Entries from January 2005 ↓

We discussed a great question that night. No theme before a debating club–such as the choice between Peace and War, between Society or Solitude, or any of those grand abstract antitheses that agitate nations–was ever more completely exhausted in all its details than the question–Whether we should leave England, or remain at home, and go boldly into public, with the determination to live down the persecutions of the dwarf.

Peck’s Compendium of Fun, by George W. Peck. Comprising the Choicest Gems of Wit, Humor, Sarcasm and Pathos of America’s Favorite Humorist. I want to write more on this one someday, but for now, know that Peck was (1) a newspaper editor, (2) the creator of Peck’s Bad Boy, (3) the mayor of Milwaukee, and (4) the governor of Wisconsin.

Mr. Fortescue, an Andean Romance, by William Westall. An adventure novel with lost villages, hidden diamonds, caballeros and Kidd!

Mary Anderson, by J. M. Farrar. A bit of a fluff piece on an actress who took Britain by storm in the 1880’s. There is an arts center in Indiana named for her.

The Children’s Hour, Vol 3: Stories from the Classics, edited by Eva March Tappan. Stories (generally Greek myths and folk-tales) by people such as Nathaniel Hawthorne. With wonderful illustrations. I’m really proud of how this one turned out, thanks to Bill’s wonderful scans of the illos.

The courage, the reaching-up, the steadfastness that is in them is in the hearts of the people.

If the President does not know us yet in America, does not know McAdoo as a representative American, we will thunder on the doors of the White House until he does.

My impression is he would be out in the yard by the gate asking us to come in.

We are America. We are expressing our joy in the world, our faith in God, and our love of the sun and the wind in the hearts of our people.

In America the free air breathes about us, and daily the great sun climbs our hillsides, swings daily past our work. There are ninety million men with this sun and this wind woven into their bodies, into their souls. They stand with us.

The skyscrapers stand with us.

All singing stands with us.

Ah, I have waked in the dawn and in the sun and the wind have I seen them!

Continue reading →

The Cave in the Mountain, by Lieut. R. H. Jayne. A Western Adventure about a Cave. And a Mountain. And Indians. And Spalpeens.

It was hardly dark when Fred Munson carefully shoved the end of the rope over the edge of the opening, and let it descend slowly, gently and noiselessly to the bottom, permitting it to pass through his hands in such a way that he could tell the instant it was disturbed. When he knew that it had struck, he waited for a “bite.”

To his astonishment, it came within the next five minutes. He was startled by feeling a decided pull repeated several times.

The situation was so delicately critical that it would not do to speak nor whisper, nor even to utter their whistle, no matter how cautiously made. So, by way of reply, Fred gave the lasso several responsive jerks, intended to signify that everything was ready, and his friend might come ahead.

A moment later the lariat was jerked from his hand, showing that a heavy weight had suddenly fastened upon it, and the man was making his way upward from the cave.