ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cid, by Pierre CorneilleThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The CidAuthor: Pierre CorneilleRelease Date: February 7, 2005 [EBook #14954]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK THE CID ***Produced by David Garcia, Branko Collin and the Online DistributedProofreading Team.[Transcriber's note: This text is no longercopyrighted; originalcopyright note preserved for accuracy.]Handy Literal TranslationsCORNEILLE'STHE CIDA Literal Translation, byROSCOE MONGAN1896, BYHINDS & NOBLEHINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE, Publishers,31-33-35 West Fifteenth Street, New York CityPREFACE.Cid Campeador is the name given in histories,traditions and songs tothe most celebrated of Spain's national heroes.His real name was Rodrigo or Ruy Diaz (i.e. "son of Diego"), aCastilian noble by birth. Hewas born at Burgos about the year 1040.There is so much of the mythical in the history of this personage thathypercritical writers, such as Masdeu, have doubtedhis existence; butrecent researches have succeeded in separating the historical from theromantic.Under Sancho II, son of Ferdinand, he served as commander ofthe royaltroops. In a war between the two brothers, Sancho II. and Alfonso VI. ofLeon, due to some dishonorable stratagem on the part of Rodrigo, Sanchowasvictorious and his brother was forced to seek refuge with theMoorish King of Toledo.In 1072 Sancho was assassinated at the siege of Zamora, and as he leftnoheir the Castilians had to acknowledge Alfonso as King. AlthoughAlfonso never forgave the Cid for having, as leader of the Castilians,compelled him to swear thathe (the Cid) had no hand in the murder ofhis brother Sancho, as a conciliatory measure, he gave his cousinXimena, daughter of the Count of Oviedo, to the Cid inmarriage, butafterwards, in 1081, when he found himself firmly seated on the throne,yielding to his own feelings of resentment and incited by the Leonesenobles,he banished him from the kingdom.At the head of a large body of followers, the Cid joined the MoorishKing of Saragossa, in whose service he fought against bothMoslems andChristians. It was probably during this exile that he was first calledthe Cid, an Arabic title, which means the _lord_. He was verysuccessful in all hisbattles.In conjunction with Mostain, grandson of Moctadir, he invaded Valenciain 1088, but afterwards carried on operations alone, and finally, aftera long siege,made himself master of the city in June, 1094. He retainedpossession of Valencia for five years and reigned like an independentsovereign over one of the richestterritories in the Peninsula, but diedsuddenly in 1099 of anger and grief on hearing that his relative, AlvarFaÃ±ez, had been vanquished and the army which hehad sent to hisassistance had been defeated.After the Cid's death his wife held Valencia till 1102, when she wasobliged to yield to the Almoravides and fly toCastile, where she diedin 1104. Her remains were placed by those of her lord in the monasteryof San Pedro de CardeÃ±a.THE CID.ACT THE FIRST.SceneI.--CHIMÃNE and ELVIRA._ChimÃ¨ne._ Elvira, have you given me a really true report? Do youconceal nothing that my father has said?_Elvira._ All my feelingswithin me are still delighted with it. Heesteems Rodrigo as much as you love him; and if I do not misread hismind, he will command you to respond to hispassion._ChimÃ¨ne._ Tell me then, I beseech you, a second time, what makes youbelieve that he approves of my choice; tell me anew what hope I oughttoentertain from it. A discourse so charming cannot be too often heard;you cannot too forcibly promise to the fervor of our love the sweetliberty of manifestingitself to the light of day. What answer has hegiven regarding the secret suit which Don Sancho and Don Rodrigo arepaying to you? Have you not too clearly shownthe disparity between thetwo lovers which inclines me to the one side?_Elvira._ No; I have depicted your heart as filled with anindifference which elates not eitherof them nor destroys hope, and,without regarding them with too stern or too gentle an aspect, awaits thecommands of a father to choose a spouse. This respecthas delightedhim--his lips and his countenance gave me at once a worthy testimony ofit; and, since I must again tell you the tale, this is what he hastenedto sayto me of them and of you: 'She is in the right. Both are worthyof her; both are sprung from a noble, valiant, and faithful lineage;young but yet who show by theirmien [_lit._ cause to easily be readin their eyes] the brilliant valor of their brave ancestors. Don Rodrigo,above all, has no feature in his face which is not thenoble [_lit._high] representative of a man of courage [_lit._ heart], and descendsfrom a house so prolific in warriors, that they enter into life [_lit._take birththere] in the midst of laurels. The valor of his father, inhis time without an equal, as long as his strength endured, wasconsidered a marvel; the furrows on hisbrow bear witness to [_lit._have engraved his] exploits, and tell us still what he formerly was. Ipredict of the son what I have seen of the father, and mydaughter, inone word, may love him and please me.' He was going to the council, thehour for which approaching, cut short this discourse, which he hadscarcelycommenced; but from these few words, I believe that his mind[_lit._ thoughts] is not quite decided between your two lovers. The kingis going to appoint aninstructor for his son, and it is he for whom anhonor so great is designed. This choice is not doubtful, and hisunexampled valor cannot tolerate that we should fearany competition. Ashis high exploits render him without an equal, in a hope so justifiablehe will be without a rival; and since Don Rodrigo has persuadedhisfather, when going out from the council, to propose the affair. I leaveyou to judge whether he will seize this opportunity [_lit._ whether hewill take his timewell], and whether all your desires will soon begratified._ChimÃ¨ne._ It seems, however, that my agitated soul refuses this joy,and finds itself overwhelmed by it.One moment gives to fate differentaspects, and in this great happiness I fear a great reverse._Elvira._ You see this fear happily deceived._ChimÃ¨ne._ Let us go,whatever it may be, to await the issue.Scene II.--The INFANTA, LEONORA, and a PAGE._Infanta (to Page_). Page, go, tell ChimÃ¨ne from me, that to-day sheisrather long in coming to see me, and that my friendship complains of hertardiness. [_Exit Page._]_Leonora._ Dear lady, each day the same desire urges you,and at yourinterview with her, I see you every day ask her how her love proceeds._Infanta._ It is not without reason. I have almost compelled her toreceive thearrows with which her soul is wounded. She loves Rodrigo,and she holds him from my hand; and by means of me Don Rodrigo hasconquered her disdain. Thus,having forged the chains of these lovers, Iought to take an interest in seeing their troubles at an end._Leonora._ Dear lady, however, amidst their good fortuneyou exhibit agrief which proceeds to excess. Does this love, which fills them bothwith gladness, produce in this noble heart [of yours] profound sadness?And doesthis great interest which you take in them render you unhappy,whilst they are happy? But I proceed too far, and become indiscreet._Infanta._ My sadnessredoubles in keeping the secret. Listen, listenat length, how I have struggled; listen what assaults my constancy[_lit._ virtue or valor] yet braves. Love is a tyrantwhich spares noone. This young cavalier, this lover which I give [her]--I love him._Leonora._ You love him!_Infanta._ Place your hand upon my heart, and feel[_lit._ see] how itthrobs at the name of its conqueror! how it recognizes him!_Leonora._ Pardon me, dear lady, if I am wanting in respect in blamingthis passion;a noble princess to so far forget herself as to admit inher heart a simple [_or_, humble] cavalier! And what would the Kingsay?--what would Castile say? Do youstill remember of whom you are thedaughter?_Infanta._ I remember it so well, that I would shed my blood rather thandegrade my rank. I might assuredlyanswer to thee, that, in noble souls,worth alone ought to arouse passions; and, if my love sought to excuseitself, a thousand famous examples might sanction it.But I will notfollow these--where my honor is concerned, the captivation of myfeelings does not abate my courage, and I say to myself always, that,being thedaughter of a king, all other than a monarch is unworthy ofme. When I saw that my heart could not protect itself, I myself gaveaway that which I did not dare totake; and I put, in place of my self,ChimÃ¨ne in its fetters, and I kindled their passions [_lit._ fires] inorder to extinguish my own. Be then no longer surprised ifmy troubledsoul with impatience awaits their bridal; thou seest that my happiness[_lit._ repose] this day depends upon it. If love lives by hope, itperishes with it;it is a fire which becomes extinguished for want offuel; and, in spite of the severity of my sad lot, if ChimÃ¨ne ever hasRodrigo for a husband, my hope is deadand my spirit, is healed.Meanwhile, I endure an incredible torture; even up to this bridal.Rodrigo is dear to me; I strive to lose him, and I lose him with regret,andhence my secret anxiety derives its origin. I see with sorrow thatlove compels me to utter sighs for that [object] which [as a princess] Imust disdain. I feel myspirit divided into two portions; if my courageis high, my heart is inflamed [with love]. This bridal is fatal to me, Ifear it, and [yet] I desire it; I dare to hope fromit only anincomplete joy; my honor and my love have for me such attractions, thatI [shall] die whether it be accomplished, or whether it benotaccomplished._Leonora._ Dear lady, after that I have nothing more to say, exceptthat, with you, I sigh for your misfortunes; I blamed you a short timesince,now I pity you. But since in a misfortune [i.e. an ill-timedlove] so sweet and so painful, your noble spirit [_lit._ virtue]contends against both its charm and itsstrength, and repulses itsassault and regrets its allurements, it will restore calmness to youragitated feelings. Hope then every [good result] from it, and fromtheassistance of time; hope everything from heaven; it is too just [_lit._it has too much justice] to leave virtue in such a long continuedtorture._Infanta._ Mysweetest hope is to lose hope.(_The Page re-enters._)_Page._ By your commands, ChimÃ¨ne comes to see you._Infanta_ (to _Leonora_). Go and converse withher in that gallery[yonder]._Leonora._ Do you wish to continue in dreamland?_Infanta._ No, I wish, only, in spite of my grief, to compose myself[_lit._ to put myfeatures a little more at leisure]. I follow you.[_Leonora goes out along with the Page._]Scene III.--The INFANTA (alone).Just heaven, from which I await myrelief, put, at last, some limit tothe misfortune which is overcoming [_lit._ possesses] me; secure myrepose, secure my honor. In the happiness of others I seekmy own. Thisbridal is equally important to three [parties]; render its completionmore prompt, or my soul more enduring. To unite these two lovers withamarriage-tie is to break all my chains and to end all my sorrows. But Itarry a little too long; let us go to meet ChimÃ¨ne, and, byconversation, to relieve our


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Little Lord Fauntleroy, by Frances Hodgson BurnettThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Little Lord FauntleroyAuthor: Frances Hodgson BurnettRelease Date: January 16, 2006 [EBook #479][Last updated: December 9,2011]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY ***Produced by Charles Keller and David WidgerLITTLELORD FAUNTLEROYBy Frances Hodgson BurnettICedric himself knew nothing whatever about it. It had never been evenmentioned to him. He knew that his papahad been an Englishman, becausehis mamma had told him so; but then his papa had died when he was solittle a boy that he could not remember very muchabout him, except thathe was big, and had blue eyes and a long mustache, and that it was asplendid thing to be carried around the room on his shoulder. Sincehispapa's death, Cedric had found out that it was best not to talk to hismamma about him. When his father was ill, Cedric had been sent away, andwhen he hadreturned, everything was over; and his mother, who hadbeen very ill, too, was only just beginning to sit in her chair by thewindow. She was pale and thin, and allthe dimples had gone from herpretty face, and her eyes looked large and mournful, and she was dressedin black."Dearest," said Cedric (his papa had called herthat always, and so thelittle boy had learned to say it),--"dearest, is my papa better?"He felt her arms tremble, and so he turned his curly head and looked inherface. There was something in it that made him feel that he was goingto cry."Dearest," he said, "is he well?"Then suddenly his loving little heart told him that he'dbetter put bothhis arms around her neck and kiss her again and again, and keep hissoft cheek close to hers; and he did so, and she laid her face on hisshoulderand cried bitterly, holding him as if she could never let himgo again."Yes, he is well," she sobbed; "he is quite, quite well, but we--we haveno one left but eachother. No one at all."Then, little as he was, he understood that his big, handsome young papawould not come back any more; that he was dead, as he had heardof otherpeople being, although he could not comprehend exactly what strangething had brought all this sadness about. It was because his mammaalways criedwhen he spoke of his papa that he secretly made up his mindit was better not to speak of him very often to her, and he found out,too, that it was better not to lether sit still and look into the fireor out of the window without moving or talking. He and his mamma knewvery few people, and lived what might have beenthought very lonelylives, although Cedric did not know it was lonely until he grew olderand heard why it was they had no visitors. Then he was told thathismamma was an orphan, and quite alone in the world when his papa hadmarried her. She was very pretty, and had been living as companion to arich old ladywho was not kind to her, and one day Captain Cedric Errol,who was calling at the house, saw her run up the stairs with tears onher eyelashes; and she looked sosweet and innocent and sorrowful thatthe Captain could not forget her. And after many strange things hadhappened, they knew each other well and loved eachother dearly, andwere married, although their marriage brought them the ill-will ofseveral persons. The one who was most angry of all, however, wastheCaptain's father, who lived in England, and was a very rich andimportant old nobleman, with a very bad temper and a very violentdislike to America andAmericans. He had two sons older than CaptainCedric; and it was the law that the elder of these sons should inheritthe family title and estates, which were veryrich and splendid; if theeldest son died, the next one would be heir; so, though he was a memberof such a great family, there was little chance that CaptainCedricwould be very rich himself.But it so happened that Nature had given to the youngest son gifts whichshe had not bestowed upon his elder brothers. He had abeautiful faceand a fine, strong, graceful figure; he had a bright smile and a sweet,gay voice; he was brave and generous, and had the kindest heart in theworld,and seemed to have the power to make every one love him. And itwas not so with his elder brothers; neither of them was handsome,or very kind, or clever.When they were boys at Eton, they were notpopular; when they were at college, they cared nothing for study, andwasted both time and money, and made fewreal friends. The old Earl,their father, was constantly disappointed and humiliated by them; hisheir was no honor to his noble name, and did not promise to end inbeinganything but a selfish, wasteful, insignificant man, with no manly ornoble qualities. It was very bitter, the old Earl thought, that the sonwho was only third,and would have only a very small fortune, should bethe one who had all the gifts, and all the charms, and all the strengthand beauty. Sometimes he almost hatedthe handsome young man because heseemed to have the good things which should have gone with the statelytitle and the magnificent estates; and yet, in thedepths of his proud,stubborn old heart, he could not help caring very much for his youngestson. It was in one of his fits of petulance that he sent him off totravelin America; he thought he would send him away for a while, sothat he should not be made angry by constantly contrasting him with hisbrothers, who were at thattime giving him a great deal of trouble bytheir wild ways.But, after about six months, he began to feel lonely, and longed insecret to see his son again, so hewrote to Captain Cedric and orderedhim home. The letter he wrote crossed on its way a letter the Captainhad just written to his father, telling of his love for theprettyAmerican girl, and of his intended marriage; and when the Earl receivedthat letter he was furiously angry. Bad as his temper was, he hadnever given way toit in his life as he gave way to it when he read theCaptain's letter. His valet, who was in the room when it came, thoughthis lordship would have a fit of apoplexy,he was so wild with anger.For an hour he raged like a tiger, and then he sat down and wrote to hisson, and ordered him never to come near his old home, nor towrite tohis father or brothers again. He told him he might live as he pleased,and die where he pleased, that he should be cut off from his familyforever, and thathe need never expect help from his father as long ashe lived.The Captain was very sad when he read the letter; he was very fond ofEngland, and he dearly lovedthe beautiful home where he had been born;he had even loved his ill-tempered old father, and had sympathized withhim in his disappointments; but he knew heneed expect no kindness fromhim in the future. At first he scarcely knew what to do; he had not beenbrought up to work, and had no business experience, but hehad courageand plenty of determination. So he sold his commission in the Englisharmy, and after some trouble found a situation in New York, and married.Thechange from his old life in England was very great, but he was youngand happy, and he hoped that hard work would do great things for him inthe future. He hada small house on a quiet street, and his little boywas born there, and everything was so gay and cheerful, in a simple way,that he was never sorry for a momentthat he had married the rich oldlady's pretty companion just because she was so sweet and he loved herand she loved him. She was very sweet, indeed, and herlittle boy waslike both her and his father. Though he was born in so quiet and cheap alittle home, it seemed as if there never had been a more fortunate baby.Inthe first place, he was always well, and so he never gave any onetrouble; in the second place, he had so sweet a temper and ways socharming that he was apleasure to every one; and in the third place,he was so beautiful to look at that he was quite a picture. Instead ofbeing a bald-headed baby, he started in life witha quantity of soft,fine, gold-colored hair, which curled up at the ends, and went intoloose rings by the time he was six months old; he had big brown eyes andlongeyelashes and a darling little face; he had so strong a back andsuch splendid sturdy legs, that at nine months he learned suddenly towalk; his manners were sogood, for a baby, that it was delightful tomake his acquaintance. He seemed to feel that every one was his friend,and when any one spoke to him, when he was inhis carriage in thestreet, he would give the stranger one sweet, serious look with thebrown eyes, and then follow it with a lovely, friendly smile; andtheconsequence was, that there was not a person in the neighborhood of thequiet street where he lived--even to the groceryman at the corner, whowasconsidered the crossest creature alive--who was not pleased to seehim and speak to him. And every month of his life he grew handsomer andmoreinteresting.When he was old enough to walk out with his nurse, dragging a smallwagon and wearing a short white kilt skirt, and a big white hat set backon hiscurly yellow hair, he was so handsome and strong and rosy that heattracted every one's attention, and his nurse would come home and tellhis mamma stories ofthe ladies who had stopped their carriages to lookat and speak to him, and of how pleased they were when he talked to themin his cheerful little way, as if he hadknown them always. His greatestcharm was this cheerful, fearless, quaint little way of making friendswith people. I think it arose from his having a very confidingnature,and a kind little heart that sympathized with every one, and wished tomake every one as comfortable as he liked to be himself. It made himvery quick tounderstand the feelings of those about him. Perhaps thishad grown on him, too, because he had lived so much with his father andmother, who were always lovingand considerate and tender and well-bred.He had never heard an unkind or uncourteous word spoken at home; he hadalways been loved and caressed andtreated tenderly, and so his childishsoul was full of kindness and innocent warm feeling. He had always heardhis mamma called by pretty, loving names, and sohe used them himselfwhen he spoke to her; he had always seen that his papa watched over herand took great care of her, and so he learned, too, to be carefulofher.So when he knew his papa would come back no more, and saw how verysad his mamma was, there gradually came into his kind little heart thethought thathe must do what he could to make her happy. He was not muchmore than a baby, but that thought was in his mind whenever he climbedupon her knee andkissed her and put his curly head on her neck, andwhen he brought his toys and picture-books to show her, and when hecurled up quietly by her side as she usedto lie on the sofa. He was notold enough to know of anything else to do, so he did what he could, andwas more of a comfort to her than he could haveunderstood."Oh, Mary!" he heard her say once to her old servant; "I am sure heis trying to help me in his innocent way--I know he is. He looks at mesometimeswith a loving, wondering little look, as if he were sorry forme, and then he will come and pet me or show me something. He is such alittle man, I really think he


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mardi Gras Mystery, by H. Bedford-JonesThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Mardi Gras MysteryAuthor: H. Bedford-JonesIllustrator: John Newton HowittRelease Date: March 22, 2012 [EBook#39229]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MARDI GRAS MYSTERY ***Produced by Darleen Dove, Ernest Schaal, and theOnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/AmericanLibraries.)                             THE MARDI GRAS                                MYSTERY                                BOOKS BY                            H.BEDFORD-JONES                        CONQUEST                        CROSS AND THE HAMMER: A                          TALE OF THE DAYS OFTHE                          VIKINGS                        FLAMEHAIR THE SKALD: A                          TALE OF THE DAYSOF                          HARDREDE                        GOLDEN GHOST                        THE MESA TRAIL                        THE MARDI GRASMYSTERY                        UNDER FIRE[Illustration: "_'You frightened me, holy man!' she cried gaily.'Confess to you, indeed! Not I.'_"]                             THEMARDI GRAS                                 MYSTERY                                   BY                            H.BEDFORD-JONES                             [Illustration]                              FRONTISPIECE                                   BY                           JOHN NEWTONHOWITT                    GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO                       DOUBLEDAY, PAGE &COMPANY                                  1921                        COPYRIGHT, 1920, 1921, BY                        DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY           ALL RIGHTSRESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION           INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THESCANDINAVIAN                                CONTENTS    CHAPTER                                                     PAGE       I.CARNIVAL                                                 3      II. MASQUERS                                                21     III. THE BANDIT                                              38      IV.CALLERS                                                 58       V. THE MASQUER UNMASKS                                     82      VI.CHACHERRE                                              107     VII. IN THE OPEN                                            125    VIII.COMUS                                                  143      IX. ON THE BAYOU                                           169       X.MURDER                                                 190      XI. THE GANGSTERS                                          209     XII. THEULTIMATUM                                          228    XIII. THE COIN FALLS HEADS                                   249     XIV. CHACHERRE'SBUNDLE                                     262      XV. WHEN THE HEAVENS FALL                                  280     XVI. THE IMPREGNABILITY OF MR.FELL                         299    XVII. MI-CARÃME                                              310                             THE MARDIGRAS                                MYSTERY                         THE MARDI GRAS MYSTERY                               CHAPTER I                               _Carnival_Jachin Fellpushed aside the glass curtains between the voluminousover-draperies in the windows of the Chess and Checkers Club, and gazedout upon the riotous streets ofNew Orleans. Half an hour he had beenwaiting here in the lounge room for Dr. Cyril Ansley, a middle-agedbachelor who had practised in Opelousas for twentyyears, and who hadcome to the city for the Mardi Gras festivities. Another man might haveseemed irritated by the wait, but Jachin Fell was quite unruffled.He hadmuch the air of a clerk. His features were thin and unremarkable;his pale eyes constantly wore an expression of wondering aloofness, asthough he saw aroundhim much that he vainly tried to understand. In hisentire manner was a shy reticence. He was no clerk, however, this wasevident from his attire. He was garbedfrom head to foot in soberlyblending shades of gray whose richness was notable only at close view.One fancied him a very precise sort of man, an old maid of thewrongsex.Doctor Ansley, an Inverness flung over his evening clothes, entered thelounge room, and Fell turned to him with a dry, toneless chuckle."You're thelimit! Did you forget we were going to the Maillards'to-night?"Ansley appeared vexed and irritated. "Confound it, Fell!" he exclaimed."I've been all over townlooking for El Reys. Caught in a crowd--no ElReys yet!"Again Fell uttered his toneless chuckle. His voice was absolutely level,unmarked by any change ofinflection."My dear fellow, there are only three places in the city that can affordto carry El Reys in these parlous times! This club, however, happens tobe one ofthe three. Here, sit down and forget your troubles over a realsmoke! We need not leave for fifteen minutes yet, at least."Doctor Ansley laid aside his cape, stick,and hat, and dropped into oneof the comfortable big chairs. He accepted the proffered cigar with asigh. Across his knees he laid an evening paper, whose flaringheadlinesproclaimed an extra."I suppose you've been gadding all around the town ever since theRevellers opened the season?" he inquired."Hardly," said Fellwith his shy air. "I'm growing a bit stiff with age,as Eliza said when she crossed the ice. I don't gad much.""You intend to mask for the Maillards'?" Ansley cast hiseye over thegray business attire of the little man."I never mask." Jachin Fell shook his head. "I'll get a domino and go asI am. Excuse me--I'll order a dominonow, and also provide a few more ElReys for the evening. Back in a moment."Doctor Ansley, who was himself a non-resident member of the club andsociallyprominent when he could grant himself leisure for society,followed the slight figure of the other man with speculative eyes. Wellas he knew Jachin Fell, heinvariably found the man a source of puzzledspeculation.During many years Jachin Fell had been a member of the most exclusiveNew Orleans clubs. He was evenreceived in the inner circles of Creolesociety, which in itself was evidence supreme as to his position. Atthis particular club he was famed as a wizard master ofchess. He neverentered a tournament, yet he consistently defeated the champions inprivate matches--defeated them with a bewildering ease, a shyandapologetic ease, an ease which left the beholders incredulous andaghast.With all this, Jachin Fell was very much of a mystery, even among hisclosest friends.Very little was known of him; he was inconspicuous to adegree, and it was usually assumed that he was something of a recluse,the result of a thwarted love affairin his youth. He was a lawyer, andcertainly maintained offices in the Maison Blanche building, but henever appeared in the courts and no case of his pleading wasknown.It was said that he lived in the rebuilt casa of some old Spanishgrandee in the Vieux Carre, and that this residence of his was averitable treasure-trove ofhistoric and beautiful things. This was mererumour, adding a spice of romance to the general mystery. Ansley knewhim as well as did most men, and Ansley knewof a few who could boast ofhaving been a guest in Jachin Fell's home. There was a mother, aninvalid of whom Fell sometimes spoke and to whom he appeared todevotehimself. The family, an old one in the city, promised to die out withJachin Fell.Ansley puffed at his cigar and considered these things. Outside, in theNewOrleans streets, was rocketing the mad mirth of carnival. The weekpreceding Mardi Gras was at its close. Since the beginning of the newyear the festival hadbeen celebrated in a steadily climaxing series ofballs and entertainments, largely by the older families who kept to theold customs, and to a smaller extent bysociety at large. Now the finalweek was at hand, or rather the final three days--the period of thegreat balls, the period when tourists were flooding into town;fortourists, the whole time of Mardi Gras was comprised within these threedays. Despite agonized predictions, prohibition had not adverselyaffected Mardi Gras orthe gaiety of its celebration.Now, as ever, was Mardi Gras symbolized by masques. In New Orleans themasquerade was not the pale and pitiful frolic of colderclimes, wherethe occasion is but one for display of jewels and costumes, and whereactual concealment of identity is a farce. Here in New Orleans werejewels andcostumes in a profusion of splendour; but here was preservedthe underlying idea of the masque itself--that in concealment ofidentity lay the life of the thing!Masquers swept the streets gaily; ifharlequin husband flirted with domino wife--why, so much the merrier!There was little harm in the Latin masque, and greatmirth.When Jachin Fell returned and lighted his cigar he sank into one of theluxurious chairs beside Ansley and indicated the newspaper lying acrossthe latter'sknee, its flaring headlines standing out blackly."What's that about the Midnight Masquer? He's not appeared again?""What?" Ansley glanced at him in surprise."You've not heard?"Fell shook his head. "I seldom read the papers.""Good heavens, man! He showed up last night at the Lapeyrouse dance, twominutes beforemidnight, as usual! A detective had been engaged, but wasafterward found locked in a closet, bound with his own handcuffs. TheMasquer wore his usualcostume--and went through the party famously,stripping everyone in sight. Then he backed through the doors andvanished. How he got in they can't imagine;where he went they can'timagine, unless it was by airplane. He simply appeared, then vanished!"Fell settled deeper into his chair, pointed his cigar at theceiling,and sighed."Ah, most interesting! The loot was valued at about a hundred thousand?""I thought you said you'd not heard of it?" demanded Ansley.Felllaughed softly and shyly. "I didn't. I merely hazarded a guess.""Wizard!" The doctor laughed in unison. "Yes, about that amount.Exaggerated, of course; still,there were jewels of great value----""The Masquer is a piker," observed Fell, in his toneless voice."Eh? A piker--when he can make a hundred-thousand-dollarhaul?""Don't dream that those figures represent value, Doctor. They don't! Allthe loot the Masquer has taken since he began work is worth little tohim. Jewels arehard to sell. This game of banditry is romantic, butit's out of date these days. Of course, the crook has obtained a bit ofmoney, but not enough to be worth therisk.""Yet he has got quite a bit," returned Ansley, thoughtfully. "All themen have money, naturally; we don't want to find ourselves bare at somegay carnivalmoment! I'll warrant you've a hundred or so in your pocketright now!""Not I," rejoined Fell, calmly. "One ten-dollar bill. Also I left mywatch at home. And I'm not


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                                    "WHAT ABOUT BOB?"                                      Screenplay by                                       TomSchulman                                         Story by                              Alvin Sargent and Laura Ziskin                                      SHOOTINGDRAFT                               OPENING CRAWL ON A BLACK SCREEN               "Medical journals report only 31 cases in history ofpeople                swallowing their toothbrushes. The champion toothbrush                swallower was a Soviet psychiatric patient who downed 16in                1984. The all-time champion swallower of any object swallowed                2533 objects in 1927."               ECU: A TOOTHBRUSH - CREDITSROLLING               We HEAR a man clearing his throat. He enters and a shiny                glob of toothpaste is squeezed onto the bristles.               INT.BOB WILEY'S BATHROOM, MORNING               BOB WILEY, thirties, anxious, begins brushing his teeth.                Suddenly, in trying to brush a back molar,Bob looses control                of the toothbrush and swallows half of it whole. Choking,                gasping, he tries to pull the toothbrush out.               EXT.BOB WILEY'S APARTMENT BUILDING, SAME               PAN and TILT up from a woman walking her dog on the streets                of Manhattan to a third floorapartment window. There is Bob                struggling frantically with the toothbrush.               INT. BOB WILEY'S BATHROOM, MORNING               Bobis losing the battle, and in three excruciating swallows,                like a mouse going down the throat of a snake, the toothbrush                disappears down his


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Vortex Blaster, by Edward Elmer SmithThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Vortex BlasterAuthor: Edward Elmer SmithRelease Date: September 16, 2007 [EBook #22629]Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VORTEX BLASTER ***Produced by Greg Weeks, V. L. Simpson and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net    [Illustration: _The Lensman and the observer helped    Storm into his heavily padded armor. Their movements    were automatic--theointment, the devices--_]  _INTRODUCING "Storm" Cloud, who, through tragedy, is    destined to become the most noted figure inthe                      galaxy--THE_                     VORTEX BLASTER              (_Complete in this issue!_)                           by                   E. E. SMITH,Ph.D._Author of "The Skylark," "Skylark Three," "The Skylark        of Valeron," the Lensman stories, etc._Safety devices that do not protect.The "unsinkable"ships that, before the days of Bergenholm and of atomicand cosmic energy, sank into the waters of the earth.More particularly, safety devices which, whileprotecting against oneagent of destruction, attract magnet-like another and worse. Such as thearmored cable within the walls of a wooden house. It protectstheelectrical conductors within against accidental external shorts; but,inadequately grounded as it must of necessity be, it may attract andupon occasion hasattracted the stupendous force of lightning. Then,fused, volatilized, flaming incandescent throughout the length, breadth,and height of a dwelling, that dwelling'sexistence thereafter is to bemeasured in minutes.Specifically, four lightning rods. The lightning rods protecting thechromium, glass, and plastic home of NealCloud. Those rods wereadequately grounded, grounded with copper-silver cables the bigness of astrong man's arm; for Neal Cloud, atomic physicist, knew hislightningand he was taking no chances whatever with the safety of his lovely wifeand their three wonderful kids.He did not know, he did not even suspect, thatunder certain conditionsof atmospheric potential and of ground-magnetic stress his perfectlydesigned lightning-rod system would become a super-powerfulmagnet forflying vortices of atomic disintegration.And now Neal Cloud, atomic physicist, sat at his desk in a strained,dull apathy. His face was a yellowish-graywhite, his tendoned handsgripped rigidly the arms of his chair. His eyes, hard and lifeless,stared unseeingly past the small, three-dimensional block portrait ofallthat had made life worth living.For his guardian against lightning had been a vortex-magnet at themoment when a luckless wight had attempted to abate thenuisance of a"loose" atomic vortex. That wight died, of course--they almost alwaysdo--and the vortex, instead of being destroyed, was simply broken upinto anindefinite number of widely-scattered new vortices. And one ofthese bits of furious, uncontrolled energy, resembling more nearly ahandful of material rived from asun than anything else with whichordinary man is familiar, darted toward and crashed downward to earththrough Neal Cloud's new house.That home did notburn; it simply exploded. Nothing of it, in it, oraround it stood a chance, for in a fractional second of time the placewhere it had been was a crater of seething,boiling lava--a crater whichfilled the atmosphere to a height of miles with poisonous vapors; whichflooded all circumambient space with lethalradiations.Cosmically, the whole thing was infinitesimal. Ever since man learnedhow to liberate intra-atomic energy, the vortices of disintegration hadbeenbreaking out of control. Such accidents had been happening, werehappening, and would continue indefinitely to happen. More than oneworld, perhaps, had beenor would be consumed to the last gram by suchloose atomic vortices. What of that? Of what real importance are a fewgrains of sand to an ocean beach fivethousand miles long, a hundredmiles wide, and ten miles deep?And even to that individual grain of sand called "Earth"--or, in modernparlance, "Sol Three," or"Tellus of Sol", or simply "Tellus"--theaffair was of negligible importance. One man had died; but, in dying, hehad added one more page to the thick bulk ofnegative results already onfile. That Mrs. Cloud and her children had perished was merelyunfortunate. The vortex itself was not yet a real threat to Tellus. Itwas a"new" one, and thus it would be a long time before it would becomeother than a local menace. And well before that could happen--beforeeven the oldest of Tellus'loose vortices had eaten away much of hermass or poisoned much of her atmosphere, her scientists would havesolved the problem. It was unthinkable thatTellus, the point of originand the very center of Galactic Civilization, should cease to exist.       *       *       *       *       *But to Neal Cloud the accident was theultimate catastrophe. Hispersonal universe had crashed in ruins; what was left was not worthpicking up. He and Jo had been married for almost twenty years andthebonds between them had grown stronger, deeper, truer with every passingday. And the kids.... It _couldn't_ have happened ... fate COULDN'T dothis to him... but it had ... it could. Gone ... gone ... GONE....And to Neal Cloud, atomic physicist, sitting there at his desk in torn,despairing abstraction, with black maggotsof thought gnawing holes inhis brain, the catastrophe was doubly galling because of its cruelirony. For he was second from the top in the Atomic ResearchLaboratory;his life's work had been a search for a means of extinguishment ofexactly such loose vortices as had destroyed his all.His eyes focussed vaguely uponthe portrait. Clear, honest gray eyes ...lines of character and of humor ... sweetly curved lips, ready to smileor to kiss....He wrenched his eyes away and scribbledbriefly upon a sheet of paper.Then, getting up stiffly, he took the portrait and moved woodenly acrossthe room to a furnace. As though enshrining it he placed theplasticblock upon a refractory between the electrodes and threw a switch. Afterthe flaming arc had done its work he turned and handed the paper to atall man,dressed in plain gray leather, who had been watching him withquiet, understanding eyes. Significant enough to the initiated of theimportance of this laboratory isthe fact that it was headed by anUnattached Lensman."As of now, Phil, if it's QX with you."The Gray Lensman took the document, glanced at it, andslowly,meticulously, tore it into sixteen equal pieces."Uh, uh, Storm," he denied, gently. "Not a resignation. Leave ofabsence, yes--indefinite--but not aresignation.""Why?" It was scarcely a question; Cloud's voice was level,uninflected. "I won't be worth the paper I'd waste.""Now, no," the Lensman conceded,"but the future's another matter. Ihaven't said anything so far, because to anyone who knew you and Jo as Iknew you it was abundantly clear that nothing couldbe said." Two handsgripped and held. "For the future, though, four words were uttered longago, that have never been improved upon. 'This, too, shall pass.'""Youthink so?""I don't think so, Storm--I know so. I've been around a long time. Youare too good a man, and the world has too much use for you, for you togo downpermanently out of control. You've got a place in the world, andyou'll be back--" A thought struck the Lensman, and he went on in analtered tone. "Youwouldn't--but of course you wouldn't--you couldn't.""I don't think so. No, I won't--that never was any kind of a solution toany problem."Nor was it. Until thatmoment, suicide had not entered Cloud's mind, andhe rejected it instantly. His kind of man did not take the easy way out.After a brief farewell Cloud made hisway to an elevator and was whiskeddown to the garage. Into his big blue DeKhotinsky Sixteen Special andaway.Through traffic so heavy that front-, rear-, andside-bumpers almosttouched he drove with his wonted cool skill; even though, consciously,he did not know that the other cars were there. He slowed,turned,stopped, "gave her the oof," all in correct response to flashing signalsin all shapes and colors--purely automatically. Consciously, he did notknow where hewas going, nor care. If he thought at all, his numbedbrain was simply trying to run away from its own bitter imaging--which,if he had thought at all, he wouldhave known to be a hopeless task. Buthe did not think; he simply acted, dumbly, miserably. His eyes saw,optically; his body reacted, mechanically; his thinkingbrain wascompletely in abeyance.Into a one-way skyway he rocketed, along it over the suburbs and intothe transcontinental super-highway. Edging inward, laneafter lane, hereached the "unlimited" way--unlimited, that is, except for beinglimited to cars of not less than seven hundred horsepower, in perfectmechanicalcondition, driven by registered, tested drivers at speeds notless than one hundred and twenty-five miles an hour--flashed hisregistry number at the controlstation, and shoved his right foot downto the floor.       *       *       *       *       *Now everyone knows that an ordinary DeKhotinsky Sporter will do ahundred andforty honestly-measured miles in one honestly measured hour;but very few ordinary drivers have ever found out how fast one of thosebrutal big souped-upSixteens can wheel. They simply haven't got what ittakes to open one up."Storm" Cloud found out that day. He held that two-and-a-half-tonJuggernaut on theroad, wide open, for two solid hours. But it didn'thelp. Drive as he would, he could not outrun that which rode with him.Beside him and within him and behindhim. For Jo was there. Jo and thekids, but mostly Jo. It was Jo's car as much as it was his. "Babe, thebig blue ox," was Jo's pet name for it; because, like PaulBunyan'sfabulous beast, it was pretty nearly six feet between the eyes.Everything they had ever had was that way. She was in the seat besidehim. Every dear,every sweet, every luscious, lovely memory of her wasthere ... and behind him, just out of eye-corner visibility, were thethree kids. And a whole lifetime of thisloomed ahead--a vista ofemptiness more vacuous far than the emptiest reaches of intergalacticspace. Damnation! He couldn't stand much more of--High over theroadway, far ahead, a brilliant octagon flared red. Thatmeant "STOP!" in any language. Cloud eased up his accelerator, easeddown his mighty brakes. He pulledup at the control station and atrimly-uniformed officer made a gesture."Sorry, sir," the policeman said, "but you'll have to detour here.There's a loose atomicvortex beside the road up ahead--"Oh! It's Dr. Cloud!" Recognition flashed into the guard's eyes. "Ididn't recognize you at first. You can go ahead, of course. It'llbe twoor three miles before you'll have to put on your armor; you'll know whenbetter than anyone can tell you. They didn't tell us they were going tosend for_you_. It's just a little new one, and the dope we got was thatthey were going to shove it off into the canyon with pressure.""They didn't send for me." Cloud triedto smile. "I'm just drivingaround--haven't my armor along, even. So I guess I might as well goback."He turned the Special around. A loose vortex--new. There


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                                SUPERBAD                               Written by                      Seth Rogen & EvanGoldberg                                                      July 20, 2006    OPENING CREDITS OVER SUPER-FUNKY BLAXPLOITATION-STYLE MUSIC,    which buildsto an exciting crescendo filling us with the    expectation of a thrilling, action-packed opening sequence.    Instead we get:    INT. SETH'S CAR -MORNING    Seth, seventeen, a bit heavyset, in the midst of a sad    attempt at growing a goatee and clearly a terrible driver,    cruises along while fiddlingwith the CD player. He pulls out    his cell and dials.                           SETH              Yo.    INTERCUT WITH:    INT. EVAN'S HOUSE -KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS2                                                                   2    Evan, seventeen, a little too tall and slim, a boy who    clearly neverfigured out how to style his hair, is finishing    off a bowl of cereal. He is on his cell phone.                           EVAN              What'sup?                        SETH              I was doing research last night, for next              year, and I think I'm gonna go withBang              Bus.                        EVAN              Which one's Bang Bus?                        SETH              The one where they bang the chickson the              bus. Thirteen bucks a month. Total              access, live Web Cam feed. The works.              It'll be like I'm on the bus, banging              themmyself.                        EVAN              That stuff's bullshit, they're all faking              it. And plus, your parents are gonna look              at the


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Flea, by Harold RussellThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostother parts of the worldat no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project Gutenberg License included withthis eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll haveto check the laws of the country where you are located beforeusing this ebook.Title: The FleaAuthor: Harold RussellRelease Date: December 2, 2014 [EBook #47513]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8***START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLEA ***Produced by Giovanni Fini, Bryan Ness and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/AmericanLibraries.)                         TRANSCRIBERâS NOTES:âObvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.âUnderlined text has been rendered as*underlined text*.The Cambridge Manuals of Science and Literature                               THE FLEA                      CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITYPRESS                       London: FETTER LANE, E.C.                          C. F. CLAY, MANAGER[Illustration: LOGO]                    Edinburgh: 100, PRINCESSTREET             London: H. K. LEWIS, 136, GOWER STREET, W.C.            WILLIAM WESLEY & SON, 28, ESSEX STREET, STRAND                       Berlin: A.ASHER AND CO.                       Leipzig: F. A. BROCKHAUS                     New York: G. P. PUTNAMâS SONS             Bombay and Calcutta: MACMILLAN ANDCO., LTD.                         _All rights reserved_[Illustration:  _After a drawing by Dr Jordan_Oriental rat-flea (_Xenopsylla cheopis_ Rothsch.).Male.][Illustration; DECORATED FRONT PAGE:                               THE FLEA                                  BY                            HAROLDRUSSELL,                        B.A., F.Z.S., M.B.O.U.                        With nine illustrations                              Cambridge:                        at the UniversityPress                                 1913]                               Cambridge                      PRINTED BY JOHN CLAY, M.A.                        AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS_Withthe exception of the coat of arms at the foot, the design onthe title page is a reproduction of one used by the earliest knownCambridge printer, John Siberch,1521_PREFACETHE aim of this book is to give in plain language some account of asmall, but noteworthy, group of insects. I have avoided, whenever Icould, usingthe technical terms of zoology. To avoid doing so entirelyis impossible in a book which describes insects in some detail. Notechnical term has, I hope, been usedwithout an explanation.Over thirty years have elapsed since Taschenbergâs German book, _DieFlÃ¶he_, appeared. Our knowledge has made enormousstrides since then.More species of flea are now known from the British Islands alonethan were then known from the whole world. So far as I am aware, nobook,devoted to what is known about fleas, has ever been published inEnglish. The statements about these insects in the general text-booksof entomology arefrequently antiquated and inaccurate. But there isa fairly extensive literature on the _Siphonaptera_ scattered throughscientific periodicals mostly in English,German, Italian, Dutch andRussian. I have given some references in the Bibliography.The naturalists now living who have devoted any time to the specialstudy offleas may almost be counted on oneâs fingers. In England thereare Mr Charles Rothschild and Dr Jordan; in the Shetland Islands, theRev. James Waterston;in Germany, Taschenberg of Halle and Dampf ofKÃ¶nigsberg; in Russia, Wagner of Kieff; in Holland, Oudemans of Arnhem;in Italy, Tiraboschi of Rome; in theUnited States, Carl Baker and afew others. I have not mentioned medical men who have investigatedfleas in connection with plague.There are small collections offleas in the Natural History Museums atSouth Kensington (London), Paris, Berlin, KÃ¶nigsberg, Vienna, Budapest,S. Petersburg and Washington. Of privatecollections Mr CharlesRothschildâs at Tring is by far the best in the world. It containssomething like a hundred thousand specimens and is most admirablykept.I must express profound and sincere gratitude to Mr Rothschild forhaving helped me in numberless ways and advised me in many difficulties.It is well knownthat the mere mention of fleas is not only considereda subject for merriment, but in some people produces, by subjectivesuggestion, violent irritation of the skin.The scientific studyof fleas has, however, received a great impetus since it has beenascertained that they are the active agents in spreading plague.Rat-fleas areof various kinds, and not all fleas will bite man. Aknowledge of the different species has suddenly become useful. Thehumble, but ridiculous, systematist with hisglass tubes of alcohol forcollecting fleas, his microscopic distinctions, and Latin nomenclaturehas become a benefactor of humanity. Some people seem to bepracticallyimmune to the bites of fleas, but even to such persons their visits areunwelcome. A famous Frenchwoman once declared: â_Quant Ã  moi cenâestpas la morsure, câest la promenade._â                                                     H. R.  LONDON,  _September,1913_.CONTENTS  CHAP.                                                     PAGE         Preface                                               v      I.Introductory                                          1     II. The external structure of a flea                     21    III. The mouth-parts andsense-organs                     38     IV. The internal organs of a flea                        52      V. The Human flea and other species                     62     VI. The Chigoesand their allies                         74    VII. Fleas and Plague                                     83   VIII. Rat-fleas and Bat-fleas                              97  Appendix A.Systematic view of the order _Siphonaptera_    108      â    B. A list of British fleas and their hosts        110      â    C. On collecting and preservingfleas             113      â    D. Bibliography                                   118  Index                                                      122LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS     MaleOriental rat-flea                    _frontispiece_  FIGURE                                                     PAGE  1. The larva of a flea                                       6  2. Types ofgenal and thoracic combs of a flea              26  3. The hind leg of a flea                                   30  4. The mouth-parts of a flea                                43  5. Theantenna of a flea                                    47  6. The alimentary canal of a flea                           53  7. The head of a female dog-flea and a femalecat-flea      71  8. Pregnant female of _Dermatophilus cÃ¦cata_                81CHAPTER IINTRODUCTORYFLEAS form a group of insects that have, until recently,been littlestudied by zoologists. We call them insects because they are jointedanimals, or Arthropods, with three pairs of legs in the adultcondition. The reader willbest understand the position which fleasoccupy in the general classification of animals by remembering thatthe arthropods, or jointed animals, are one of a dozensubkingdoms, orphyla, to which the various members of the great animal kingdom havebeen assigned. There is good ground for believing that all theanimalsincluded in each phylum trace their ancestry back to a common primitiveform which lived in more or less remote ages. Besides (1) _Insects_,thearthropods, or jointed animals, include (2) _Crustaceans_, such ascrabs, lobsters, shrimps, wood-lice, water-fleas and barnacles; (3)_Myriapods_, such ascentipedes and millipedes; and (4) _Arachnids_,such as spiders, scorpions, mites and ticks. To all these varied formsof animal life fleas, and other insects, aretherefore more or lessnearly related.The animals belonging to this large and important collection, whichcompose the arthropod phylum, have certain commoncharacteristicfeatures. We find a body made up of a series of more or less completelysimilar segments placed one behind the other. In this they resemblecertainworms which are far less highly organised. The body iselongated, symmetrical on either side, and the mouth and anus are atopposite ends. There is, however, animportant advance on the segmentedworms. Each typical segment carries a pair of appendages which are verydifferent from the foot-stumps that are found oncertain worms. Theseappendages of arthropods are divisible into distinct limb-segments,separated from one another by moveable joints, and acted uponbyspecial muscles.The common ancestor of all the various arthropods which are foundliving on the earth to-day, was probably composed of a series ofsegmentseach very similar to the last and each bearing a pair of verysimilar appendages. In the course of ages, these appendages have beenastoundingly modified in formand in function. So it happens thatwe find in the arthropods of the present day pairs of antennÃ¦, ofmandibles and other mouth-parts, of pincers, of legs, ofswimming-feetand of tail pieces which on close examination can all be traced back toa common structure. The body-segments, also, have been strangelyfusedtogether and modified. All that has been so far said applies equally tofleas and to other insects.It is of great interest, when one comes to make a minutestudy ofthe form and external structure of a flea, to try and trace themodifications that must have taken place in the course of descent fromthe ancestralarthropod; but the relationship of fleas to other insectsliving at the present day is of more immediate concern. Insects arehighly specialized arthropods and fleasare highly specialized insects.This means that they have become vastly modified from the primitiveancestral type and fitted thereby for a life among certaindefined andpeculiar surroundings.It will be unnecessary to remind the reader who knows anything ofzoology or of botany that all classification is now based ondescent.Since naturalists have abandoned a belief in the special creationof the various species of animals now living on the earth and haveconclusively shown thatthey have arisen by descent and modificationfrom other forms, the problem is to reconstruct a vast genealogicaltree. What then were the ancestors of the fleasand to what otherinsects, in consequence, do they appear to be related?It is probable that the ancestors of the fleas were winged insects, andthat the organs offlight were gradually lost, as they became useless,when a partially parasitic life was adopted. At one time entomologistsregarded fleas as wingless flies and placedthem in the order Diptera.Certain supposed scaly plates on their bodies were regarded as theatrophied relics of wings. It is, however, more than doubtfulwhetherthis view is correct; and all modern entomologists who have given anyspecial study to fleas are agreed that they are sufficiently unlikeany other livinginsects to deserve a place in an order by themselves.To this order the name _Siphonaptera_ has been given: which means thatthe insects comprised in it areprovided with sucking mouths and aredestitute of wings. Another name for the order is Aphaniptera, but thisis gradually falling into disuse. LinnÃ¦us (1758) only


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                                       THUNDERHEART                                        Written by                                        JohnFusco                                                                Fourth draft                                                                Oct. 5, 1990                               A DRUM.Beating slow. And deep. Like a heart.               FADE IN:               EXT. THE GREAT PLAINS SOUTH DAKOTA - DAWN               Something isrising from the Black Hills. A sphere of light,                too red to be the sun. A sphere of contained fire, undulating                in crimson and ochre, and risingslowly, majestically, to                the pulse. To the DRUM. It is the sun. But it is a Paha Sapa                sunrise. A Black Hills sunrise. And it isspectacular.               The DRUM, pounds deeper, bigger, as the sun gets higher.                Stronger. Igniting a vast landscape of gentle slopesand                foothills; throwing shadows on the plains that look like, as                the Indians say, an old man dancing. The grass is golden.                Andhigh. The wind moves through it, snakes through it.                Slowly.               BEGIN CREDITS.               Voices; a TRADITIONAL INDIAN SONG(Lakota), summoning Wakan                Tanka - The Great Mystery.               And now, rising up over one of the small land waves, a head                comes intoview. Shoulders. A man, running in ghostly SLOW                MOTION, his long black hair trailing in the wind. The INDIAN                MAN wears only buckskinpants and a bone choker around his                neck.               Legs and arms churning, the man runs with antelope grace,                backlit by the sunrise,


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 M E E T   J O E   B LA C K Screenplay by Bo Goldman -------------------------------------------------------------- EXT. ANNANDALE-ON-HUDSON, N.Y. - 4:00AM A patch of water. PULL BACK TO REVEAL more water.  BACK FARTHER TO REVEAL an expanse of river, up the bank to massive lawn running up to agreat, classic Hudson River manor house; the country estate of William Parrish. INT. PARRISH COUNTRY ESTATE - 4:00 AM MOVE THROUGH Frenchdoors that lead from a wide terrace into an expansive living room, DOWN wide corridors lined with Bierstadt and Cole paintings, the Hudson River School, mistsand trees and small boats and distant humans. INT. PARRISH BEDROOM - 4:00 AM MOVE THROUGH the doorway to reveal a master bedroom furnish-ed with exquisite simplicity, revelatory of its sleeping occupant, WILLIAM PARRISH, 64, a warm but commanding face, a man of maturity yet who exudes a glowof enthusiasm. Although asleep, there is an uncommon restlessness to him. Parrish grips his upper arm as if in pain.  Now the severity of the pain wakes him, hesqueezes his arm.  The wind comes up, through the wind a VOICE is heard distantly, or is it the wind itself:      VOICE (V.O.) ... Yes. Parrish blinks, hashe heard something, has he not, he is not sure, he releases his arm, his grimace of pain fades, the discomfort seems momentarily to have subsided. He rises now,crosses to the bathroom.  As he pees, a breeze outside the window, the wind again, but then the Voice comes up:      VOICE (V.O.) Yes... It isunmistakably a Voice, it is not the wind, Parrish has heard something, he looks around, but no one is there.  He can't finish peeing, turns back to his


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Eastern Standard Tribe, by Cory DoctorowThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.net** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook, Details Below ****     Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file.     **Title:Eastern Standard TribeAuthor: Cory DoctorowRelease Date: November 20, 2005 [EBook #17028]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERGEBOOK EASTERN STANDARD TRIBE ***Eastern Standard TribeCory DoctorowCopyright 2004 CoryDoctorowdoctorow@craphound.comhttp://www.craphound.com/estTor Books, March 2004ISBN: 0765307596--=======Blurbs:======="Utterlycontemporary and deeply peculiar -- a hard combination to beat(or, these days, to find)."- William Gibson,Author of Neuromancer--"Cory Doctorow knocks meout. In a good way."- Pat Cadigan,Author of Synners--"Cory Doctorow is just far enough ahead of the game to give you that authenticchill of the future, and closeenough to home for us to know that he's talkingabout where we live as well as where we're going to live; a connected worldfull of disconnected people. One ofwhom is about to lobotomise himself throughthe nostril with a pencil. Funny as hell and sharp as steel."- Warren Ellis,Author ofTransmetropolitan--=======================A note about this book:=======================Last year, in January 2003, my first novel [http://craphound.com/down ] cameout. I was 31 years old, and I'd been calling myself a novelist since the age of12. It was the storied dream-of-a-lifetime,come-true-at-last. I was and amproud as hell of that book, even though it is just one book among many releasedlast year, better than some, poorer than others;and even though the print-run(which sold out very quickly!) though generous by science fiction standards,hardly qualifies it as a work of mass entertainment.Thething that's extraordinary about that first novel is that it was releasedunder terms governed by a Creative Commons [ http://creativecommons.org ]license thatallowed my readers to copy the book freely and distribute it farand wide. Hundreds of thousands of copies of the book were made and distributedthis way.*Hundreds* of *thousands*.Today, I release my second novel, and my third [http://www.argosymag.com/NextIssue.html ], a collaboration with Charlie Strossisdue any day, and two [http://www.fantasticmetropolis.com/show.html?fn.preview_doctorow ] more [http://www.craphound.com/usrbingodexcerpt.txt ] areunder contract. My career asa novelist is now well underway -- in other words, I am firmly afoot on a longroad that stretches into the future: my future, sciencefiction's future,publishing's future and the future of the world.The future is my business, more or less. I'm a science fiction writer. One wayto know the future is tolook good and hard at the present. Here's a thing I'venoticed about the present: MORE PEOPLE ARE READING MORE WORDS OFF OF MORESCREENS THAN EVERBEFORE. Here's another thing I've noticed about the present:FEWER PEOPLE ARE READING FEWER WORDS OFF OF FEWER PAGES THAN EVER BEFORE.Thatdoesn't mean that the book is *dying* -- no more than the advent of the printingpress and the de-emphasis of Bible-copying monks meant that the book wasdying-- but it does mean that the book is changing. I think that *literature* isalive and well: we're reading our brains out! I just think that the complexsocialpractice of "book" -- of which a bunch of paper pages between two coversis the mere expression -- is transforming and will transform further.I intend on figuringout what it's transforming into. I intend on figuring outthe way that some writers -- that *this writer*, right here, wearing myunderwear -- is going to get rich andfamous from his craft. I intend onfiguring out how *this writer's* words can become part of the social discourse,can be relevant in the way that literature at itsbest can be.I don't know what the future of book looks like. To figure it out, I'm doingsome pretty basic science. I'm peering into this opaque, inscrutable systemofpublishing as it sits in the year 2004, and I'm making a perturbation. I'mstirring the pot to see what surfaces, so that I can see if the system revealsitself to meany more thoroughly as it roils. Once that happens, maybe I'll beable to formulate an hypothesis and try an experiment or two and maybe -- justmaybe -- I'll getto the bottom of book-in-2004 and beat the competition tomaking it work, and maybe I'll go home with all (or most) of the marbles.It's a long shot, but I'm apretty sharp guy, and I know as much about thisstuff as anyone out there. More to the point, trying stuff and doing researchyields a non-zero chance of success.The alternatives -- sitting pat, or worse,getting into a moral panic about "piracy" and accusing the readers who areblazing new trail of "the moral equivalent ofshoplifting" -- have a *zero*percent chance of success.Most artists never "succeed" in the sense of attaining fame and modest fortune.A career in the arts is arisky long-shot kind of business. I'm doing what I canto sweeten my odds.So here we are, and here is novel number two, a book called Eastern StandardTribe,which you can walk into shops all over the world and buy [http://craphound.com/est/buy.php ] as a physical artifact -- a very nicephysical artifact, designed byChesley-award-winning art director Irene Galloand her designer Shelley Eshkar, published by Tor Books, a huge, profit-makingarm of an enormous, multinationalpublishing concern. Tor is watching whathappens to this book nearly as keenly as I am, because we're all very interestedin what the book is turning into.To thatend, here is the book as a non-physical artifact. A file. A bunch oftext, slithery bits that can cross the world in an instant, using the Internet,a tool designed tocopy things very quickly from one place to another; and usingpersonal computers, tools designed to slice, dice and rearrange collections ofbits. These toolsdemand that their users copy and slice and dice -- rip, mixand burn! -- and that's what I'm hoping you will do with this.Not (just) because I'm a swell guy, abig-hearted slob. Not because Tor is runby addlepated dot-com refugees who have been sold some snake-oil about thee-book revolution. Because you -- thereaders, the slicers, dicers and copiers-- hold in your collective action the secret of the future of publishing.Writers are a dime a dozen. Everybody's got a novel inher or him. Readers are aprecious commodity. You've got all the money and all the attention and you runthe word-of-mouth network that marks the differencebetween a little book, soonforgotten, and a book that becomes a lasting piece of posterity for its author,changing the world in some meaningful way.I'munashamedly exploiting your imagination. Imagine me a new practice of book,readers. Take this novel and pass it from inbox to inbox, through your IMclients,over P2P networks. Put it on webservers. Convert it to weird, obscureebook formats. Show me -- and my colleagues, and my publisher -- what the futureof booklooks like.I'll keep on writing them if you keep on reading them. But as cool and wonderfulas writing is, it's not half so cool as inventing the future. Thanks forhelpingme do it.Here's a summary of the license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 Attribution. The licensor permits others to copy, distribute,display, and perform the work. In return, licensees must give the original author credit. No Derivative Works. The licensor permits others to copy, distribute,display and perform only unaltered copies of the work -- not derivative works based on it. Noncommercial. The licensor permits others to copy, distribute, display,and perform the work. In return, licensees may not use the work for commercial purposes -- unless they get the licensor's permission.And here's the licenseitself: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0-legalcode THE WORK (AS DEFINED BELOW) IS PROVIDED UNDER THE TERMS OF THIS CREATIVECOMMONS PUBLIC LICENSE ("CCPL" OR "LICENSE"). THE WORK IS PROTECTED BY COPYRIGHT AND/OR OTHER APPLICABLE LAW. ANY USE OF THE WORKOTHER THAN AS AUTHORIZED UNDER THIS LICENSE IS PROHIBITED. BY EXERCISING ANY RIGHTS TO THE WORK PROVIDED HERE, YOU ACCEPT AND AGREETO BE BOUND BY THE TERMS OF THIS LICENSE. THE LICENSOR GRANTS YOU THE RIGHTS CONTAINED HERE IN CONSIDERATION OF YOUR ACCEPTANCE OFSUCH TERMS AND CONDITIONS. 1. Definitions a. "Collective Work" means a work, such as a periodical issue, anthology or encyclopedia, in which the Work in itsentirety in unmodified form, along with a number of other contributions, constituting separate and independent works in themselves, are assembled into acollective whole. A work that constitutes a Collective Work will not be considered a Derivative Work (as defined below) for the purposes of this License. b."Derivative Work" means a work based upon the Work or upon the Work and other pre-existing works, such as a translation, musical arrangement, dramatization,fictionalization, motion picture version, sound recording, art reproduction, abridgment, condensation, or any other form in which the Work may be recast,transformed, or adapted, except that a work that constitutes a Collective Work will not be considered a Derivative Work for the purpose of this License. c."Licensor" means the individual or entity that offers the Work under the terms of this License. d. "Original Author" means the individual or entity who created theWork. e. "Work" means the copyrightable work of authorship offered under the terms of this License. f. "You" means an individual or entity exercising rights underthis License who has not previously violated the terms of this License with respect to the Work, or who has received express permission from the Licensor toexercise rights under this License despite a previous violation. 2. Fair Use Rights. Nothing in this license is intended to reduce, limit, or restrict any rights arisingfrom fair use, first sale or other limitations on the exclusive rights of the copyright owner under copyright law or other applicable laws. 3. License Grant. Subjectto the terms and conditions of this License, Licensor hereby grants You a worldwide, royalty-free, non-exclusive, perpetual (for the duration of the applicablecopyright) license to exercise the rights in the Work as stated below: a. to reproduce the Work, to incorporate the Work into one or more Collective Works, and toreproduce the Work as incorporated in the Collective Works; b. to distribute copies or phonorecords of, display publicly, perform publicly, and perform publicly bymeans of a digital audio transmission the Work including as incorporated in Collective Works; The above rights may be exercised in all media and formats whethernow known or hereafter devised. The above rights include the right to make such modifications as are technically necessary to exercise the rights in other mediaand formats. All rights not expressly granted by Licensor are hereby reserved. 4. Restrictions. The license granted in Section 3 above is expressly made subject to


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                                     DIE HARD 2                                     Written by                                  Doug Richardson                                    Revisionsby                                 Steven E. de Souza                                                        SHOOTING SCRIPT                                                      November16, 1989                                                                           (X)                         DIE HARD 2          WHILE WE'RE IN BLACK we HEAR aPNEUMATIC "KA-CHUNK" and then                         MCCLANE'S VOICE          Holy shit, whoa, whoa -                         FADE IN:          1EXT. DULLES TERMINAL - DAY 1          JOHN MCCLANE, long topcoat FLAPPING, comes running out of the          terminal towards an AIRPORT COP in plasticcovered uniform who is          supervising a TOW TRUCK DRIVER who in turn is manhandling a          sedate sedan with Virginia plates and a "GRANDMOTHER ONBOARD"          sign on the rear window.                         MCCLANE          I'm here, I'm here, false alarm, let's          just let her down nice and easy-                         COP          Sure. At the impound lot.                         (POINTING)          Next time, read thesign.                         MCCLANE          You don't understand, I'm just meeting          my wife's-plane - you gotta give me          this carback.                         COP          Sure. Tomorrow 8 to four, you pay          40 bucks, we give it back.                         MCCLANE          This ismy mother in law's car. She          already hates me because I'm not a                         DENTIST