took him aside, and Tom almost brightened in the hope that he was going to be flogged; but it was not so. His aunt wept over him and asked him how he could go and break her old heart so; and finally told him to go on, and ruin himself and bring her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave, for it was no use for her to try any more. This was worse than a thousand whippings, and Tom's heart was sorer now than his body. He cried, he pleaded for forgiveness, promised to reform over and over again, and then received his dismissal, feeling that he had won but an imperfect forgiveness and established but a feeble confidence.
After breakfast his aunt took him aside, and Tom almost brightened in the hope that he was going to be flogged; but it was not so. His aunt wept over him and asked him how he could go and break her old heart so; and finally told him to go on, and ruin himself and bring her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave, for it was no use for her to try any more. This was worse than a thousand whippings, and Tom's heart was sorer now than his body. He cried, he pleaded for forgiveness, promised to reform over and over again, and then received his dismissal, feeling that he had won but an imperfect forgiveness and established but a feeble confidence.
Romanello Lakeside Gazebo Panel painting
Oh, geeminy, it's him!" exclaimed both boys, in a breath.
"Say, Tom -- they say a stray dog come howling around Johnny Miller's house, 'bout midnight, as much as two weeks ago; and a whippoorwill come in and lit on the banisters and sung, the very same evening; and there ain't anybody dead there yet."
"Well, I know that. And suppose there ain't. Didn't Gracie Miller fall in the kitchen fire and burn herself terrible the very next Saturday?"
"Yes, but she ain't dead. And what's more, she's getting better, too."
"All right, you wait and see. She's a goner, just as dead sure as Muff Potter's a goner. That's what the niggers say, and they know all about these kind of things, Huck."
Then they separated, cogitating. When Tom crept in at his bedroom window the night was almost spent. He undressed with excessive caution, and fell asleep congratulating himself that nobody knew of his escapade. He was not aware that the gently-snoring Sid was awake, and had been so for an hour.
When Tom awoke, Sid was dressed and gone.
"Say, Tom -- they say a stray dog come howling around Johnny Miller's house, 'bout midnight, as much as two weeks ago; and a whippoorwill come in and lit on the banisters and sung, the very same evening; and there ain't anybody dead there yet."
"Well, I know that. And suppose there ain't. Didn't Gracie Miller fall in the kitchen fire and burn herself terrible the very next Saturday?"
"Yes, but she ain't dead. And what's more, she's getting better, too."
"All right, you wait and see. She's a goner, just as dead sure as Muff Potter's a goner. That's what the niggers say, and they know all about these kind of things, Huck."
Then they separated, cogitating. When Tom crept in at his bedroom window the night was almost spent. He undressed with excessive caution, and fell asleep congratulating himself that nobody knew of his escapade. He was not aware that the gently-snoring Sid was awake, and had been so for an hour.
When Tom awoke, Sid was dressed and gone.
Famous painting
Tom," whispered Huckleberry, "does this keep us from ever telling -- always?"
"Of course it does. It don't make any difference what happens, we got to keep mum. We'd drop down dead -- don't you know that?"
"Yes, I reckon that's so."
They continued to whisper for some little time. Presently a dog set up a long, lugubrious howl just outside -- within ten feet of them. The boys clasped each other suddenly, in an agony of fright.
"Which of us does he mean?" gasped Huckleberry.
"I dono -- peep through the crack. Quick!"
"No, you, Tom!"
"I can't -- I can't do it, Huck!"
"Please, Tom. There 'tis again!"
"Oh, lordy, I'm thankful!" whispered Tom. "I know his voice. It's Bull Harbison." *
Note: * If Mr. Harbison had owned a slave named Bull, Tom would have spoken of him as "Harbison's Bull," but a son or a dog of that name was "Bull Harbison."
"Of course it does. It don't make any difference what happens, we got to keep mum. We'd drop down dead -- don't you know that?"
"Yes, I reckon that's so."
They continued to whisper for some little time. Presently a dog set up a long, lugubrious howl just outside -- within ten feet of them. The boys clasped each other suddenly, in an agony of fright.
"Which of us does he mean?" gasped Huckleberry.
"I dono -- peep through the crack. Quick!"
"No, you, Tom!"
"I can't -- I can't do it, Huck!"
"Please, Tom. There 'tis again!"
"Oh, lordy, I'm thankful!" whispered Tom. "I know his voice. It's Bull Harbison." *
Note: * If Mr. Harbison had owned a slave named Bull, Tom would have spoken of him as "Harbison's Bull," but a son or a dog of that name was "Bull Harbison."
Rudolf Ernst paintings
After another reflective silence, Tom said:
"Hucky, you sure you can keep mum?"
"Tom, we got to keep mum. You know that. That Injun devil wouldn't make any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak 'bout this and they didn't hang him. Now, look-a-here, Tom, less take and swear to one another -- that's what we got to do -- swear to keep mum."
"I'm agreed. It's the best thing. Would you just hold hands and swear that we -- "
"Oh no, that wouldn't do for this. That's good enough for little rubbishy common things -- specially with gals, cuz they go back on you anyway, and blab if they get in a huff -- but there orter be writing 'bout a big thing like this. And blood."
Tom's whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and awful; the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with it. He picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the moon-light, took a little fragment of "red keel" out of his pocket, got the moon on his work, and painfully scrawled these lines, emphasizing each slow down-stroke by clamping his tongue between his teeth, and letting up the pressure on the up-strokes. [See next page.]
"Hucky, you sure you can keep mum?"
"Tom, we got to keep mum. You know that. That Injun devil wouldn't make any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak 'bout this and they didn't hang him. Now, look-a-here, Tom, less take and swear to one another -- that's what we got to do -- swear to keep mum."
"I'm agreed. It's the best thing. Would you just hold hands and swear that we -- "
"Oh no, that wouldn't do for this. That's good enough for little rubbishy common things -- specially with gals, cuz they go back on you anyway, and blab if they get in a huff -- but there orter be writing 'bout a big thing like this. And blood."
Tom's whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and awful; the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with it. He picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the moon-light, took a little fragment of "red keel" out of his pocket, got the moon on his work, and painfully scrawled these lines, emphasizing each slow down-stroke by clamping his tongue between his teeth, and letting up the pressure on the up-strokes. [See next page.]
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Decorative painting
"Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer. Come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my Tina," said the Professor, catching her up with a laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss him.
"Now me mus tuddy my lessin," went on the funny little thing. So he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if finding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French than German.
Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing affectedly, and saying, "Now Professor," in a coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.
"Now me mus tuddy my lessin," went on the funny little thing. So he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if finding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French than German.
Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing affectedly, and saying, "Now Professor," in a coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.
Anne-Francois-Louis Janmot paintings
table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I like. A fine view and a church tower opposite atone for the many stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery, where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next Mrs. Kirke's private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty children, rather spoiled, I fancy, but they took to me after telling them The Seven Bad Pigs, and I've no doubt I shall make a model governess.
I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will believe it.
"Now, my dear, make yourself at home," said Mrs. K. in her motherly way, "I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with such a family, but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There's the tea bell, I must run and change my cap." And off she bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.
I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will believe it.
"Now, my dear, make yourself at home," said Mrs. K. in her motherly way, "I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with such a family, but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There's the tea bell, I must run and change my cap." And off she bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.
Church Mountains of Ecuador painting
"You are sure of his feeling for you?"
The color deepened in Jo's cheeks as she answered, with the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking of first lovers, "I'm afraid it is so, Mother. He hasn't said anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to anything."
"I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."
Jo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of management, if she knew, and how she will rejoice that Annie may still hope."
"AH, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the same in all -- the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you tire of it, for only then will you find that there is something sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help ;her. For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?'
The color deepened in Jo's cheeks as she answered, with the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking of first lovers, "I'm afraid it is so, Mother. He hasn't said anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to anything."
"I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."
Jo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of management, if she knew, and how she will rejoice that Annie may still hope."
"AH, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the same in all -- the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you tire of it, for only then will you find that there is something sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help ;her. For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?'
Chase Gondolas Along Venetian Canal painting
Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the anxious inquiry, "What is it, dear?"
"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.
"Is it the old pain, my precious?'
"No, it's a new one, but I can bear it." And Beth tried to check her tears.
"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."
"You can't, there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave way, and clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was frightened.
"Where is it? Shall I call Mother?"
"No, no, don't call her, don't tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and `poor' my head. I'll be quiet and go to sleep, indeed I will."
Jo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full and she longed to speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally, so though she believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"
"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.
"Is it the old pain, my precious?'
"No, it's a new one, but I can bear it." And Beth tried to check her tears.
"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."
"You can't, there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave way, and clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was frightened.
"Where is it? Shall I call Mother?"
"No, no, don't call her, don't tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and `poor' my head. I'll be quiet and go to sleep, indeed I will."
Jo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full and she longed to speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally, so though she believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Carl Fredrik Aagard paintings
Once upon a time a farmer planted a little seed. in his garden, and after a while it sprouted and became a vine and bore many squashes. One day in October, when they were ripe, he picked one and took it to market. A grocerman bought and put it in his shop. That same morning, a little girl in a brown hat and blue dress, with a round face and snub nose, went and bought it for her mother. She lugged it home, cut it up, and boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it salt and butter, for dinner. And to the rest she added a pint of milk, two eggs, four spoons of sugar, nutmeg, and some crackers, put it in a deep dish, and baked it till it was brown and nice, and next day it was eaten by a family named March.T. TUPMAN Mr. Pickwick, Sir: --
I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and sometimes won't write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will pardon his badness and let him send a French fable because he can't write out of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and prepare some work which will be all commy la fo that means all right I am in haste as it is nearly school time.
I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and sometimes won't write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will pardon his badness and let him send a French fable because he can't write out of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and prepare some work which will be all commy la fo that means all right I am in haste as it is nearly school time.
Bartolome Esteban Murillo paintings
nly know that it was the whim of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let the play end. Unmask and receive my blessing."
But neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom replied in a tone that startled all listeners as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face of Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the breast where now flashed the star of an English earl was the lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty.
"My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more, for even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for the beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife.
The count stood like one changed to stone, and turning to the bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph, "To you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper as mine has done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have by this masked marriage."S. PICKWICK
Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel?
It is full of unruly members.
THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH
But neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom replied in a tone that startled all listeners as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face of Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the breast where now flashed the star of an English earl was the lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty.
"My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more, for even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for the beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife.
The count stood like one changed to stone, and turning to the bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph, "To you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper as mine has done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have by this masked marriage."S. PICKWICK
Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel?
It is full of unruly members.
THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Georgia O'Keeffe paintings
UNCLE went out early the next morning to see what kind of a day it was going to be. There was a reddish gold light over the higher peaks; a light breeze springing up and the branches of the fir trees moved gently to and fro the sun was on its way.
The old man stood and watched the green slopes under the higher peaks gradually growing brighter with the coming day and the dark shadows lifting from the valley, until at first a rosy light filled its hollows, and then the morning gold flooded every height and depth -- the sun had risen.
Uncle wheeled the chair out of the shed ready for the coming journey, and then went in to call the children and tell them what a lovely sunrise it was.
Peter came up at this moment. The goats did not gather round him so trustfully as usual, but seemed to avoid him timidly, for Peter had reached a high pitch of anger and bitterness,
The old man stood and watched the green slopes under the higher peaks gradually growing brighter with the coming day and the dark shadows lifting from the valley, until at first a rosy light filled its hollows, and then the morning gold flooded every height and depth -- the sun had risen.
Uncle wheeled the chair out of the shed ready for the coming journey, and then went in to call the children and tell them what a lovely sunrise it was.
Peter came up at this moment. The goats did not gather round him so trustfully as usual, but seemed to avoid him timidly, for Peter had reached a high pitch of anger and bitterness,
Fabian Perez paintings
mountain every afternoon, higher and higher each day, and came home in the evening with a large bunch of leaves which scented the air with a mingled fragrance as of carnations and thyme, even from afar. He hung it up in the goat shed, and the goats on their return were wild to get at it, for they recognised the smell. But Uncle did not go climbing after rare plants to give the goats the pleasure of eating them without any trouble of finding them; what he gathered was for Little Swan alone, that she might give extra fine milk, and the effect of the extra feeding was shown in the way she flung her head in the air with ever-increasing frolicsomeness, and in the bright glow of her eye.
Clara had now been on the mountain for three weeks. For some days past the grandfather, each morning after carrying her down, had said, "Won't
-305-the little daughter try if she can stand for a minute or two?" And Clara had made the effort in order to please him, but had clung to him as soon as her feet touched the ground, exclaiming that it hurt her so. He let her try a little longer, however, each day.
Clara had now been on the mountain for three weeks. For some days past the grandfather, each morning after carrying her down, had said, "Won't
-305-the little daughter try if she can stand for a minute or two?" And Clara had made the effort in order to please him, but had clung to him as soon as her feet touched the ground, exclaiming that it hurt her so. He let her try a little longer, however, each day.
Federico Andreotti paintings
It was many years since they had had such a splendid summer among the mountains. Day after day there were the same cloudless sky and brilliant sun; the flowers opened wide their fragrant blossoms, and everywhere the eye was greeted with a glow of color; and when the evening came the crimson light fell on mountain peaks and on the great snow-field, till at last the sun sank in a sea of golden flame.
And Heidi never tired of telling Clara of all this, for only higher up could the full glory of the colors be rightly seen; and more particularly did she dwell on the beauty of the spot on the higher slope of the mountain, where the bright golden rock-roses grew in masses, and the blue flowers were in such numbers that the very grass seemed to have turned blue, while near these were whole bushes of the brown blossoms, with their delicious scent, so that you never wanted to move again when you once sat down among them. She had just been expatiating on the flowers as she sat with Clara under the fir trees one evening, and had been telling her again of the wonderful light from the evening sun, when such an irrepressible longing came over her to see it all once more that the jumped up and ran to her grandfather, who was in the shed, calling out almost before she was inside, --
And Heidi never tired of telling Clara of all this, for only higher up could the full glory of the colors be rightly seen; and more particularly did she dwell on the beauty of the spot on the higher slope of the mountain, where the bright golden rock-roses grew in masses, and the blue flowers were in such numbers that the very grass seemed to have turned blue, while near these were whole bushes of the brown blossoms, with their delicious scent, so that you never wanted to move again when you once sat down among them. She had just been expatiating on the flowers as she sat with Clara under the fir trees one evening, and had been telling her again of the wonderful light from the evening sun, when such an irrepressible longing came over her to see it all once more that the jumped up and ran to her grandfather, who was in the shed, calling out almost before she was inside, --
Francisco de Goya paintings
"Grandfather, will you take us out with the goats to-morrow? Oh, it is so lovely up there now!"
"Very well," he answered, "but if I do, the little daughter must do something to please me: she must try her best again this evening to stand on her feet."
Heidi ran back with the good news to Clara, and the latter promised to try her very best as the grandfather wished, for she looked forward immensely to the next day's excursion. Heidi was so pleased and excited that she called out to Peter as soon as she caught sight of him that evening, --
"Peter, Peter, we are all coming out with you to-morrow and are going to stay up there the whole day."
Peter, cross as a bear, grumbled some reply, and lifted his stick to give Greenfinch a blow for no reason in particular, but Greenfinch saw the movement, and with a leap over Snowflake's back she got out of the way, and the stick only hit the air.
Clara and Heidi got into their two fine beds that night full of delightful anticipation of the morrow; they were so full of their plans that they agreed to keep awake all night and talk over
"Very well," he answered, "but if I do, the little daughter must do something to please me: she must try her best again this evening to stand on her feet."
Heidi ran back with the good news to Clara, and the latter promised to try her very best as the grandfather wished, for she looked forward immensely to the next day's excursion. Heidi was so pleased and excited that she called out to Peter as soon as she caught sight of him that evening, --
"Peter, Peter, we are all coming out with you to-morrow and are going to stay up there the whole day."
Peter, cross as a bear, grumbled some reply, and lifted his stick to give Greenfinch a blow for no reason in particular, but Greenfinch saw the movement, and with a leap over Snowflake's back she got out of the way, and the stick only hit the air.
Clara and Heidi got into their two fine beds that night full of delightful anticipation of the morrow; they were so full of their plans that they agreed to keep awake all night and talk over
Monday, May 26, 2008
China oil paintings
obeyed, although there was never anything to carry, and either might well have gone alone; but he did not know how soon he might want to ask Sebastian to do the same service for him. And while these things were going on upstairs, the cook, who had been in the house for years, would stand shaking her head over her pots and kettles, and sighing, "That ever I should live to know such a thing."
For something very strange and mysterious was going on in Herr Sesemann's house. Every morning, when the servants went downstairs, they found the front door wide open, although nobody could be seen far or near to account for it. During the first few days that this happened every room and corner was searched in great alarm, to see if anything had been stolen, for the general idea was that a thief had been hiding in the house and had gone off in the night with the stolen goods; but not a thing in the house had been touched, everything was safe in its place. The door was doubly locked at night, and for further security the wooden bar was fastened across it; but it was no good -- next morning the door again stood open. The servants in their fear and excitement got up extra early, but not so early but what the door had been opened before they got downstairs, although everything and everybody around
For something very strange and mysterious was going on in Herr Sesemann's house. Every morning, when the servants went downstairs, they found the front door wide open, although nobody could be seen far or near to account for it. During the first few days that this happened every room and corner was searched in great alarm, to see if anything had been stolen, for the general idea was that a thief had been hiding in the house and had gone off in the night with the stolen goods; but not a thing in the house had been touched, everything was safe in its place. The door was doubly locked at night, and for further security the wooden bar was fastened across it; but it was no good -- next morning the door again stood open. The servants in their fear and excitement got up extra early, but not so early but what the door had been opened before they got downstairs, although everything and everybody around
oil painting from picture
After parting with the tutor she went down to the study to make sure of the good news. There sure enough was Heidi, sitting beside Clara and reading aloud to her, evidently herself very much surprised, and growing more and more delighted with the new
-155-world that was now open to her as the black letters grew alive and turned into men and things and exciting stories. That same evening Heidi found the large book with the beautiful pictures lying on her plate when she took her place at table, and when she looked questioningly at the grandmother, the latter nodded kindly to her and said, "Yes, it's yours now."
"Mine, to keep always? even when I go home?" said, Heidi, blushing with pleasure.
"Yes, of course, yours for ever," the grandmother assured her. "To-morrow we will begin to read it."
-155-world that was now open to her as the black letters grew alive and turned into men and things and exciting stories. That same evening Heidi found the large book with the beautiful pictures lying on her plate when she took her place at table, and when she looked questioningly at the grandmother, the latter nodded kindly to her and said, "Yes, it's yours now."
"Mine, to keep always? even when I go home?" said, Heidi, blushing with pleasure.
"Yes, of course, yours for ever," the grandmother assured her. "To-morrow we will begin to read it."
wholesale oil painting
crying before she came downstairs, she took her again into her room one day, and drawing the child to her said, "Now tell me, Heidi, what is the matter; are you in trouble?"
But Heidi, afraid if she told the truth that the grandmother would think her ungrateful, and would then leave off being so kind to her, answered, can't tell you."
"Well, could you tell Clara about it?"
"Oh, no, I cannot tell any one," said Heidi in so positive a tone, and with a look of such trouble on her face, that the grandmother felt full of pity for the child.
"Then, dear child, let me tell you what to do: you know that when we are in great trouble, and cannot speak about it to anybody, we must turn to God and pray Him to help, for He can deliver us from every care, that oppresses us. You understand that, do you not? You say your prayers every evening to the dear God in Heaven, and thank Him for all He has done for you, and pray Him to keep you from all evil, do you not?"
"No, I never say any prayers," answered Heidi.
But Heidi, afraid if she told the truth that the grandmother would think her ungrateful, and would then leave off being so kind to her, answered, can't tell you."
"Well, could you tell Clara about it?"
"Oh, no, I cannot tell any one," said Heidi in so positive a tone, and with a look of such trouble on her face, that the grandmother felt full of pity for the child.
"Then, dear child, let me tell you what to do: you know that when we are in great trouble, and cannot speak about it to anybody, we must turn to God and pray Him to help, for He can deliver us from every care, that oppresses us. You understand that, do you not? You say your prayers every evening to the dear God in Heaven, and thank Him for all He has done for you, and pray Him to keep you from all evil, do you not?"
"No, I never say any prayers," answered Heidi.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Edward hopper paintings
But the Scarecrow said, "This is my battle, so lie down beside me and you will not be harmed."
So they all lay upon the ground except the Scarecrow, and he stood up and stretched out his arms. And when the crows saw him they were frightened, as these birds always are by scarecrows, and did not dare to come any nearer. But the King Crow said:
"It is only a stuffed man. I will peck his eyes out."
The King Crow flew at the Scarecrow, who caught it by the head and twisted its neck until it died. And then another crow flew at him, and the Scarecrow twisted its neck also. There were forty crows, and forty times the Scarecrow twisted a neck, until at last all were lying dead beside him. Then he called to his companions to rise, and again they went upon their journey.
So they all lay upon the ground except the Scarecrow, and he stood up and stretched out his arms. And when the crows saw him they were frightened, as these birds always are by scarecrows, and did not dare to come any nearer. But the King Crow said:
"It is only a stuffed man. I will peck his eyes out."
The King Crow flew at the Scarecrow, who caught it by the head and twisted its neck until it died. And then another crow flew at him, and the Scarecrow twisted its neck also. There were forty crows, and forty times the Scarecrow twisted a neck, until at last all were lying dead beside him. Then he called to his companions to rise, and again they went upon their journey.
wholesale oil painting
The soldier with the green whiskers led them through the streets of the Emerald City until they reached the room where the Guardian of the Gates lived. This officer unlocked their spectacles to put them back in his great box, and then he politely opened the gate for our friends.
"Which road leads to the Wicked Witch of the West?" asked Dorothy.
"There is no road," answered the Guardian of the Gates. "No one ever wishes to go that way."
"How, then, are we to find her?" enquired the girl. That will be easy," replied the man, "for when she knows you are in the country of the Winkies she will find you, and make you all her slaves."
"Perhaps not," said the Scarecrow, "for we mean to destroy her."
"Oh, that is different," said the Guardian of the Gates. "No one has ever destroyed her before, so I naturally thought she would make slaves of you, as she has of the rest. But take care; for she is wicked and fierce, and may not allow you to destroy her. Keep to the West, where the sun sets, and you cannot fail to find her."
"Which road leads to the Wicked Witch of the West?" asked Dorothy.
"There is no road," answered the Guardian of the Gates. "No one ever wishes to go that way."
"How, then, are we to find her?" enquired the girl. That will be easy," replied the man, "for when she knows you are in the country of the Winkies she will find you, and make you all her slaves."
"Perhaps not," said the Scarecrow, "for we mean to destroy her."
"Oh, that is different," said the Guardian of the Gates. "No one has ever destroyed her before, so I naturally thought she would make slaves of you, as she has of the rest. But take care; for she is wicked and fierce, and may not allow you to destroy her. Keep to the West, where the sun sets, and you cannot fail to find her."
Saturday, May 24, 2008
wholesale oil painting
I did not like to be deserted this way. So I tried to walk after them. But my feet would not touch the ground, and I was forced to stay on that pole. It was a lonely life to lead, for I had nothing to think of, having been made such a little while before. Many crows and other birds flew into the cornfield, but as soon as they saw me they flew away again, thinking I was a Munchkin; and this pleased me and made me feel that I was quite an important person. By and by an old crow flew near me, and after looking at me carefully he perched upon my shoulder and said:
"`I wonder if that farmer thought to fool me in this clumsy manner. Any crow of sense could see that you are only stuffed with straw.' Then he hopped down at my feet and ate all the corn he wanted. The other birds, seeing he was not harmed by me, came to eat the corn too, so in a short time there was a great flock of them about me.
"I felt sad at this, for it showed I was not such a good Scarecrow after all; but the old crow comforted me, saying, `If you only had brains in your head you would be as good a man as any of them, and a better man than some of them. Brains are the only things worth having in this world, no matter whether one is a crow or a man.'
"`I wonder if that farmer thought to fool me in this clumsy manner. Any crow of sense could see that you are only stuffed with straw.' Then he hopped down at my feet and ate all the corn he wanted. The other birds, seeing he was not harmed by me, came to eat the corn too, so in a short time there was a great flock of them about me.
"I felt sad at this, for it showed I was not such a good Scarecrow after all; but the old crow comforted me, saying, `If you only had brains in your head you would be as good a man as any of them, and a better man than some of them. Brains are the only things worth having in this world, no matter whether one is a crow or a man.'
Friday, May 23, 2008
Decorative painting
mused, his appreciation of Hendon's magnanimous conduct grew to greater and still greater dimensions in his mind, and so also did his gratefulness for it. Presently he said to himself, "Who saves his prince from wounds and possible death-and this he did for me-performs high service; but it is little-it is nothing!-oh, less than nothing!-when "tis weighed against the act of him who saves his prince from shame!"
Hendon made no outcry under the scourge, but bore the heavy blows with soldierly fortitude. This, together with his redeeming the boy by taking his stripes for him, compelled the respect of even that forlorn and degraded mob that was gathered there; and its gibes and hootings died away, and no sound remained but the sound of the falling blows. The stillness that pervaded the place when Hendon found himself once more in the stocks, was in strong contrast with the insulting clamour which had prevailed there so little a while before. The king came softly to Hendon's side, and whispered in his ear:
"Kings cannot ennoble thee, thou good, great soul, for One who is higher than kings hath done that for thee; but a king can confirm thy nobility to men." He picked up the scourge from the ground, touched Hendon's bleeding shoulders lightly with it, and whispered, "Edward of England dubs thee earl!"
Hendon made no outcry under the scourge, but bore the heavy blows with soldierly fortitude. This, together with his redeeming the boy by taking his stripes for him, compelled the respect of even that forlorn and degraded mob that was gathered there; and its gibes and hootings died away, and no sound remained but the sound of the falling blows. The stillness that pervaded the place when Hendon found himself once more in the stocks, was in strong contrast with the insulting clamour which had prevailed there so little a while before. The king came softly to Hendon's side, and whispered in his ear:
"Kings cannot ennoble thee, thou good, great soul, for One who is higher than kings hath done that for thee; but a king can confirm thy nobility to men." He picked up the scourge from the ground, touched Hendon's bleeding shoulders lightly with it, and whispered, "Edward of England dubs thee earl!"
Alfred Gockel paintings
But meantime, Miles Hendon was resolving the difficulty. "Let the child go," said he; "ye heartless dogs, do ye not see how young and frail he is? Let him go-I will take his lashes."
"Marry, a good thought-and thanks for it," said Sir Hugh, his face lighting with a sardonic satisfaction. "Let the little beggar go, and give this fellow a dozen in his place-an honest dozen, well laid on." The king was in the act of entering a fierce protest, but Sir Hugh silenced him with the potent remark, "Yes, speak up, do, and free thy mind-only, mark ye, that for each word you utter he shall get six strokes the more."
Hendon was removed from the stocks, and his back laid bare; and while the lash was applied the poor little king turned away his face and allowed unroyal tears to channel his cheeks unchecked. "Ah, brave good heart," he said to himself, "this loyal deed shall never perish out of my memory. I will not forget it-and neither shall they!" he added, with passion. While he
"Marry, a good thought-and thanks for it," said Sir Hugh, his face lighting with a sardonic satisfaction. "Let the little beggar go, and give this fellow a dozen in his place-an honest dozen, well laid on." The king was in the act of entering a fierce protest, but Sir Hugh silenced him with the potent remark, "Yes, speak up, do, and free thy mind-only, mark ye, that for each word you utter he shall get six strokes the more."
Hendon was removed from the stocks, and his back laid bare; and while the lash was applied the poor little king turned away his face and allowed unroyal tears to channel his cheeks unchecked. "Ah, brave good heart," he said to himself, "this loyal deed shall never perish out of my memory. I will not forget it-and neither shall they!" he added, with passion. While he
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Edward hopper paintings
The next day the foreign ambassadors came, with their gorgeous trains; and Tom, throned in awful state, received them. The splendors of the scene delighted his eye and fired his imagination at first, but the audience was long and dreary, and so were most of the addresses-wherefore, what began as a pleasure, grew into weariness and homesickness by and by. Tom said the words which Hertford put into his mouth from time to time, and tried hard to acquit himself satisfactorily, but he was too new to such things, and too ill at ease to accomplish more than a tolerable success. He looked sufficiently like a king, but he was ill able to feel like one. He was cordially glad when the ceremony was ended.
The larger part of his day was "wasted"-as he termed it, in his own mind-in labors pertaining to his royal office. Even the two hours devoted to certain princely pastimes and recreations were rather a burden to him than otherwise, they were so fettered by restrictions and ceremonious observances. However, he had a private hour with his whipping-boy which he counted clear gain, since he got both entertainment and needful information out of it.
The larger part of his day was "wasted"-as he termed it, in his own mind-in labors pertaining to his royal office. Even the two hours devoted to certain princely pastimes and recreations were rather a burden to him than otherwise, they were so fettered by restrictions and ceremonious observances. However, he had a private hour with his whipping-boy which he counted clear gain, since he got both entertainment and needful information out of it.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Howard Behrens paintings
Bunting put out his hand and clutched hold of the edge of the mantelpiece. He had gone very red, but his wife was far too much concerned with her own feelings and sensations to notice it.
There was a long silence between them. Then he spoke, making a great effort to appear unconcerned.
"And where did it happen?" he asked. "Close to the other one?"
She hesitated, then: "I don't know. He didn't say. But hush!" she added quickly. "Here's Daisy! Don't let's talk of that horror in front of her-like. Besides, I promised Chandler I'd be mum."
And he acquiesced.
"You can be laying the cloth, child, while I go up and clear away the lodger's breakfast." Without waiting for an answer, she hurried upstairs.
Mr. Sleuth had left the greater part of the nice lemon sole untouched. "I don't feel well to-day," he said fretfully. "And, Mrs. Bunting? I should be much obliged if your husband would lend me that paper I saw in his hand. I do not often care to look at the public prints, but I should like to do so now.
There was a long silence between them. Then he spoke, making a great effort to appear unconcerned.
"And where did it happen?" he asked. "Close to the other one?"
She hesitated, then: "I don't know. He didn't say. But hush!" she added quickly. "Here's Daisy! Don't let's talk of that horror in front of her-like. Besides, I promised Chandler I'd be mum."
And he acquiesced.
"You can be laying the cloth, child, while I go up and clear away the lodger's breakfast." Without waiting for an answer, she hurried upstairs.
Mr. Sleuth had left the greater part of the nice lemon sole untouched. "I don't feel well to-day," he said fretfully. "And, Mrs. Bunting? I should be much obliged if your husband would lend me that paper I saw in his hand. I do not often care to look at the public prints, but I should like to do so now.
Filippino Lippi paintings
Still snowing?" he said doubtfully. "How very, very quiet and still London is when under snow, Mrs. Bunting. I have never known it quite as quiet as this morning. Not a sound, outside or in. A very pleasant change from the shouting which sometimes goes on in the Marylebone Road."
"Yes," she said dully. "It's awful quiet to-day - too quiet to my thinking. 'Tain't natural-like."
The outside gate swung to, making a noisy clatter in the still air.
"Is that someone coming in here?" asked Mr. Sleuth, drawing a quick, hissing breath. "Perhaps you will oblige me by going to the window and telling me who it is, Mrs. Bunting?"
And his landlady obeyed him.
"It's only Bunting, sir - Bunting and his daughter."
"Oh! Is that all?"
Mr. Sleuth hurried after her, and she shrank back a little. She had never been quite so near to the lodger before, save on that first day when she had been showing him her rooms.
"Yes," she said dully. "It's awful quiet to-day - too quiet to my thinking. 'Tain't natural-like."
The outside gate swung to, making a noisy clatter in the still air.
"Is that someone coming in here?" asked Mr. Sleuth, drawing a quick, hissing breath. "Perhaps you will oblige me by going to the window and telling me who it is, Mrs. Bunting?"
And his landlady obeyed him.
"It's only Bunting, sir - Bunting and his daughter."
"Oh! Is that all?"
Mr. Sleuth hurried after her, and she shrank back a little. She had never been quite so near to the lodger before, save on that first day when she had been showing him her rooms.
Gustave Clarence Rodolphe Boulanger paintings
> Side by side they stood, looking out of the window. And, as if aware that someone was standing there, Daisy turned her bright face up towards the window and smiled at her stepmother, and at the lodger, whose face she could only dimly discern.
"A very sweet-looking young girl," said Mr. Sleuth thoughtfully. And then he quoted a little bit of poetry, and this took Mrs. Bunting very much aback.
"Wordsworth," he murmured dreamily. "A poet too little read nowadays, Mrs. Bunting; but one with a beautiful feeling for nature, for youth, for innocence."
"Indeed, sir?" Mrs. Bunting stepped back a little. "Your breakfast will be getting cold, sir, if you don't have it now."
He went back to the table, obediently, and sat down as a child rebuked might have done.,
And then his landlady Left him.
"Well?" said Bunting cheerily. "Everything went off quite all right. And Daisy's a lucky girl - that she is! Her Aunt Margaret gave her five shillings."
"A very sweet-looking young girl," said Mr. Sleuth thoughtfully. And then he quoted a little bit of poetry, and this took Mrs. Bunting very much aback.
"Wordsworth," he murmured dreamily. "A poet too little read nowadays, Mrs. Bunting; but one with a beautiful feeling for nature, for youth, for innocence."
"Indeed, sir?" Mrs. Bunting stepped back a little. "Your breakfast will be getting cold, sir, if you don't have it now."
He went back to the table, obediently, and sat down as a child rebuked might have done.,
And then his landlady Left him.
"Well?" said Bunting cheerily. "Everything went off quite all right. And Daisy's a lucky girl - that she is! Her Aunt Margaret gave her five shillings."
Guido Reni paintings
But Daisy did not look as pleased as her father thought she ought to do.
"I hope nothing's happened to Mr. Chandler," she said a little disconsolately. "The very last words he said to me last night was that he'd be there at ten o'clock. I got quite fidgety as the time went on and he didn't come."
"He's been here," said Mrs. Bunting slowly.
"Been here?" cried her husband. "Then why on earth didn't he go and fetch Daisy, if he'd time to come here?"
"He was on the way to his job," his wife answered. "You run along, child, downstairs. Now that you are here you can make yourself useful."
And Daisy reluctantly obeyed. She wondered what it was her stepmother didn't want her to hear.
"I've something to tell you, Bunting."
"Yes?" He looked across uneasily. "Yes, Ellen?"
"There's been another o' those murders. But the police don't want anyone to know about it - not yet. That's why Joe couldn't go over and fetch Daisy. They're all on duty again."
"I hope nothing's happened to Mr. Chandler," she said a little disconsolately. "The very last words he said to me last night was that he'd be there at ten o'clock. I got quite fidgety as the time went on and he didn't come."
"He's been here," said Mrs. Bunting slowly.
"Been here?" cried her husband. "Then why on earth didn't he go and fetch Daisy, if he'd time to come here?"
"He was on the way to his job," his wife answered. "You run along, child, downstairs. Now that you are here you can make yourself useful."
And Daisy reluctantly obeyed. She wondered what it was her stepmother didn't want her to hear.
"I've something to tell you, Bunting."
"Yes?" He looked across uneasily. "Yes, Ellen?"
"There's been another o' those murders. But the police don't want anyone to know about it - not yet. That's why Joe couldn't go over and fetch Daisy. They're all on duty again."
Il'ya Repin paintings
She flew downstairs. "Bunting," she said a little breathlessly, "the lodger would like you just to lend him the Sun."
Bunting handed it over to her. "I've read it through," he observed. "You can tell him that I don't want it back again."
On her way up she glanced down at the pink sheet. Occupying a third of the space was an irregular drawing, and under it was written, in rather large characters:
"We are glad to be able to present our readers with an authentic reproduction of the footprint of the half-worn rubber sole which was almost certainly worn by The Avenger when he committed his double murder ten days ago."
She went into the sitting-room. To her relief it was empty.
"Kindly put the paper down on the table," came Mr. Sleuth's muffled voice from the upper landing.
She did so. "Yes, sir. And Bunting don't want the paper back again, sir. He says he's read it." And then she hurried out of the room.
Bunting handed it over to her. "I've read it through," he observed. "You can tell him that I don't want it back again."
On her way up she glanced down at the pink sheet. Occupying a third of the space was an irregular drawing, and under it was written, in rather large characters:
"We are glad to be able to present our readers with an authentic reproduction of the footprint of the half-worn rubber sole which was almost certainly worn by The Avenger when he committed his double murder ten days ago."
She went into the sitting-room. To her relief it was empty.
"Kindly put the paper down on the table," came Mr. Sleuth's muffled voice from the upper landing.
She did so. "Yes, sir. And Bunting don't want the paper back again, sir. He says he's read it." And then she hurried out of the room.
painting idea
And then there came a sudden, happy thought to Mrs. Bunting. "No," she said slowly, "Doctor Evans wasn't in. I waited, and waited, and waited, but he never came in at all. "Twas my own fault" she added quickly. Even at such a moment as this she told herself that though she had, in a sort of way, a kind of right to lie to her husband, she had no sight to slander the doctor who had been so kind to her years ago. "I ought to have sent him a card yesterday night," she said. "Of course, I was a fool to go all that way, just on chance of finding a doctor in. It stands to reason they've got to go out to people at all times of day."
"I hope they gave you a cup of tea?" he said.
And again she hesitated, debating a point with herself: if the doctor had a decent sort of servant, of course, she, Ellen Bunting, would have been offered a cup of tea, especially if she explained she'd known him a long time.
She compromised. "I was offered some," she said, in a weak, tired voice. "But there, Bunting, I didn't feel as if I wanted it. I'd be very grateful for a cup now - if you'd just make it for me over the ring."
"I hope they gave you a cup of tea?" he said.
And again she hesitated, debating a point with herself: if the doctor had a decent sort of servant, of course, she, Ellen Bunting, would have been offered a cup of tea, especially if she explained she'd known him a long time.
She compromised. "I was offered some," she said, in a weak, tired voice. "But there, Bunting, I didn't feel as if I wanted it. I'd be very grateful for a cup now - if you'd just make it for me over the ring."
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Decorative painting
t was only Joe. Somehow, even Bunting called him "Joe" now, and no longer "Chandler," as he had mostly used to do.
Mrs. Bunting had opened the front door only a very little way. She wasn't going to have any strangers pushing in past her.
To her sharpened, suffering senses her house had become a citadel which must be defended; aye, even if the besiegers were a mighty horde with right on their side. And she was always expecting that first single spy who would herald the battalion against whom her only weapon would be her woman's wit and cunning.
But when she saw who stood there smiling at her, the muscles of her face relaxed, and it lost the tense, anxious, almost agonised look it assumed the moment she turned her back on her husband and stepdaughter.
"Why, Joe," she whispered, for she had left the door open behind her, and Daisy had already begun to read aloud, as her father had bidden her. "Come in, do! It's fairly cold to-night."
A glance at his face had shown her that there was no fresh news.
Mrs. Bunting had opened the front door only a very little way. She wasn't going to have any strangers pushing in past her.
To her sharpened, suffering senses her house had become a citadel which must be defended; aye, even if the besiegers were a mighty horde with right on their side. And she was always expecting that first single spy who would herald the battalion against whom her only weapon would be her woman's wit and cunning.
But when she saw who stood there smiling at her, the muscles of her face relaxed, and it lost the tense, anxious, almost agonised look it assumed the moment she turned her back on her husband and stepdaughter.
"Why, Joe," she whispered, for she had left the door open behind her, and Daisy had already begun to read aloud, as her father had bidden her. "Come in, do! It's fairly cold to-night."
A glance at his face had shown her that there was no fresh news.
Famous artist painting
Joe Chandler walked in, past her, into the little hall. Cold? Well, he didn't feel cold, for he had walked quickly to be the sooner where he was now.
Nine days had gone by since that last terrible occurrence, the double murder which had been committed early in the morning of the day Daisy had arrived in London. And though the thousands of men belonging to the Metropolitan Police - to say nothing of the smaller, more alert body of detectives attached to the Force - were keenly on the alert, not one but had begun to feel that there was nothing to be alert about. Familiarity, even with horror, breeds contempt.
But with the public it was far otherwise. Each day something happened to revive and keep alive the mingled horror and interest this strange, enigmatic series of crimes had evoked. Even the more sober organs of the Press went on attacking, with gathering severity and indignation, the Commissioner of Police; and at the huge demonstration held in Victoria Park two days before violent speeches had also been made against the Home Secretary.
But just now Joe Chandler wanted to forget all that. The little house in the Marylebone Road had become to him an enchanted isle of dreams, to which his thoughts were ever turning when he had a moment to spare from what had grown to be a wearisome, because an
Nine days had gone by since that last terrible occurrence, the double murder which had been committed early in the morning of the day Daisy had arrived in London. And though the thousands of men belonging to the Metropolitan Police - to say nothing of the smaller, more alert body of detectives attached to the Force - were keenly on the alert, not one but had begun to feel that there was nothing to be alert about. Familiarity, even with horror, breeds contempt.
But with the public it was far otherwise. Each day something happened to revive and keep alive the mingled horror and interest this strange, enigmatic series of crimes had evoked. Even the more sober organs of the Press went on attacking, with gathering severity and indignation, the Commissioner of Police; and at the huge demonstration held in Victoria Park two days before violent speeches had also been made against the Home Secretary.
But just now Joe Chandler wanted to forget all that. The little house in the Marylebone Road had become to him an enchanted isle of dreams, to which his thoughts were ever turning when he had a moment to spare from what had grown to be a wearisome, because an
Famous painting
ecretly agreed with one of his pals who had exclaimed, and that within twenty-four hours of the last double crime, "Why, 'twould be easier to find a needle in a rick o' hay than this - bloke!"
And if that had been true then, how much truer it was now - after nine long, empty days had gone by?
Quickly he divested himself of his great-coat, muffler, and low hat. Then he put his finger on his lip, and motioned smilingly to Mrs. Bunting to wait a moment. From where he stood in the hall the father and daughter made a pleasant little picture of contented domesticity. Joe Chandler's honest heart swelled at the sight.
Daisy, wearing the blue-and-white check silk dress about which her stepmother and she had had words, sat on a low stool on the left side of the fire, while Bunting, leaning back in his own comfortable arm-chair, was listening, his hand to his ear, in an attitude - as it was the first time she had caught him doing it, the fact brought a pang to Mrs. Bunting - which showed that age was beginning to creep over the listener.
And if that had been true then, how much truer it was now - after nine long, empty days had gone by?
Quickly he divested himself of his great-coat, muffler, and low hat. Then he put his finger on his lip, and motioned smilingly to Mrs. Bunting to wait a moment. From where he stood in the hall the father and daughter made a pleasant little picture of contented domesticity. Joe Chandler's honest heart swelled at the sight.
Daisy, wearing the blue-and-white check silk dress about which her stepmother and she had had words, sat on a low stool on the left side of the fire, while Bunting, leaning back in his own comfortable arm-chair, was listening, his hand to his ear, in an attitude - as it was the first time she had caught him doing it, the fact brought a pang to Mrs. Bunting - which showed that age was beginning to creep over the listener.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
da vinci painting
But peculiarly true of average English life is the time-worn English proverb as to appearances being deceitful. Mr. and Mrs. Bunting were sitting in a very nice room and in their time - how long ago it now seemed! - both husband and wife had been proud of their carefully chosen belongings. Everything in the room was strong and substantial, and each article of furniture had been bought at a well-conducted auction held in a private house.
Thus the red damask curtains which now shut out the fog-laden, drizzling atmosphere of the Marylebone Road, had cost a mere song, and yet they might have been warranted to last another thirty years. A great bargain also had been the excellent Axminster carpet which covered the floor; as, again, the arm-chair in which Bunting now sat forward, staring into the dull, small fire. In fact, that arm-chair had been an extravagance of Mrs. Bunting. She had wanted her husband to be comfortable after the day's work was done, and she had paid thirty-seven shillings for the chair. Only yesterday Bunting had tried to find a purchaser for it, but the man who had come to look at it, guessing their cruel necessities, had only offered them twelve shillings and sixpence for it; so for the present they were keeping their arm-chair.
Thus the red damask curtains which now shut out the fog-laden, drizzling atmosphere of the Marylebone Road, had cost a mere song, and yet they might have been warranted to last another thirty years. A great bargain also had been the excellent Axminster carpet which covered the floor; as, again, the arm-chair in which Bunting now sat forward, staring into the dull, small fire. In fact, that arm-chair had been an extravagance of Mrs. Bunting. She had wanted her husband to be comfortable after the day's work was done, and she had paid thirty-seven shillings for the chair. Only yesterday Bunting had tried to find a purchaser for it, but the man who had come to look at it, guessing their cruel necessities, had only offered them twelve shillings and sixpence for it; so for the present they were keeping their arm-chair.
mona lisa painting
But man and woman want something more than mere material comfort, much as that is valued by the Buntings of this world. So, on the walls of the sitting-room, hung neatly framed if now rather faded photographs - photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting's various former employers, and of the pretty country houses in which they had separately lived during the long years they had spent in a not unhappy servitude.
But appearances were not only deceitful, they were more than usually deceitful with regard to these un-fortunate people. In spite of their good furniture - that substantial outward sign of respectability which is the last thing which wise folk who fall into trouble try to dispose of - they were almost at the end of their tether. Already they had learnt to go hungry, and they were beginning to learn to go cold. Tobacco, the last thing the sober man foregoes among his comforts, had been given up some time ago by Bunting. And even Mrs. Bunting - prim, prudent, careful woman as she was in her way - had realised what this must mean to him. So well, indeed, had she understood that some days back she had crept out and bought him a packet of Virginia.
But appearances were not only deceitful, they were more than usually deceitful with regard to these un-fortunate people. In spite of their good furniture - that substantial outward sign of respectability which is the last thing which wise folk who fall into trouble try to dispose of - they were almost at the end of their tether. Already they had learnt to go hungry, and they were beginning to learn to go cold. Tobacco, the last thing the sober man foregoes among his comforts, had been given up some time ago by Bunting. And even Mrs. Bunting - prim, prudent, careful woman as she was in her way - had realised what this must mean to him. So well, indeed, had she understood that some days back she had crept out and bought him a packet of Virginia.
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Bunting had been touched - touched as he had not been for years by any woman's thought and love for him. Painful tears had forced themselves into his eyes, and husband and wife had both felt in their odd, unemotional way, moved to the heart.
Fortunately he never guessed - how could he have guessed, with his slow, normal, rather dull mind? - that his poor Ellen had since more than once bitterly regretted that fourpence-ha'penny, for they were now very near the soundless depths which divide those who dwell on the safe tableland of security - those, that is, who are sure of making a respectable, if not a happy, living - and the submerged multitude who, through some lack in themselves, or owing to the conditions under which our strange civilisation has become organised, struggle rudderless till they die in workhouse, hospital, or prison.
Had the Buntings been in a class lower than their own, had they belonged to the great company of human beings technically known to so many of us as the poor, there would have
Fortunately he never guessed - how could he have guessed, with his slow, normal, rather dull mind? - that his poor Ellen had since more than once bitterly regretted that fourpence-ha'penny, for they were now very near the soundless depths which divide those who dwell on the safe tableland of security - those, that is, who are sure of making a respectable, if not a happy, living - and the submerged multitude who, through some lack in themselves, or owing to the conditions under which our strange civilisation has become organised, struggle rudderless till they die in workhouse, hospital, or prison.
Had the Buntings been in a class lower than their own, had they belonged to the great company of human beings technically known to so many of us as the poor, there would have
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been friendly neighbours ready to help them, and the same would have been the case had they belonged to the class of smug, well-meaning, if unimaginative, folk whom they had spent so much of their lives in serving.
There was only one person in the world who might possibly be brought to help them. That was an aunt of Bunting's first wife. With this woman, the widow of a man who had been well-to-do, lived Daisy, Bunting's only child by his first wife, and during the last long two days he had been trying to make up his mind to write to the old lady, and that though he suspected that she would almost certainly retort with a cruel, sharp rebuff.
As to their few acquaintances, former fellow-servants, and so on, they had gradually fallen out of touch with them. There was but one friend who often came to see them in their deep trouble. This was a young fellow named Chandler, under whose grandfather Bunting had been footman years and years ago. Joe Chandler had never gone into service; he was attached to the police; in fact not to put too fine a point upon it, young Chandler was a detective.
There was only one person in the world who might possibly be brought to help them. That was an aunt of Bunting's first wife. With this woman, the widow of a man who had been well-to-do, lived Daisy, Bunting's only child by his first wife, and during the last long two days he had been trying to make up his mind to write to the old lady, and that though he suspected that she would almost certainly retort with a cruel, sharp rebuff.
As to their few acquaintances, former fellow-servants, and so on, they had gradually fallen out of touch with them. There was but one friend who often came to see them in their deep trouble. This was a young fellow named Chandler, under whose grandfather Bunting had been footman years and years ago. Joe Chandler had never gone into service; he was attached to the police; in fact not to put too fine a point upon it, young Chandler was a detective.
leonardo da vinci last supper painting
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[D] The Book is provided for its historical, literary and educational value. The views, opinions and beliefs expressed in it may be offensive or inaccurate, but in any event they are not necessarily those of the School. YOU ACCEPT ALL RISK THAT THE BOOK MAY CONTAIN INFORMATION YOU FIND INAPPROPRIATE OR OFFENSIVE.
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Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Edward Hopper Painting
'He had, perhaps, been in the chamber for hours. The mud from his boots had dried, and he moved with such rapidity on the points of his toes - We saw him running, but we did not hear his steps.'
"I suddenly put an end to this idle chatter - void of any logic, and made a sign to Larsan to listen.
"'There - below; some one is shutting a door.'
"I rise; Larsan follows me; we descend to the ground-floor of the chateau. I lead him to the little semi-circular room under the terrace beneath the window of the 'off-turning' gallery. I point to the door, now closed, open a short time before, under which a shaft of light is visible.
"'The forest-keeper!' says Fred.
"'Come on!' I whisper.
"Prepared - I know not why - to believe that the keeper is the guilty man - I go to the door and rap smartly on it. "Some might think that we were rather late in thinking of the keeper, since our first business, after having found that the murderer had escaped us in the gallery, ought to have been to search everywhere else, - around the chateau, - in the park -
"I suddenly put an end to this idle chatter - void of any logic, and made a sign to Larsan to listen.
"'There - below; some one is shutting a door.'
"I rise; Larsan follows me; we descend to the ground-floor of the chateau. I lead him to the little semi-circular room under the terrace beneath the window of the 'off-turning' gallery. I point to the door, now closed, open a short time before, under which a shaft of light is visible.
"'The forest-keeper!' says Fred.
"'Come on!' I whisper.
"Prepared - I know not why - to believe that the keeper is the guilty man - I go to the door and rap smartly on it. "Some might think that we were rather late in thinking of the keeper, since our first business, after having found that the murderer had escaped us in the gallery, ought to have been to search everywhere else, - around the chateau, - in the park -
William Bouguereau
murderer was coming - she could not prevent his coming again - unknown to her father, unknown to all but to Monsieur Robert Darzac. For he must know it now - perhaps he had known it before! Did he remember that phrase in the Elysee garden: 'Must I commit a crime, then, to win you?' Against whom the crime, if not against the obstacle, against the murderer? 'Ah, I would kill him with my own hand!' And I replied, 'You have not answered my question.' That was the very truth. In truth, in truth, Monsieur Darzac knew the murderer so well that - while wishing to kill him himself - he was afraid I should find him. There could be but two reasons why he had assisted me in my investigation. First, because I forced him to do it; and, second, because she would be the better protected.
"I am in the chamber - her room. I look at her, also at the place where the letter had just now been. She has possessed herself of it; it was evidently intended for her - evidently. How she trembles! - Trembles at the strange story her father is telling her, of the presence of the murderer in her chamber, and of the pursuit. But it is plainly to be seen that she is not wholly satisfied by the assurance given her until she had been told that the murderer, by some incomprehensible means, had been able to elude us.
"I am in the chamber - her room. I look at her, also at the place where the letter had just now been. She has possessed herself of it; it was evidently intended for her - evidently. How she trembles! - Trembles at the strange story her father is telling her, of the presence of the murderer in her chamber, and of the pursuit. But it is plainly to be seen that she is not wholly satisfied by the assurance given her until she had been told that the murderer, by some incomprehensible means, had been able to elude us.
Gustav Klimt Painting
ghost - a lovely phantom. Her father took her in his arms and kissed her passionately, as if he had recovered her after being long lost to him. I dared not question her. He drew her into the room and we followed them, - for we had to know! - The door of the boudoir was open. The terrified faces of the two nurses craned towards us. Mademoiselle Stangerson inquired the meaning of all the disturbance. That she was not in her own room was quite easily explained - quite easily. She had a fancy not to sleep that night in her chamber, but in the boudoir with her nurses, locking the door on them. Since the night of the crime she had experienced feelings of terror, and fears came over her that are easily to be comprehended.
"But who could imagine that on that particular night when he was to come, she would, by a mere chance, determine to shut herself in with her women? Who would think that she would act contrary to her father's wish to sleep in the drawing-room? Who could believe that the letter which had so recently been on the table in her room would no longer be there? He who could understand all this, would have to assume that Mademoiselle Stangerson knew that the
"But who could imagine that on that particular night when he was to come, she would, by a mere chance, determine to shut herself in with her women? Who would think that she would act contrary to her father's wish to sleep in the drawing-room? Who could believe that the letter which had so recently been on the table in her room would no longer be there? He who could understand all this, would have to assume that Mademoiselle Stangerson knew that the
Famous artist painting
But the murderer had been even quicker than I had been. He had heard the grating of the ladder on the wall, and I saw the monstrous back of the man raise itself. I saw his head. Did I really see it? - The candle on the parquet lit up his legs only. Above the height of the table the chamber was in darkness. I saw a man with long hair, a full beard, wild-looking eyes, a pale face, framed in large whiskers, - as well as I could distinguish, and, as I think - red in colour. I did not know the face. That was, in brief, the chief sensation I received from that face in the dim half-light in which I saw it. I did not know it - or, at least, I did not recognise it.
"Now for quick action! It was indeed time for that, for as I was about to place my legs through the window, the man had seen me, had bounded to his feet, had sprung - as I foresaw he would - to the door of the ante-chamber, had time to open it, and fled. But I was already behind him, revolver in hand, shouting 'Help!'
"Now for quick action! It was indeed time for that, for as I was about to place my legs through the window, the man had seen me, had bounded to his feet, had sprung - as I foresaw he would - to the door of the ante-chamber, had time to open it, and fled. But I was already behind him, revolver in hand, shouting 'Help!'
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
painting in oil
Rouletabille's attention; he had already left our omelette and had joined the landlord at the window. I went with him.
A man dressed entirely in green velvet, his head covered with a huntsman's cap of the same colour, was advancing leisurely, lighting a pipe as he walked. He carried a fowling-piece slung at his back. His movements displayed an almost aristocratic ease. He wore eye-glasses and appeared to be about five and forty years of age. His hair as well as his moustache were salt grey. He was remarkably handsome. As he passed near the inn, he hesitated, as if asking himself whether or no he should enter it; gave a glance towards us, took a few whiffs at his pipe, and then resumed his walk at the same nonchalant pace.
Rouletabille and I looked at our host. His flashing eyes, his clenched hands, his trembling lips, told us of the tumultuous feelings by which he was being agitated.
A man dressed entirely in green velvet, his head covered with a huntsman's cap of the same colour, was advancing leisurely, lighting a pipe as he walked. He carried a fowling-piece slung at his back. His movements displayed an almost aristocratic ease. He wore eye-glasses and appeared to be about five and forty years of age. His hair as well as his moustache were salt grey. He was remarkably handsome. As he passed near the inn, he hesitated, as if asking himself whether or no he should enter it; gave a glance towards us, took a few whiffs at his pipe, and then resumed his walk at the same nonchalant pace.
Rouletabille and I looked at our host. His flashing eyes, his clenched hands, his trembling lips, told us of the tumultuous feelings by which he was being agitated.
famous painting
He, also, appeared to be deeply concerned. From his pocket-book he took a piece of white paper as I had seen him do before, and with his scissors, cut out the shape of the neat bootmarks that were on the ground. Then he fitted the new paper pattern with the one he had previously made - the two were exactly alike. Rising, Rouletabille exclaimed again: "The deuce!" Presently he added: "Yet I believe Monsieur Robert Darzac to be an honest man." He then led me on the road to the Donjon Inn, which we could see on the highway, by the side of a small clump of trees. he Donjon Inn was of no imposing appearance; but I like these buildings with their rafters blackened with age and the smoke of their hearths - these inns of the coaching-days, crumbling erections that will soon exist in the memory only. They belong to the bygone days, they are linked with history. They make us think of the Road, of those days when highwaymen rode.
oil painting artist
Defective observation - defective observation! - the examination of the handkerchief, the numberless little round scarlet stains, the impression of drops which I found in the tracks of the footprints, at the moment when they were made on the floor, prove to me that the murderer was not wounded at all. Monsieur Rouletabille, the murderer bled at the nose!"
The great Fred spoke quite seriously. However, I could not refrain from uttering an exclamation.
The reporter looked gravely at Fred, who looked gravely at him. And Fred immediately concluded:
"The man allowed the blood to flow into his hand and handkerchief, and dried his hand on the wall. The fact is highly important," he added, "because there is no need of his being wounded in the hand for him to be the murderer."
Rouletabille seemed to be thinking deeply. After a moment he said
The great Fred spoke quite seriously. However, I could not refrain from uttering an exclamation.
The reporter looked gravely at Fred, who looked gravely at him. And Fred immediately concluded:
"The man allowed the blood to flow into his hand and handkerchief, and dried his hand on the wall. The fact is highly important," he added, "because there is no need of his being wounded in the hand for him to be the murderer."
Rouletabille seemed to be thinking deeply. After a moment he said
China oil paintings
Look!" said Rouletabille, "here again are the footmarks of the escaping man; they skirt the lake here and finally disappear just before this path, which leads to the high road to Epinay. The man continued his flight to Paris."
"What makes you think that?" I asked, "since these footmarks are not continued on the path?"
"What makes me think that? - Why these footprints, which I expected to find!" he cried, pointing to the sharply outlined imprint of a neat boot. "See!" - and he called to Frederic Larsan.
"Monsieur Fred, these neat footprints seem to have been made since the discovery of the crime."
"Yes, young man, yes, they have been carefully made," replied Fred without raising his head. "You see, there are steps that come, and steps that go back."
"And the man had a bicycle!" cried the reporter.
Here, after looking at the marks of the bicycle, which followed, going and coming, the neat footprints, I thought I might intervene.
"What makes you think that?" I asked, "since these footmarks are not continued on the path?"
"What makes me think that? - Why these footprints, which I expected to find!" he cried, pointing to the sharply outlined imprint of a neat boot. "See!" - and he called to Frederic Larsan.
"Monsieur Fred, these neat footprints seem to have been made since the discovery of the crime."
"Yes, young man, yes, they have been carefully made," replied Fred without raising his head. "You see, there are steps that come, and steps that go back."
"And the man had a bicycle!" cried the reporter.
Here, after looking at the marks of the bicycle, which followed, going and coming, the neat footprints, I thought I might intervene.
Modern Art Painting
of truth, so unlikely did it seem to be well founded. One day, however, Monsieur Stangerson, as he was leaving the Academy of Science, announced that the marriage of his daughter and Monsieur Robert Darzac would be celebrated in the privacy of the Chateau du Glandier, as soon as he and his daughter had put the finishing touches to their report summing up their labours on the "Dissociation of Matter." The new household would install itself in the Glandier, and the son-in-law would lend his assistance in the work to which the father and daughter had dedicated their lives.
The scientific world had barely had time to recover from the effect of this news, when it learned of the attempted assassination of Mademoiselle under the extraordinary conditions which we have detailed and which our visit to the chateau was to enable us to ascertain with yet greater precision. I have not
The scientific world had barely had time to recover from the effect of this news, when it learned of the attempted assassination of Mademoiselle under the extraordinary conditions which we have detailed and which our visit to the chateau was to enable us to ascertain with yet greater precision. I have not
van gogh painting
matter, my first care will be to be as simple as is possible. I have no ambition to be an author. An author is always something of a romancer, and God knows, the mystery of The Yellow Room is quite full enough of real tragic horror to require no aid from literary effects. I am, and only desire to be, a faithful "reporter." My duty is to report the event; and I place the event in its frame - that is all. It is only natural that you should know where the things happened.
I return to Monsieur Stangerson. When he bought the estate, fifteen years before the tragedy with which we are engaged occurred, the Chateau du Glandier had for a long time been unoccupied. Another old chateau in the neighbourhood, built in the fourteenth century by Jean de Belmont, was also abandoned, so that that part of the country was very little inhabited. Some small houses on the side of the road leading to Corbeil, an inn, called the "Auberge du Donjon," which offered passing hospitality to waggoners; these were about all to represent civiisation in this out-of-theway part of the country, but a few leagues from the capital.
I return to Monsieur Stangerson. When he bought the estate, fifteen years before the tragedy with which we are engaged occurred, the Chateau du Glandier had for a long time been unoccupied. Another old chateau in the neighbourhood, built in the fourteenth century by Jean de Belmont, was also abandoned, so that that part of the country was very little inhabited. Some small houses on the side of the road leading to Corbeil, an inn, called the "Auberge du Donjon," which offered passing hospitality to waggoners; these were about all to represent civiisation in this out-of-theway part of the country, but a few leagues from the capital.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Gustav Klimt The Kiss
Father and son were really about to drown when they heard a voice like a guitar out of tune call from the sea:
"What is the trouble?"
"It is I and my poor father."
"I know the voice. You are Pinocchio."
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"Exactly. And you?"
"I am the Tunny, your companion in the Shark's stomach."
"And how did you escape?"
"I imitated your example. You are the one who showed me the way and after you went, I followed."
"Tunny, you arrived at the right moment! I implore you, for the love you bear your children, the little Tunnies, to help us, or we are lost!"
"With great pleasure indeed. Hang onto my tail, both of you, and let me lead you. In a twinkling you will be safe on land."
Geppetto and Pinocchio, as you can easily imagine, did not refuse the invitation; indeed, instead of hanging onto the tail, they thought it better to climb on the Tunny's back.
"Are we too heavy?" asked Pinocchio.
"Heavy? Not in the least. You are as light as sea-shells," answered the Tunny, who was as large as a two-year-old horse.
As soon as they reached the shore, Pinocchio was the first to jump to the ground to help his old father. Then he turned to the fish and said to him:
"Dear friend, you have saved my father, and I have not enough words with which to thank you! Allow me to embrace you as a sign of my eternal gratitude
"What is the trouble?"
"It is I and my poor father."
"I know the voice. You are Pinocchio."
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"Exactly. And you?"
"I am the Tunny, your companion in the Shark's stomach."
"And how did you escape?"
"I imitated your example. You are the one who showed me the way and after you went, I followed."
"Tunny, you arrived at the right moment! I implore you, for the love you bear your children, the little Tunnies, to help us, or we are lost!"
"With great pleasure indeed. Hang onto my tail, both of you, and let me lead you. In a twinkling you will be safe on land."
Geppetto and Pinocchio, as you can easily imagine, did not refuse the invitation; indeed, instead of hanging onto the tail, they thought it better to climb on the Tunny's back.
"Are we too heavy?" asked Pinocchio.
"Heavy? Not in the least. You are as light as sea-shells," answered the Tunny, who was as large as a two-year-old horse.
As soon as they reached the shore, Pinocchio was the first to jump to the ground to help his old father. Then he turned to the fish and said to him:
"Dear friend, you have saved my father, and I have not enough words with which to thank you! Allow me to embrace you as a sign of my eternal gratitude
Famous artist painting
It may be the effect of salt water. The sea is fond of playing these tricks."
"Be careful, Marionette, be careful! Don't laugh at me! Woe be to you, if I lose my patience!"
"Well, then, my Master, do you want to know my whole story? Untie my leg and I can tell it to you better."
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The old fellow, curious to know the true story of the Marionette's life, immediately untied the rope which held his foot. Pinocchio, feeling free as a bird of the air, began his tale:
"Know, then, that, once upon a time, I was a wooden Marionette, just as I am today. One day I was about to become a boy, a real boy, but on account of my laziness and my hatred of books, and because I listened to bad companions, I ran away from home. One beautiful morning, I awoke to find myself changed into a donkey--long ears, gray coat, even a tail! What a shameful day for me! I hope you will never experience one like it, dear Master. I was taken to the fair and sold to a Circus Owner, who tried to make me dance and jump through the rings. One night, during a performance, I had a bad fall and became lame. Not knowing what to do with a lame donkey, the Circus Owner sent me to the market place and you bought me."
"Indeed I did! And I paid four cents for you. Now who will return my money to me?"
"But why did you buy me? You bought me to do me harm--to kill me--to make a drumhead out of me!"
"Be careful, Marionette, be careful! Don't laugh at me! Woe be to you, if I lose my patience!"
"Well, then, my Master, do you want to know my whole story? Untie my leg and I can tell it to you better."
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The old fellow, curious to know the true story of the Marionette's life, immediately untied the rope which held his foot. Pinocchio, feeling free as a bird of the air, began his tale:
"Know, then, that, once upon a time, I was a wooden Marionette, just as I am today. One day I was about to become a boy, a real boy, but on account of my laziness and my hatred of books, and because I listened to bad companions, I ran away from home. One beautiful morning, I awoke to find myself changed into a donkey--long ears, gray coat, even a tail! What a shameful day for me! I hope you will never experience one like it, dear Master. I was taken to the fair and sold to a Circus Owner, who tried to make me dance and jump through the rings. One night, during a performance, I had a bad fall and became lame. Not knowing what to do with a lame donkey, the Circus Owner sent me to the market place and you bought me."
"Indeed I did! And I paid four cents for you. Now who will return my money to me?"
"But why did you buy me? You bought me to do me harm--to kill me--to make a drumhead out of me!"
Friday, May 9, 2008
Art Painting
So I don't think any of us said very much about time travelling in the interval between that Thursday and the next, though its odd potentialities ran, no doubt, in most of our minds: its plausibility, that is, its practical incredibleness, the curious possibilities of anachronism and of utter confusion it suggested. For my own part, I was particularly preoccupied with the trick of the model. That I remember discussing with the Medical Man, whom I met on Friday at the Linnaean. He said he had seen a similar thing at Tubingen, and laid considerable stress on the blowing out of the candle. But how the trick was done he could not explain.
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The next Thursday I went again to Richmond--I suppose I was one of the Time Traveller's most constant guests--and, arriving late, found four or five men already assembled in his drawing-room. The Medical Man was standing before the fire with a sheet of paper in one hand and his watch in the other. I looked round for the Time Traveller, and--`It's half-past seven now,' said the Medical Man. `I suppose we'd better have dinner?'
`Where's----?' said I, naming our host.
`You've just come? It's rather odd. He's unavoidably detained. He asks me in this note to lead off with dinner at seven if he's not back. Says he'll explain when he comes.'
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The next Thursday I went again to Richmond--I suppose I was one of the Time Traveller's most constant guests--and, arriving late, found four or five men already assembled in his drawing-room. The Medical Man was standing before the fire with a sheet of paper in one hand and his watch in the other. I looked round for the Time Traveller, and--`It's half-past seven now,' said the Medical Man. `I suppose we'd better have dinner?'
`Where's----?' said I, naming our host.
`You've just come? It's rather odd. He's unavoidably detained. He asks me in this note to lead off with dinner at seven if he's not back. Says he'll explain when he comes.'
Thursday, May 8, 2008
landscape painting sale
marsh and grass instead of wood beneath his feet, the preposterous cold in the midst of summer, Mannix's huge distorted shadow cast brutishly against the impermeable walls by a lantern so sinister that its raging noise had the sound of a typhoon at sea—all these, just for an instant, did indeed contrive to make him feel as if they were adrift at sea in a dazzling, windowless box, ignorant of direction or of any points of the globe, and with no way of telling. What he had had for the last years—wife and child and Home—seemed to have existed in the infinite past or, dreamlike again, never at all, and what he had done yesterday and the day before, moving wearily with this tent from one strange thicket to a stranger swamp and on to the green depths of some even stranger ravine, had no sequence, like the dream of a man delirious with fever. All time and space seemed for a moment to be enclosed within the tent, itself unmoored and unhelmed upon a dark and compassless ocean.
And although Mannix was close by, he felt profoundly alone. Something that had happened that evening—something Mannix had said, or suggested, perhaps not even that, but only a fleeting look in the Captain's face, the old compressed look of torment mingled with seething outrage—something that evening, without a doubt, had added to the great load of his loneliness an almost intolerable burden. And that burden was
And although Mannix was close by, he felt profoundly alone. Something that had happened that evening—something Mannix had said, or suggested, perhaps not even that, but only a fleeting look in the Captain's face, the old compressed look of torment mingled with seething outrage—something that evening, without a doubt, had added to the great load of his loneliness an almost intolerable burden. And that burden was
contemporary landscape painting
The Colonel walked toward the door. He seemed already to have put the incident out of his mind. "Culver," he said, "if you can ever make radio contact with Able Company tell them to push off at 0600. If you can't, send a runner down before dawn to see if they've got the word." He gave the side of his thigh a rather self-conscious, gratuitous slap. "Well, good night."
There was a chorus of "Good night, sirs," and then the Major went out, too, trailed by O'Leary. Culver looked at his watch: it was nearly three o'clock.
Mannix looked up. "You going to try and get some sleep, Tom?"
"I've tried. It's too cold. Anyway, I've got to take over the radio watch from Junior here. What's your name, fellow?"
The boy at the radio looked up with a start, trembling with the cold. "McDonald, sir." He was very young, with pimples and a sweet earnest expression; he had obviously just come from boot camp, for he had practically no hair.
"Well, you can shove off and get some sleep, if you can find a nice warm pile of pine needles somewhere." The boy sleepily put down his earphones and went out, fastening the blackout flap behind him.
There was a chorus of "Good night, sirs," and then the Major went out, too, trailed by O'Leary. Culver looked at his watch: it was nearly three o'clock.
Mannix looked up. "You going to try and get some sleep, Tom?"
"I've tried. It's too cold. Anyway, I've got to take over the radio watch from Junior here. What's your name, fellow?"
The boy at the radio looked up with a start, trembling with the cold. "McDonald, sir." He was very young, with pimples and a sweet earnest expression; he had obviously just come from boot camp, for he had practically no hair.
"Well, you can shove off and get some sleep, if you can find a nice warm pile of pine needles somewhere." The boy sleepily put down his earphones and went out, fastening the blackout flap behind him.
contemporary painting
base—O'Leary had been able to give a long, audible, incredulous whistle, right in the Colonel's face, and elicit from the Colonel an indulgent smile; whereas in the same blackout tent and at virtually the same instant Mannix had murmured, "Thirty-six miles, Jesus Christ," in a tone, however, laden with no more disbelief or no more pain than O'Leary's whistle, and Culver had seen the Colonel's smile vanish, replaced on the fragile little face by a subtle, delicate shadow of irritation.
"You think that's too long?" the Colonel had said to Mannix then, turning slightly. There had been no hostility in his voice, or even reproof; it had, in fact, seemed merely a question candidly stated—although this might have been because two enlisted men had been in the tent, O'Leary, and some wizened, anonymous little private shivering over the radio. It was midsummer, but nights out in the swamps were fiercely, illogically cold, and from where they had set up the operations tent that evening—on a tiny patch of squashy marshland—the dampness seemed to ooze up and around them, clutching their bones in a chill which extra sweaters and field jackets and sweatshirts could not dislodge. A single kerosene pressure-lamp dangled from overhead—roaring like a pint-sized, encapsuled hurricane; it furnished the only light in the tent, and the negligible solace of a candlelike heat. It had the stark, desperate, manufactured quality of the light one imagines in an execution chamber; under it the Colonel's face, in absolute repose as he stared down for a brief, silent instant and awaited Mannix's reply, looked like that of a mannequin, chalky, exquisite, solitary beneath a store-window glare.
"You think that's too long?" the Colonel had said to Mannix then, turning slightly. There had been no hostility in his voice, or even reproof; it had, in fact, seemed merely a question candidly stated—although this might have been because two enlisted men had been in the tent, O'Leary, and some wizened, anonymous little private shivering over the radio. It was midsummer, but nights out in the swamps were fiercely, illogically cold, and from where they had set up the operations tent that evening—on a tiny patch of squashy marshland—the dampness seemed to ooze up and around them, clutching their bones in a chill which extra sweaters and field jackets and sweatshirts could not dislodge. A single kerosene pressure-lamp dangled from overhead—roaring like a pint-sized, encapsuled hurricane; it furnished the only light in the tent, and the negligible solace of a candlelike heat. It had the stark, desperate, manufactured quality of the light one imagines in an execution chamber; under it the Colonel's face, in absolute repose as he stared down for a brief, silent instant and awaited Mannix's reply, looked like that of a mannequin, chalky, exquisite, solitary beneath a store-window glare.
famous salvador dali painting
Captain Mannix, the commanding officer of headquarters company, was Culver's friend and, for five months, his closest one. He was a dark heavy-set Jew from Brooklyn, Culver's age and a reserve, too, who had had to sell his radio store and leave his wife and two children at Home. He had a disgruntled sense of humor which often seemed to bring a spark of relief not just to his own, but to Culver's, feeling of futility and isolation. Mannix was a bitter man and, in his bitterness, sometimes recklessly vocal. He had long ago given up genteel accents, and spoke like a marine. It was easier, he maintained. "Jesus," he whispered again, too loud, "what'll Congress do about this? Look at Billy chop-chop."
Culver said nothing. His tension eased off a bit, and he looked around him. The news had not seemed yet to have spread around the command post; the men began to get up and walk to the chow-line to clean their mess-gear, strolled back beneath the trees and flopped down, heads against their packs, for a moment's nap. The Colonel spoke in an easy, confidential voice with the other battalion commander: the casualties were confined, Culver gathered, to that outfit. It was a battalion made up mostly of young reserves and it was one in which, he suddenly thanked God, he knew no one. Then he heard the Colonel go on calmly—to promise more aid, to promise to come down himself, shortly. "Does it look rough, Luke?" Culver heard him say, "Hold on tight, Luke boy"—all in the cool and leisurely, almost bored, tones of a man to whom the
Culver said nothing. His tension eased off a bit, and he looked around him. The news had not seemed yet to have spread around the command post; the men began to get up and walk to the chow-line to clean their mess-gear, strolled back beneath the trees and flopped down, heads against their packs, for a moment's nap. The Colonel spoke in an easy, confidential voice with the other battalion commander: the casualties were confined, Culver gathered, to that outfit. It was a battalion made up mostly of young reserves and it was one in which, he suddenly thanked God, he knew no one. Then he heard the Colonel go on calmly—to promise more aid, to promise to come down himself, shortly. "Does it look rough, Luke?" Culver heard him say, "Hold on tight, Luke boy"—all in the cool and leisurely, almost bored, tones of a man to whom the
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
mona lisa painting
女子用纤手轻绕垂在耳边的一缕青丝，嫣然一笑道：“为医者，救危济困本是份分之事，怎可奢望日后回报。不过人有百姓，皆是一符号而已，告之又何妨，小女子乃吴郡人氏，姓陆名缇，方才出去的是我的幼弟陆绩。”
陆绩，这个名字听着甚是耳熟，我心念一动，脱口问道：“陆绩——，可是怀橘遗母之陆郎？”
女子黯然点头道：“那已是二年前吾父在庐江太守任上的事了，小弟虽然顽劣好动，但事母至孝，前在寿春宴上见橘物喜，故怀三枚欲归遗母。”
正说话时，舱门吱呀呀的开了一条缝，陆绩先钻了进来，喊道：“阿姐，仪侄来了！”
跟在后面的是一张梭角分明的俊朗脸庞，看这少年的年纪约在十三四岁上下，穿着的衣服很是朴素，头上也仅是草草的挽了个发髻，但在稚气未脱的眉宇之间却流露出一种果断和坚毅的神色。只是这少年比陆绩要大了好几岁，怎会倒成了他的小辈，我不觉有些惊疑。
“膏胶来了！”看到我脸上神情，少年却是神色如常，很是沉着的说道。
陆缇瞅我有些发愣，笑道：“这是陆仪，是我和小绩的堂侄，他自小便失了双亲，一直跟着我们一起过的，你跟着我唤他小仪好了。”
陆绩，这个名字听着甚是耳熟，我心念一动，脱口问道：“陆绩——，可是怀橘遗母之陆郎？”
女子黯然点头道：“那已是二年前吾父在庐江太守任上的事了，小弟虽然顽劣好动，但事母至孝，前在寿春宴上见橘物喜，故怀三枚欲归遗母。”
正说话时，舱门吱呀呀的开了一条缝，陆绩先钻了进来，喊道：“阿姐，仪侄来了！”
跟在后面的是一张梭角分明的俊朗脸庞，看这少年的年纪约在十三四岁上下，穿着的衣服很是朴素，头上也仅是草草的挽了个发髻，但在稚气未脱的眉宇之间却流露出一种果断和坚毅的神色。只是这少年比陆绩要大了好几岁，怎会倒成了他的小辈，我不觉有些惊疑。
“膏胶来了！”看到我脸上神情，少年却是神色如常，很是沉着的说道。
陆缇瞅我有些发愣，笑道：“这是陆仪，是我和小绩的堂侄，他自小便失了双亲，一直跟着我们一起过的，你跟着我唤他小仪好了。”
floral oil painting
孙策脸色倏变，大声喝令道：“传令诸军，全力向西北方向增援。陈武，这里就交给你了！”
说罢，一拔马头，当先向着喊杀声处冲了过去。
……
如同一阵席卷天地的狂热风暴，拥挤不堪的战场上刹那间变得空空荡荡，除了我和陈武外，一切又都复归平静。
轰轰烈烈的战场，永远是王者的天下。
象我这样的小卒，就连生命的最后一战都是寂寞的。
“你是要我动手，还是自已了断！”夜风撩动，陈武骑上高高的马上，冷冷的看着我，赤红的眼睛里闪动着不忿，连他的声音也是冰冷的，在陈武冰冷的眼中，连遭重创的我已然是一具了无生趣的尸体了，甚至于根本不值得他再出手。
我费力的举起刀，怆然一笑道：“自戳，我高宠还没有学会呢，来吧，让我们痛痛快快的撕杀一回吧！”
陈武轻蔑道：“与你这等贱种对战，实是我等武将之耻呀！”
此刻的我已了无牵挂，本欲求痛快一死，但陈武的话却深深的刺入我的心口，贱种——，不错，我高宠家奴出身，乃是一个无足轻重的小卒，在志在斩将夺旗的陈武眼中，当然是不屑一顾的贱种，但是他忘了，我虽然出身卑贱，但一样也有尊严和荣耀。
说罢，一拔马头，当先向着喊杀声处冲了过去。
……
如同一阵席卷天地的狂热风暴，拥挤不堪的战场上刹那间变得空空荡荡，除了我和陈武外，一切又都复归平静。
轰轰烈烈的战场，永远是王者的天下。
象我这样的小卒，就连生命的最后一战都是寂寞的。
“你是要我动手，还是自已了断！”夜风撩动，陈武骑上高高的马上，冷冷的看着我，赤红的眼睛里闪动着不忿，连他的声音也是冰冷的，在陈武冰冷的眼中，连遭重创的我已然是一具了无生趣的尸体了，甚至于根本不值得他再出手。
我费力的举起刀，怆然一笑道：“自戳，我高宠还没有学会呢，来吧，让我们痛痛快快的撕杀一回吧！”
陈武轻蔑道：“与你这等贱种对战，实是我等武将之耻呀！”
此刻的我已了无牵挂，本欲求痛快一死，但陈武的话却深深的刺入我的心口，贱种——，不错，我高宠家奴出身，乃是一个无足轻重的小卒，在志在斩将夺旗的陈武眼中，当然是不屑一顾的贱种，但是他忘了，我虽然出身卑贱，但一样也有尊严和荣耀。
painting idea
陈武策马上前，大喝道：“哼，你这卑鄙无耻的家伙，哪用得着我家主公动手，今日我陈武便结果了你！”
我轻抚胸口，强咽下一口淤血，反诘道：“将重在谋，而不在勇，陈武，汝不过徒呈匹夫之勇，有何值得炫耀的。”
这时，在孙策身后护卫的众亲兵也已赶到，一时刀枪并举将我团团围了起来。
孙策听我这话，眼中精光闪动，催问道：“太史慈现在何处？”
我的脸上露出一丝嘲讽的微笑，道：“孙将军勇冠三军，智谋无双，岂不闻有古兵法中有一计叫做：金蝉脱壳。”
孙策动容道：“你是说——。”
我沉声道：“不错我就是那褪下的壳，而真正的蝉此刻已快要振翅而飞了！”
象是在呼应我的话一般，西北方向喊杀声复起，夹杂着凄厉至极的惨呼，我知道这是太史慈正在挥师突围，那个方向正是孙静蒋钦两军的结合部，这两股敌军的战斗力不会很强，而敌军主帅孙策此时又被我缠住，凭着太史慈的能力，冲出去并不是全无可能。
我轻抚胸口，强咽下一口淤血，反诘道：“将重在谋，而不在勇，陈武，汝不过徒呈匹夫之勇，有何值得炫耀的。”
这时，在孙策身后护卫的众亲兵也已赶到，一时刀枪并举将我团团围了起来。
孙策听我这话，眼中精光闪动，催问道：“太史慈现在何处？”
我的脸上露出一丝嘲讽的微笑，道：“孙将军勇冠三军，智谋无双，岂不闻有古兵法中有一计叫做：金蝉脱壳。”
孙策动容道：“你是说——。”
我沉声道：“不错我就是那褪下的壳，而真正的蝉此刻已快要振翅而飞了！”
象是在呼应我的话一般，西北方向喊杀声复起，夹杂着凄厉至极的惨呼，我知道这是太史慈正在挥师突围，那个方向正是孙静蒋钦两军的结合部，这两股敌军的战斗力不会很强，而敌军主帅孙策此时又被我缠住，凭着太史慈的能力，冲出去并不是全无可能。
van gogh painting
深秋的寒风吹过我头上的盔缨和大麾，刺入热血沸腾的躯体，有一种让人猛醒的悲凉。透过敌阵中零星的火光，我远远的望过去，只瞧见孙策孑然骑在马上，象一尊屡经风吹雨打而不倒的铁塔，依旧不改它傲然挺立的身姿。
孙策，这个绰号“小霸王”的人，绝对是一个值得尊敬的对手，如果不是我生就的这份傲然不群的脾气，也许我能与他成为知已之交，又或许我们本就是同一类的人，此生只能成为惺惺相惜的对手存在。
暮色苍茫中，孙策瞧见一骑飞奔而来，看外罩的大麾与太史慈的穿戴甚是相似，遂大声喝问道：“太史子义可是来降乎？”
鏊战了整整一天，我的喉咙早已嘶哑，只得尽力模仿太史慈的声音，道：“我闻孙郎用兵如神，此番重兵追杀，为的是擒了我主，今我主早已脱困离去，汝可失望乎？”
孙策哈哈大笑，道：“刘繇，一无能庸才也，弃之何妨。唯太史子义真英雄也，今为吾困，何不早早归降？”孙策果然是豪杰之士，两军对峙的战阵之上，竟还能出言赞许敌将勇武，就凭着这份气度胸襟已是让人折服了。
孙策，这个绰号“小霸王”的人，绝对是一个值得尊敬的对手，如果不是我生就的这份傲然不群的脾气，也许我能与他成为知已之交，又或许我们本就是同一类的人，此生只能成为惺惺相惜的对手存在。
暮色苍茫中，孙策瞧见一骑飞奔而来，看外罩的大麾与太史慈的穿戴甚是相似，遂大声喝问道：“太史子义可是来降乎？”
鏊战了整整一天，我的喉咙早已嘶哑，只得尽力模仿太史慈的声音，道：“我闻孙郎用兵如神，此番重兵追杀，为的是擒了我主，今我主早已脱困离去，汝可失望乎？”
孙策哈哈大笑，道：“刘繇，一无能庸才也，弃之何妨。唯太史子义真英雄也，今为吾困，何不早早归降？”孙策果然是豪杰之士，两军对峙的战阵之上，竟还能出言赞许敌将勇武，就凭着这份气度胸襟已是让人折服了。
leonardo da vinci mona lisa
我摇头答道：“子义将军，擒贼的确势不可能，不过你我可以做出虚攻的假象，掩护主力突围。适才战事初起，孙策军上下士气高昂，戒备必紧，故将军截杀孙策无功而返矣。今孙策取胜在望，又以重兵围困，难免会心中骄满，我若遣一支军全力猛冲，可杀它个措手不及，如此则敌必混乱。”
太史慈喜道：“好计谋！”
我道：“此计虽好，但若无老天相助，亦不可行。”
昨天晚上我与太史慈巡营时天上弯月时隐时现，今夜又不知是如何的光景，我暗自祷告着，希望天空中厚厚的乌云压下来，将四周的一切都遮挡得漆黑一片才好，一天的恶战下来，冲天的大火将一切都烧成了灰烬，孙策的兵卒一样也已疲惫不堪了，这个时候是不可能备齐晚上用来照明的火把的。
乘着夜色偷袭，这便是我的设想。
……
双方就这样在沉默中对峙着，天色开始暗下来了，围困的敌兵渐渐的噪动起来，从中午接战到现在，士卒们的忍耐力已到了极限，由疲乏和饥饿引发的混乱会从战斗力最弱的部队开始，慢慢的蔓延到整支军队。
太史慈喜道：“好计谋！”
我道：“此计虽好，但若无老天相助，亦不可行。”
昨天晚上我与太史慈巡营时天上弯月时隐时现，今夜又不知是如何的光景，我暗自祷告着，希望天空中厚厚的乌云压下来，将四周的一切都遮挡得漆黑一片才好，一天的恶战下来，冲天的大火将一切都烧成了灰烬，孙策的兵卒一样也已疲惫不堪了，这个时候是不可能备齐晚上用来照明的火把的。
乘着夜色偷袭，这便是我的设想。
……
双方就这样在沉默中对峙着，天色开始暗下来了，围困的敌兵渐渐的噪动起来，从中午接战到现在，士卒们的忍耐力已到了极限，由疲乏和饥饿引发的混乱会从战斗力最弱的部队开始，慢慢的蔓延到整支军队。
Modern Art Painting
其实也简单,伊朗不是已经开始做了么?
弱化对美圆的依赖,打破几十年来美圆结算的习惯,改用欧元和日圆或者外汇一揽子方案,边缘化美国.
美国牛比就是因为美圆强势,等美圆象日圆一样汇率时,你看看世界上还有几个国家会理它.我早说过了，韩国除了意淫和泡菜就没别的东西了。这帮吃泡菜长大的猴子长期营养不良形成了大脑方面的发育障碍，属于智障物种，根本不放在眼里（但不代表轻敌）！
另外，我想说的是，韩国为什么如此嚣张，想想看，根源在哪里！我的看法是——都是被中国这帮盲目追逐“寒流”、天天痴迷于韩剧的无知人士给惯出来的！！！楼上的泡菜是四川的好，并非棒子的专利。棒子每年要起码向四川新繁购买25吨的泡菜！少看点韩剧，骗人的！棒子桌上泡菜70~80%都是中国造！韩棒子就是脆弱啊,你看咱天朝人这几天被西方骂惨了,咱也抗议了,但都有理有节,国内也没狂叫要和法国开战啊,什么叫大国?胸怀也要大!日本队来了我照样给他们加油在那儿升五星红旗的时候，胡哥会去的；属国南韩一看胡哥访日，也想邀请胡哥顺便去看看，可能吗？你李明博赶紧来朝拜胡哥吧！
弱化对美圆的依赖,打破几十年来美圆结算的习惯,改用欧元和日圆或者外汇一揽子方案,边缘化美国.
美国牛比就是因为美圆强势,等美圆象日圆一样汇率时,你看看世界上还有几个国家会理它.我早说过了，韩国除了意淫和泡菜就没别的东西了。这帮吃泡菜长大的猴子长期营养不良形成了大脑方面的发育障碍，属于智障物种，根本不放在眼里（但不代表轻敌）！
另外，我想说的是，韩国为什么如此嚣张，想想看，根源在哪里！我的看法是——都是被中国这帮盲目追逐“寒流”、天天痴迷于韩剧的无知人士给惯出来的！！！楼上的泡菜是四川的好，并非棒子的专利。棒子每年要起码向四川新繁购买25吨的泡菜！少看点韩剧，骗人的！棒子桌上泡菜70~80%都是中国造！韩棒子就是脆弱啊,你看咱天朝人这几天被西方骂惨了,咱也抗议了,但都有理有节,国内也没狂叫要和法国开战啊,什么叫大国?胸怀也要大!日本队来了我照样给他们加油在那儿升五星红旗的时候，胡哥会去的；属国南韩一看胡哥访日，也想邀请胡哥顺便去看看，可能吗？你李明博赶紧来朝拜胡哥吧！
Decorative painting
据韩联社6日电：有主张称，胡锦涛出访日本意味着今后中国在中韩关系与中日关系中将更重视后者，因此有必要面对即将到来的中日“新蜜月时代”制定应对政策。
韩国总统李明博将于下月下旬出访中国，之后将为出席北京奥运会开幕式和出席亚欧峰会（ASEM）等接连访问中国。
韩国政府认为，只有李明博单方面访华似乎有些不妥，因此向胡锦涛提出回访邀请。据悉，胡锦涛为了向日本展示“笑脸”，拒绝了韩国政府提出的一并访韩邀请。因为对于日本来讲，那等同于给日本“泼冷水”。什么 又要给倭寇好脸色
每次都要付出代价的
当年法国从中国拿了多少订单
结果我们换来了什么? 中国已经冷落日本好长时间了，小日本早就学乖了，李明博就一SB 就一个二。
看吧小日本的手机很快就会登陆中国了。
再也不是什么三星 LG了。
韩国总统李明博将于下月下旬出访中国，之后将为出席北京奥运会开幕式和出席亚欧峰会（ASEM）等接连访问中国。
韩国政府认为，只有李明博单方面访华似乎有些不妥，因此向胡锦涛提出回访邀请。据悉，胡锦涛为了向日本展示“笑脸”，拒绝了韩国政府提出的一并访韩邀请。因为对于日本来讲，那等同于给日本“泼冷水”。什么 又要给倭寇好脸色
每次都要付出代价的
当年法国从中国拿了多少订单
结果我们换来了什么? 中国已经冷落日本好长时间了，小日本早就学乖了，李明博就一SB 就一个二。
看吧小日本的手机很快就会登陆中国了。
再也不是什么三星 LG了。
Monday, May 5, 2008
painting idea
南朝鲜人自卑还表现在虽然被美国人、日本人欺负，但是却不敢反抗！几乎没有反抗，这一点北朝鲜倒是做得很好，在金日成的领导下，也是敢跟日寇战斗的，虽然没有打过大胜仗，收复什么失地，但是斗志可佳。大家发现没有，南朝鲜人受了欺负，有人可以自焚，但是却没有人敢反抗、敢斗争。美国人在日本犯了罪，日本人还是要反抗的，包括司法也是要介入的，但是我们很难找到美军在南朝鲜恶劣犯罪的记录，为什么？难道是美军严守纪律吗？不是，答案是否定的，韩国人看美国人就像看到了上帝！就像狗看到了主人一样，随便怎么干都行。据记载，南朝鲜当局为了减少美军的性犯罪，自1990年诱骗了5000多名少女为美军提供慰安服务。
极度的自卑，需要极度的自大来满足！
于是南朝鲜国民陷入了极度的幻想之中！因为他们发现西方人对亚洲的历史是模糊的，甚至是抵触的，因为西方人根本就不愿了解异教徒黄种人的中国曾经推动了世界的文明进步，因为他们不愿意看到他们的所谓上帝是多么的渺小和愚昧。所以南朝鲜人可以毫无忌惮的剽窃，因为剽窃来得一定是假的，因为谎言更符合西方人的胃口，但是南朝鲜人深信，谎言说了一千遍就可以变成真理。就可以抚平自己受伤自卑丑陋的灵魂。
极度的自卑，需要极度的自大来满足！
于是南朝鲜国民陷入了极度的幻想之中！因为他们发现西方人对亚洲的历史是模糊的，甚至是抵触的，因为西方人根本就不愿了解异教徒黄种人的中国曾经推动了世界的文明进步，因为他们不愿意看到他们的所谓上帝是多么的渺小和愚昧。所以南朝鲜人可以毫无忌惮的剽窃，因为剽窃来得一定是假的，因为谎言更符合西方人的胃口，但是南朝鲜人深信，谎言说了一千遍就可以变成真理。就可以抚平自己受伤自卑丑陋的灵魂。
van gogh painting
在弗蒙特要塞，最让人惊叹的是法国人修造的全钢制的地面堡垒，每个直径在1.5米到2米之间，全部用厚达数厘米的钢板制成。这样的钢制堡垒分布在要塞方圆数十米的区域或直接布置在要塞塞顶，宛如一个个钉在马其诺防线里的楔子。除了这些钢制堡垒，要塞其他的军用设施也都被坚固的甲胄包裹着：设置在地面15米以上的观察哨是用带孔的钢板制成的；大炮一半被嵌在地下工事里，只留有炮筒的部分露在外面；弹药库放置在底下隧道里，厚厚的铁门把守在入口处……这可能是要塞留给人们印象最深的一点，当年躲在里面的弗洛里安·皮顿肯定从来就没担心这样的防线会被德国人攻破，而如今他的墓地就静静地躺在这里，从这里站起来并继续向前挺进的却是德国人。
1940年5月10日，法国还依然是凡尔赛和约的胜利者，可一个星期之后，它已经成了一个被打败的束手无策的国家。这种巨大的转变仅仅源于德军在战术上采取的一次小小的机动：绕过马其诺防线，选择从色当山区突破，直插到法国人的背后。
5月10日清晨，在从色当到伊尔松80公里的战线上，德军大批装甲部队包括2000辆坦克和数千辆军车同时向法国境内突入。德军只是受到了法国骑兵的轻微抵抗，因为法国人从来就不认为德军的坦克部队能够通过这里地势险峻的山区，因此根本就没有真正意义上的布防。
1940年5月10日，法国还依然是凡尔赛和约的胜利者，可一个星期之后，它已经成了一个被打败的束手无策的国家。这种巨大的转变仅仅源于德军在战术上采取的一次小小的机动：绕过马其诺防线，选择从色当山区突破，直插到法国人的背后。
5月10日清晨，在从色当到伊尔松80公里的战线上，德军大批装甲部队包括2000辆坦克和数千辆军车同时向法国境内突入。德军只是受到了法国骑兵的轻微抵抗，因为法国人从来就不认为德军的坦克部队能够通过这里地势险峻的山区，因此根本就没有真正意义上的布防。
leonardo da vinci mona lisa
法国社会党参议员梅朗雄直斥无国界记者收受美国右派资金，以维护人权之名进行反华活动，这一言论一出，立即掀起轩然大波，再次引发人们对无国界记者的中立性表示质疑。
“我不同意杯葛北京奥运及反华宣传”这是梅朗雄4月初在网志上发表的一篇文章，“我认为，抵制奥运会是对中国人民的无理侵害和侮辱。这个锅里散发出一种令人恶心的种族主义臭味！”梅朗雄质疑针对京奥的示威活动，美其名是为了人权，骨子里却是反华。特别是他对示威活动的主要组织者梅纳德的指责，直斥他就是为美国的利益服务。RSF声称要捍卫世界各地记者的权益，实质上却只对美国讨厌的国家持特别的“关心”。梅朗雄进而质问：“当美国将酷刑合法化时，他(梅勒尔)有办过任何抗议行动吗？他又有为关塔那摩的囚犯办过一次示威抗议吗？”对于无国界记者的虚伪的中立性，法国《费加罗报》记者泽穆尔更是在电视上指控其“受雇于中情局”。 从无国界记者的财政来源上看，无国界记者长期接受美国NED、CFFC以及“台湾民主基金会”的捐助，而NED接受美国国会拨款，在各地“宣扬民主”，常被质疑者视作中情局的门面机构。NED首任主席Allen Weinstein1991年便曾明言：“我们做的很多事，都是中情局25年前秘密从事
“我不同意杯葛北京奥运及反华宣传”这是梅朗雄4月初在网志上发表的一篇文章，“我认为，抵制奥运会是对中国人民的无理侵害和侮辱。这个锅里散发出一种令人恶心的种族主义臭味！”梅朗雄质疑针对京奥的示威活动，美其名是为了人权，骨子里却是反华。特别是他对示威活动的主要组织者梅纳德的指责，直斥他就是为美国的利益服务。RSF声称要捍卫世界各地记者的权益，实质上却只对美国讨厌的国家持特别的“关心”。梅朗雄进而质问：“当美国将酷刑合法化时，他(梅勒尔)有办过任何抗议行动吗？他又有为关塔那摩的囚犯办过一次示威抗议吗？”对于无国界记者的虚伪的中立性，法国《费加罗报》记者泽穆尔更是在电视上指控其“受雇于中情局”。 从无国界记者的财政来源上看，无国界记者长期接受美国NED、CFFC以及“台湾民主基金会”的捐助，而NED接受美国国会拨款，在各地“宣扬民主”，常被质疑者视作中情局的门面机构。NED首任主席Allen Weinstein1991年便曾明言：“我们做的很多事，都是中情局25年前秘密从事
Saturday, May 3, 2008
fine art oil painting
第一幅估计是小日本侦察用的
第二幅好象是日本的豆坦克，小日本资源缺乏，只能造一些轻型，超轻型坦克
第三幅是小日本的伪装，不是真的坦克
第四幅应该是德国的坦克第一个：阻空气球，用于干扰敌军轰炸机视线或阻碍其航线，降低其轰炸精度；因为没看到气球细部特征，也有气象气球的可能性。
第二个：意大利制造CV30/33超轻型坦克，从图片上看后面还有一个拖车，说明是改装过的喷火坦克。
第三个：我军自制的雷诺FT17坦克假目标。
第四个：被日军俘获的德制1号坦克，应该是在南京城防战之后拍摄的。本人搞的怪东西多了,像《风语者》中那种铁皮单兵碉堡，遇到巴祖卡和火焰喷射器时的生存率为零。还有那个二式步枪，枪管可分成两截，实战表现很差。搞歪把子倒是别出心裁地想出了弹斗供弹的方式，结果后来因为这种方式又麻烦又不可靠，只好从中国缴获的ZB26那里盗版出96式和99式。
第二幅好象是日本的豆坦克，小日本资源缺乏，只能造一些轻型，超轻型坦克
第三幅是小日本的伪装，不是真的坦克
第四幅应该是德国的坦克第一个：阻空气球，用于干扰敌军轰炸机视线或阻碍其航线，降低其轰炸精度；因为没看到气球细部特征，也有气象气球的可能性。
第二个：意大利制造CV30/33超轻型坦克，从图片上看后面还有一个拖车，说明是改装过的喷火坦克。
第三个：我军自制的雷诺FT17坦克假目标。
第四个：被日军俘获的德制1号坦克，应该是在南京城防战之后拍摄的。本人搞的怪东西多了,像《风语者》中那种铁皮单兵碉堡，遇到巴祖卡和火焰喷射器时的生存率为零。还有那个二式步枪，枪管可分成两截，实战表现很差。搞歪把子倒是别出心裁地想出了弹斗供弹的方式，结果后来因为这种方式又麻烦又不可靠，只好从中国缴获的ZB26那里盗版出96式和99式。
Jack Vettriano Painting
《社会记录》的第一期节目，开播于5年前的2003年5月1日，其时恰是央视新闻频道试播出的第一天；最后一期节目，播出于2008年春节前的1月31日，也正是新闻频道开播5周年的前夕，这期名为《验房师的故事》的节目甚至连制作完毕的下集都未能播出，栏目就戛然而止。屈指算来，这个日播深度报道栏目，在CCTV新闻频道上播出了1000余期节目，一共存活了1730天。
一位知悉内情的央视内部人士说，按照央视公示的栏目生存规则，每个季度都会有综合指标排名，这个指标包括收视率、专家意见和观众满意度等综合数据，再加上相应的播出时段系数，成为央视考评每个频道节目的决定性依据。进入频道倒数三名范围内的，会被黄牌警告，连续两次获警告，栏目会被拿下。
央视官方也自始至终没有公开宣布过《社会记录》撤下的原因。从记者获得的新闻频道开播5年来季度考核综合指标数据来看，频道20个左右节目中，社会记录几乎每次都在前十名之内。
一位知悉内情的央视内部人士说，按照央视公示的栏目生存规则，每个季度都会有综合指标排名，这个指标包括收视率、专家意见和观众满意度等综合数据，再加上相应的播出时段系数，成为央视考评每个频道节目的决定性依据。进入频道倒数三名范围内的，会被黄牌警告，连续两次获警告，栏目会被拿下。
央视官方也自始至终没有公开宣布过《社会记录》撤下的原因。从记者获得的新闻频道开播5年来季度考核综合指标数据来看，频道20个左右节目中，社会记录几乎每次都在前十名之内。
Van Gogh Painting
其它人物像刘亦菲演的那个“金燕子”，我看跟白发魔女一样，也是个鸡肋，不过叫花瓶更贴切一些了，我想可能是因为有李和成这两位巨星的原因吧，导演只能把主要的描述放在这两位身上了！整个影片看完就跟感觉看了一部西式的史诗魔幻电影，唯一有点中国色彩的就是齐天大圣——孙悟空了和他那个终极武器——金箍棒了。整个影片也就这个可以找到西游记的影子，别的好像都是瞎编乱造了！
不过，其中有几段武打场景还是很看头的，最有亮点的就是李和成在寺庙里的那场打戏，可以说是两位巨星第一次的对垒，从打斗上看，导演有意在这方面表现，可以说发挥的很好，当然结果是不分胜负，但我的感觉成大哥有点儿力不从心了，哈哈！
看完整部电影，回味一下就发现，这部电影不是给中国人看，而是中国文化的一种西式宣传片。通过西方人的观念和视角阐述战神——孙悟空和金箍棒。从这一点上，我个人还是非常认可的，毕竟东西方的文化、观念的差异造成了相互之间的了解出现了偏差甚至误解，这样的不幸已经发生了多次了！我们确实有很值得骄傲的文明，但这些文明，别人不理解甚至曲解对我们来说就是可悲了！每次看到西方的文化界描写中国的作品，大家都以批评、指正的角度来指责，这首先是不对称的，也有点儿太护犊子了，呵呵！我们需要以开放和积极的态度来让西方来接受我们，孙悟空在
不过，其中有几段武打场景还是很看头的，最有亮点的就是李和成在寺庙里的那场打戏，可以说是两位巨星第一次的对垒，从打斗上看，导演有意在这方面表现，可以说发挥的很好，当然结果是不分胜负，但我的感觉成大哥有点儿力不从心了，哈哈！
看完整部电影，回味一下就发现，这部电影不是给中国人看，而是中国文化的一种西式宣传片。通过西方人的观念和视角阐述战神——孙悟空和金箍棒。从这一点上，我个人还是非常认可的，毕竟东西方的文化、观念的差异造成了相互之间的了解出现了偏差甚至误解，这样的不幸已经发生了多次了！我们确实有很值得骄傲的文明，但这些文明，别人不理解甚至曲解对我们来说就是可悲了！每次看到西方的文化界描写中国的作品，大家都以批评、指正的角度来指责，这首先是不对称的，也有点儿太护犊子了，呵呵！我们需要以开放和积极的态度来让西方来接受我们，孙悟空在
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