MIAMI VICE Written by Michael Mann Based on \"MiamiVice\" created by Anthony Yerkovich FirstDraft 9/22/04 WGAw FADEIN: FADE IN: EXT. OCEAN - CLOSE UP: WATER - MORNING LIGHT We are at the delicate interface between ocean and air...liquidand gas...the event horizon where molecules evaporate. This interchange is ethereal. Then, low frequencies rumble through depths...louder...closer,now... And the ocean surface is torn by a 46-foot catamaran and the ROAR of 2,700 horsepower, rocketing at us at 140 knots... OFFSHORERACER: \"BORN TO WIN\" in PROFILE. AERIAL: \"BORN TO WIN\" ...has a canopy, low like a B-1 bomber and extends a half mile. It launchesoff two-foot swells, goes airborne, pushes to 150 knots with another 1,100 RPM left... INT. RACE BOAT - SONNY CROCKETT pilots the \"Born to Win\"in full helmet. On the throttle and flaps is RICARDO TUBBS... EXT. OCEAN - \"BORN TO WIN\" leads the frontrunners towards a finish linedemarcated by a couple of $10 million yachts loaded with media. At the last moment occurs a small power loss, and \"Born to Win\" gets nosed into secondplace by the 46-foot Skater, \"Goddess\"... CUT TO: EXT. MARINA - \"BORN TO WIN\" - LATER thunders to"}
{"doc_id":"doc_1","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Purple Cloud, by M.P. ShielThis 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 Purple CloudAuthor: M.P. ShielRelease Date: February 22, 2004 [EBook #11229]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK THE PURPLE CLOUD ***Produced by Suzanne Shell, Garrett Alley, Maria Khomenko and PGDistributed ProofreadersTHE PURPLECLOUDByM.P. Shiel1901[Greek: estai kai Samos ammos, eseitai Daelos adaelos]_Sibylline Prophecy_INTRODUCTIONAbout three months ago--that is to say,toward the end of May of thisyear of 1900--the writer whose name appears on the title-page receivedas noteworthy a letter, and packet of papers, as it has beenhis lot toexamine. They came from a very good friend of mine, whose name there isno reason that I should now conceal--Dr. Arthur Lister Browne, M.A.(Oxon.),F.R.C.P. It happened that for two years I had been spendingmost of my time in France, and as Browne had a Norfolk practice, I hadnot seen him during my visitsto London. Moreover, though our friendshipwas of the most intimate kind, we were both atrocious correspondents: sothat only two notes passed between usduring those years.Till, last May, there reached me the letter--and the packet--to which Irefer. The packet consisted of four note-books, quite crowdedthroughoutwith those giddy shapes of Pitman's shorthand, whose_ensemble_ so resembles startled swarms hovering in flighty poses on thewing. They were scribbled inpencil, with little distinction betweenthick and thin strokes, few vowels: so that their slow deciphering, Ican assure the reader, has been no holiday. The letter alsowaspencilled in shorthand; and this letter, together with the second of thenote-books which I have deciphered (it was marked 'III.'), I nowpublish.[I must say,however, that in some five instances there will occursentences rather crutched by my own guess-work; and in two instances thecharacters were so impossiblymystical, that I had to abandon thepassage with a head-ache. But all this will be found immaterial to thegeneral narrative.]The following is Browne's letter:'DEAROLD SHIEL,--I have just been lying thinking of you, and wishingthat you were here to give one a last squeeze of the hand beforeI--\"_go_\": for, by all appearance,\"going\" I am. Four days ago, I beganto feel a soreness in the throat, and passing by old Johnson's surgeryat Selbridge, went in and asked him to have a look atme. He mutteredsomething about membranous laryngitis which made me smile, but by thetime I reached home I was hoarse, and not smiling: before night Ihaddyspnoca and laryngeal stridor. I at once telegraphed to London forMorgan, and, between him and Johnson, they have been opening my trachea,and burningmy inside with chromic acid and the galvanic cautery. Thedifficulty as to breathing has subsided, and it is wonderful how littleI suffer: but I am much too old ahand not to know what's what: thebronchi are involved--_too far_ involved--and as a matter of absolutefact, there isn't any hope. Morgan is still, I believe, fondlydwellingupon the possibility of adding me to his successful-tracheotomystatistics, but prognosis was always my strong point, and I say No. Thevery smallconsolation of my death will be the beating of a specialistin his own line. So we shall see.'I have been arranging some of my affairs this morning, andrememberedthese notebooks. I intended letting you have them months ago, but myhabit of putting things off, and the fact that the lady was alive fromwhom Itook down the words, prevented me. Now she is dead, and as aliterary man, and a student of life, you should be interested, if youcan manage to read them. Youmay even find them valuable.'I am under a little morphia at present, propped up in a nice littlestate of languor, and as I am able to write without much effort, Iwilltell you in the old Pitman's something about her. Her name was Miss MaryWilson; she was about thirty when I met her, forty-five when she died,and I knewher intimately all those fifteen years. Do you know anythingabout the philosophy of the hypnotic trance? Well, that was the relationbetween us--hypnotist andsubject. She had been under another man beforemy time, but no one was ever so successful with her as I. She sufferedfrom _tic douloureux_ of the fifth nerve.She had had most of her teethdrawn before I saw her, and an attempt had been made to wrench out thenerve on the left side by the external scission. But itmade nodifference: all the clocks in hell tick-tacked in that poor woman's jaw,and it was the mercy of Providence that ever she came across _me_.Myorganisation was found to have almost complete, and quite easy, controlover hers, and with a few passes I could expel her Legion.'Well, you never saw anyoneso singular in personal appearance as myfriend, Miss Wilson. Medicine-man as I am, I could never behold hersuddenly without a sensation of shock: shesuggested so inevitably whatwe call \"the _other_ world,\" one detecting about her some odour of theworm, with the feeling that here was rather ghost thanwoman. And yet Ican hardly convey to you the why of this, except by dry details as tothe contours of her lofty brow, meagre lips, pointed chin, and ashencheeks.She was tall and deplorably emaciated, her whole skeleton,except the thigh-bones, being quite visible. Her eyes were of the bluishhue of cigarette smoke, andhad in them the strangest, feeble, unearthlygaze; while at thirty-five her paltry wisp of hair was quite white.'She was well-to-do, and lived alone in old WoodingManor-house, fivemiles from Ash Thomas. As you know, I was \"beginning\" in these parts atthe time, and soon took up my residence at the manor. She insistedthatI should devote myself to her alone; and that one patient constitutedthe most lucrative practice which I ever had.'Well, I quickly found that, in the state oftrance, Miss Wilsonpossessed very remarkable powers: remarkable, I mean, not, of course,because peculiar to herself in _kind_, but because they weresoconstant, reliable, exact, and far-reaching, in degree. The veriestfledgling in psychical science will now sit and discourse finically toyou about the reportingpowers of the mind in its trance state--just asthough it was something quite new! This simple fact, I assure you, whichthe Psychical Research Society, only afterendless investigation, admitsto be scientific, has been perfectly well known to every old crone sincethe Middle Ages, and, I assume, long previously. What anunnecessary airof discovery! The certainty that someone in trance in Manchester cantell you what is going on in London, or in Pekin, was not, of course,left to theacumen of an office in Fleet Street; and the society, inestablishing the fact beyond doubt for the general public, has not goneone step toward explaining it. Theyhave, in fact, revealed nothing thatmany of us did not, with absolute assurance, know before.'But talking of poor Miss Wilson, I say that her powerswere_remarkable_, because, though not exceptional in _genre_, they were sospecial in quantity,--so \"constant,\" and \"far-reaching.\" I believe it tobe a fact that,_in general_, the powers of trance manifest themselvesmore particularly with regard to space, as distinct from time: thespirit roams in the present--it travelsover a plain--it does not_usually_ attract the interest of observers by great ascents, or bygreat descents. I fancy that is so. But Miss Wilson's gift was specialtothis extent, that she travelled in every direction, and easily in allbut one, north and south, up and down, in the past, the present, and thefuture.This I discovered,not at once, but gradually. She would emit a streamof sounds in the trance state--I can hardly call it _speech_, somurmurous, yet guttural, was the utterance,mixed with puffybreath-sounds at the languid lips. This state was accompanied by anintense contraction of the pupils, absence of the knee-jerk,considerablerigor, and a rapt and arrant expression. I got into thehabit of sitting long hours at her bed-side, quite fascinated by her,trying to catch the import of that opiateand visionary language whichcame puffing and fluttering in deliberate monotone from her lips.Gradually, in the course of months, my ear learned to detect thewords;\"the veil was rent\" for me also; and I was able to follow somewhat thecourse of her musing and wandering spirit.At the end of six months I heard her oneday repeat some words whichwere familiar to me. They were these: \"Such were the arts by which theRomans extended their conquests, and attained the palm ofvictory; andthe concurring testimony of different authors enables us to describethem with precision...\" I was startled: they are part of Gibbon's\"Decline and Fall,\"which I easily guessed that she had never read.I said in a stern voice: \"Where are you?\"She replied, \"Us are in a room, eight hundred and eleven miles above.Aman is writing. Us are reading.\"I may tell you two things: first, that in trance she never spoke ofherself as \"I,\" nor even as \"we,\" but, for some unknown reason,in the_objective_ way, as \"_us_\": \"us are,\" she would say--\"us will,\" \"uswent\"; though, of course, she was an educated lady, and I don't thinkever lived in theWest of England, where they say \"us\" in that way;secondly, when wandering in the past, she always represented herself asbeing \"_above_\" (the earth?), andhigher the further back in time shewent; in describing present events she appears to have felt herself _on_(the earth); while, as regards the future, she invariablydeclared that\"_us_\" were so many miles \"within\" (the earth).To her excursions in this last direction, however, there seemed to existcertain fixed limits: I sayseemed, for I cannot be sure, and only meanthat, in spite of my efforts, she never, in fact, went far in thisdirection. Three, four thousand \"miles\" were commonfigures on her lipsin describing her distance \"above\"; but her distance \"within\" never gotbeyond sixty-three. Usually, she would say twenty, twenty-five.Sheappeared, in relation to the future, to resemble a diver in the deepsea, who, the deeper he strives, finds a more resistant pressure, till,at no great depth,resistance becomes prohibition, and he can no furtherstrive.'I am afraid I can't go on: though I had a good deal to tell you aboutthis lady. During fifteen years, offand on, I sat listening by her dimbed-side to her murmuring trances! At last my expert ear could detectthe sense of her faintest sigh. I heard the \"Decline andFall\" frombeginning to end. Some of her reports were the most frivolous nonsense:over others I have hung in a horror of interest. Certainly, my friend, Ihaveheard some amazing words proceed from those wan lips of MaryWilson. Sometimes I could hitch her repeatedly to any scene or subjectthat I chose by the mereexercise of my will; at others, the flightywaywardness of her spirit eluded and baffled me: she resisted--shedisobeyed: otherwise I might have sent you, not fournote-books, buttwenty, or forty. About the fifth year it struck me that it would bewell to jot down her more connected utterances, since I knew shorthand.Thenote-book marked \"I.,\" [1] which seems to me the most curious,belongs to the seventh year. Its history, like those of the other three,is this: I heard her one"}
{"doc_id":"doc_2","qid":"","text":"Basic Instinct Script at IMSDb.
BASIC INSTINCT by JOEESZTERHAS INT. A BEDROOM - NIGHT It is dark; we don't see clearly. a man and woman make love on abrass bed. There are mirrors on the walls and ceiling. On a side table, atop a small mirror, lines of cocaine. A tape deck PLAYS the Stones\"Sympathy for the Devil.\" Atop him... she straddles his chest... her breasts in his face. He cups her breasts. She leans down, kisseshim... JOHNNY BOZ is in his late 40's, slim, good-looking. We don't see the woman's face. She has long blonde hair. The CAMERA STAYSBEHIND and to the side of them. She leans close over his face, her tongue in his mouth... she kisses him... she moves her hands up, holds both ofhis arms above his head. She moves higher atop him... she reaches to the side of the bed... a white silk scarf is in her hand... her hips abovehis face now, moving... slightly, oh-so slightly... his face strains towards her. The scarf in her hand... she ties his hands withit... gently... to the brass bed... his eyes are closed... tighter... lowering hips into his face... lower... over his chest... his navel. The SONGplays. He is inside her... his head arches back... his throat white. She arches her back... her hips grind... her breasts are high... Her back"}
{"doc_id":"doc_3","qid":"","text":"Minority Report Script at IMSDb.
\"MINORITY REPORT\" -- Aug 15th 1997 rewrite by Jon Cohen
\"MINORITY REPORT\" -- Aug 15th 1997 rewrite by JonCohen DARKNESS And then, slowly emerging from the mists of darkness, a pale, beautifully proportionedFACE. The oval face is female, a woman of indeterminate age, her features as fragile as porcelain. Her eyes are closed in sleep, orin death ... or in something in between. Now TWO MORE FACES emerge out of the darkness. They are male, and they float into position oneither side of the female. They are just as ethereally beautiful, just as pale, and like the female their eyes are closed. The ghostlylips of the female begin to twitch. Her features, which have been expressionless, suddenly contort, mask-like, into the face of a woman infear. Her eyes open. The male face on her right contorts too. His features warp into an angry snarl -- the mask of a man enraged. Hiseyes open. The male face on her left takes on the expression of a young boy, a boy who is terribly frightened. His eyes openwide. As if they are lost in the same terrible waking dream, a sudden and unnerving exchange begins... FEMALE (frightened woman) JOHNNY,"}
{"doc_id":"doc_4","qid":"","text":"Dry White Season, A Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga =document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www')+ '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })();
A DRY WHITESEASON Rewrite by EUZHAN PALCY May 1987 Revised First Draft FOR EDUCATIONAL PURPOSESONLY\"IN THE WHOLE WORLDTHERE IS NOT A SINGLEPOOR DEVIL WHO IS LYNCHED,NOT ONE MISERABLEMANWHO IS TORTURED IN WHOMI TOO, I AM NOT MURDEREDAND DEGRADED.\" AimeCesairePRE-TITLE:FADE IN:EXT. DAN PIENAAR SECONDARY SCHOOL FOR BOYS - DAYDan Pienaar school is a typicalJohannesburg Afrikaanschool. The students are mainly from middle-classfamilies. School athletics are in progress. The stu-dents, in their smart school uniforms,are cheeringenthusiastically a relay race on the immaculately-keptsports ground.GORDON NGUBENE, a 47-years-old African laborer is work-ing in the schoolgarden. A few feet away is his 15-years-old son JONATHAN leaning against a wall watchingthe games.BEN DU TOIT, a 50-year-old Afrikaaner history teacher,isenthusiastically cheering his son JOHAN, a 15-years-old,who is leading neck-and-neck with another boy in the lastleg of the race. The excitement increases astheyapproach the tape. Ben is beside himself, egging his sonwith shouts. The young teacher, VIVIERS, standing nextto Ben, is shouting \"come on Johan,\" andslapping thefather on the back.Johan breasts the tape just ahead of the other boy. Theground is invaded by boys running to congratulate Johan.Ben hurriestowards his happy but exhausted son; the proudfather pushing his way through the animated boys. As hereaches Johan he pats him on the"}
{"doc_id":"doc_5","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Story of Miss Moppet, by Beatrix PotterThis 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.netTitle: The Story of Miss MoppetAuthor: Beatrix PotterRelease Date: January 31, 2005 [EBook #14848]Language: English*** START OF THISPROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF MISS MOPPET ***Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG OnlineDistributed ProofreadingTeam (http://www.pgdp.net).[Illustration][Illustration]THE STORY OF MISS MOPPETBY BEATRIX POTTER_Author of \"The Tale of Peter Rabbit,\"etc_[Illustration]FREDERICK WARNEFirst published 19061906 by Frederick Warne & Co.Printed and bound in Great Britain byWilliam Clowes Limited, Beccles andLondon[Illustration]This is a Pussy called Miss Moppet, she thinks she has heard a mouse!This is the Mouse peeping out behind the cupboard, and making fun ofMissMoppet. He is not afraid of a kitten.[Illustration][Illustration]This is Miss Moppet jumping just too late; she misses the Mouse and hitsher own head.Shethinks it is a very hard cupboard![Illustration][Illustration]The Mouse watches Miss Moppet from the top of the cupboard.Miss Moppet ties up her head in a duster,and sits before the fire.[Illustration]The Mouse thinks she is looking very ill. He comes sliding down thebell-pull.[Illustration][Illustration]Miss Moppet looks worseand worse. The Mouse comes a little nearer.[Illustration]Miss Moppet holds her poor head in her paws, and looks at him through ahole in the duster. The Mousecomes _very_ close.And then all of a sudden--Miss Moppet jumps upon the Mouse![Illustration][Illustration]And because the Mouse has teased Miss Moppet--MissMoppet thinks she willtease the Mouse; which is not at all nice of Miss Moppet.She ties him up in the duster, and tosses it about like a ball.[Illustration]But sheforgot about that hole in the duster; and when she untiedit--there was no Mouse![Illustration][Illustration]He has wriggled out and run away; and he is dancing ajig on the top ofthe cupboard!End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of Miss Moppet, by Beatrix Potter*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORYOF MISS MOPPET ******** This file should be named 14848.txt or 14848.zip *****This and all associated files of various formats will be foundin: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/4/8/4/14848/Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team(http://www.pgdp.net).Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed.Creating the works from public domain print editionsmeans that noone owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States withoutpermissionand without paying copyright royalties. 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{"doc_id":"doc_6","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fanshawe, by Nathaniel HawthorneThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostother parts ofthe world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project Gutenberg Licenseincluded with this 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 arelocated before using this ebook.Title: FanshaweAuthor: Nathaniel HawthornePosting Date: September 13, 2014 [EBook #7085]Release Date: December,2004First Posted: March 8, 2003Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANSHAWE ***Produced by Eric Eldred, Charles Franks andthe OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team.FANSHAWEBYNATHANIEL HAWTHORNE[Illustration]INTRODUCTORY NOTE.FANSHAWE.In 1828, three years aftergraduating from Bowdoin College, Hawthornepublished his first romance, \"Fanshawe.\" It was issued at Boston by Marsh& Capen, but made little or no impressionon the public. The motto on thetitle-page of the original was from Southey: \"Wilt thou go on with me?\"Afterwards, when he had struck into the vein of fiction thatcame to beknown as distinctively his own, he attempted to suppress this youthfulwork, and was so successful that he obtained and destroyed all but a fewof thecopies then extant.Some twelve years after his death it was resolved, in view of the interestmanifested in tracing the growth of his genius from the beginning ofhisactivity as an author, to revive this youthful romance; and the reissue of\"Fanshawe\" was then made.Little biographical interest attaches to it, beyond the factthat Mr.Longfellow found in the descriptions and general atmosphere of the book adecided suggestion of the situation of Bowdoin College, at Brunswick,Maine,and the life there at the time when he and Hawthorne were bothundergraduates of that institution.Professor Packard, of Bowdoin College, who was then in chargeof the studyof English literature, and has survived both of his illustrious pupils,recalls Hawthorne's exceptional excellence in the composition of English,even atthat date (1821-1825); and it is not impossible that Hawthorneintended, through the character of Fanshawe, to present some faintprojection of what he thenthought might be his own obscure history. Evenwhile he was in college, however, and meditating perhaps the slenderelements of this first romance, hisfellow-student Horatio Bridge, whose\"Journal of an African Cruiser\" he afterwards edited, recognized in himthe possibilities of a writer of fiction--a fact to whichHawthornealludes in the dedicatory Preface to \"The Snow-Image.\"G. P. L.FANSHAWE * * * * *CHAPTER I. \"Our court shall be a littleAcademe.\"--SHAKESPEARE.In an ancient though not very populous settlement, in a retired corner ofone of the New England States, arise the walls of a seminaryof learning,which, for the convenience of a name, shall be entitled \"Harley College.\"This institution, though the number of its years is inconsiderablecomparedwith the hoar antiquity of its European sisters, is not withoutsome claims to reverence on the score of age; for an almost countlessmultitude of rivals, by many ofwhich its reputation has been eclipsed,have sprung up since its foundation. At no time, indeed, during anexistence of nearly a century, has it acquired a veryextensive fame; andcircumstances, which need not be particularized, have, of late years,involved it in a deeper obscurity. There are now few candidates forthedegrees that the college is authorized to bestow. On two of its annual\"Commencement Days,\" there has been a total deficiency of baccalaureates;and thelawyers and divines, on whom doctorates in their respectiveprofessions are gratuitously inflicted, are not accustomed to consider thedistinction as an honor. Yetthe sons of this seminary have alwaysmaintained their full share of reputation, in whatever paths of life theytrod. Few of them, perhaps, have been deep andfinished scholars; but thecollege has supplied--what the emergencies of the country demanded--a setof men more useful in its present state, and whosedeficiency intheoretical knowledge has not been found to imply a want of practicalability.The local situation of the college, so far secluded from the sight andsoundof the busy world, is peculiarly favorable to the moral, if not tothe literary, habits of its students; and this advantage probably causedthe founders to overlook theinconveniences that were inseparablyconnected with it. The humble edifices rear themselves almost at thefarthest extremity of a narrow vale, which, windingthrough a long extentof hill-country, is wellnigh as inaccessible, except at one point, as theHappy Valley of Abyssinia. A stream, that farther on becomesaconsiderable river, takes its rise at, a short distance above the college,and affords, along its wood-fringed banks, many shady retreats, whereeven study ispleasant, and idleness delicious. The neighborhood of theinstitution is not quite a solitude, though the few habitations scarcelyconstitute a village. These consistprincipally of farm-houses, of ratheran ancient date (for the settlement is much older than the college), andof a little inn, which even in that secluded spot doesnot fail of amoderate support. Other dwellings are scattered up and down the valley;but the difficulties of the soil will long avert the evils of a toodensepopulation. The character of the inhabitants does not seem--as there was,perhaps, room to anticipate--to be in any degree influenced by theatmosphere ofHarley College. They are a set of rough and hardy yeomen,much inferior, as respects refinement, to the corresponding classes inmost other parts of our country.This is the more remarkable, as there isscarcely a family in the vicinity that has not provided, for at least oneof its sons, the advantages of a \"liberaleducation.\"Having thus described the present state of Harley College, we must proceedto speak of it as it existed about eighty years since, when itsfoundationwas recent, and its prospects flattering. At the head of the institution,at this period, was a learned and Orthodox divine, whose fame was in allthechurches. He was the author of several works which evinced mucherudition and depth of research; and the public, perhaps, thought the morehighly of his abilitiesfrom a singularity in the purposes to which heapplied them, that added much to the curiosity of his labors, thoughlittle to their usefulness. But, however fancifulmight be his privatepursuits, Dr. Melmoth, it was universally allowed, was diligent andsuccessful in the arts of instruction. The young men of his chargeprosperedbeneath his eye, and regarded him with an affection that wasstrengthened by the little foibles which occasionally excited theirridicule. The president was assistedin the discharge of his duties by twoinferior officers, chosen from the alumni of the college, who, while theyimparted to others the knowledge they had alreadyimbibed, pursued thestudy of divinity under the direction of their principal. Under suchauspices the institution grew and flourished. Having at that time buttworivals in the country (neither of them within a considerable distance), itbecame the general resort of the youth of the Province in which it wassituated. Forseveral years in succession, its students amounted to nearlyfifty,--a number which, relatively to the circumstances of the country,was very considerable.From theexterior of the collegians, an accurate observer might prettysafely judge how long they had been inmates of those classic walls. Thebrown cheeks and the rusticdress of some would inform him that they hadbut recently left the plough to labor in a not less toilsome field; thegrave look, and the intermingling of garments ofa more classic cut, woulddistinguish those who had begun to acquire the polish of their newresidence; and the air of superiority, the paler cheek, the lessrobustform, the spectacles of green, and the dress, in general of threadbareblack, would designate the highest class, who were understood to haveacquirednearly all the science their Alma Mater could bestow, and to beon the point of assuming their stations in the world. There were, it istrue, exceptions to thisgeneral description. A few young men had foundtheir way hither from the distant seaports; and these were the models offashion to their rustic companions, overwhom they asserted a superiorityin exterior accomplishments, which the fresh though unpolished intellectof the sons of the forest denied them in their literarycompetitions. Athird class, differing widely from both the former, consisted of a fewyoung descendants of the aborigines, to whom an impracticablephilanthropywas endeavoring to impart the benefits of civilization.If this institution did not offer all the advantages of elder and prouderseminaries, its deficiencieswere compensated to its students by theinculcation of regular habits, and of a deep and awful sense of religion,which seldom deserted them in their coursethrough life. The mild andgentle rule of Dr. Melmoth, like that of a father over his children, wasmore destructive to vice than a sterner sway; and though youth isneverwithout its follies, they have seldom been more harmless than they werehere. The students, indeed, ignorant of their own bliss, sometimes wishedto hastenthe time of their entrance on the business of life; but theyfound, in after-years, that many of their happiest remembrances, many ofthe scenes which they wouldwith least reluctance live over again,referred to the seat of their early studies. The exceptions to this remarkwere chiefly those whose vices had drawn down, evenfrom that paternalgovernment, a weighty retribution.Dr. Melmoth, at the time when he is to be introduced to the reader, hadborne the matrimonial yoke (and inhis case it was no light burden) nearlytwenty years. The blessing of children, however, had been denied him,--acircumstance which he was accustomed toconsider as one of the soresttrials that checkered his pathway; for he was a man of a kind andaffectionate heart, that was continually seeking objects to restitselfupon. He was inclined to believe, also, that a common offspring would haveexerted a meliorating influence on the temper of Mrs. Melmoth, thecharacter ofwhose domestic government often compelled him to call to mindsuch portions of the wisdom of antiquity as relate to the proper enduranceof the shrewishness ofwoman. But domestic comforts, as well as comfortsof every other kind, have their drawbacks; and, so long as the balance ison the side of happiness, a wise manwill not murmur. Such was the opinionof Dr. Melmoth; and with a little aid from philosophy, and more fromreligion, he journeyed on contentedly through life.When the storm wasloud by the parlor hearth, he had always a sure and quiet retreat in hisstudy; and there, in his deep though not always useful labors, hesoonforgot whatever of disagreeable nature pertained to his situation. Thissmall and dark apartment was the only portion of the house to which, sinceone firmlyrepelled invasion, Mrs. Melmoth's omnipotence did not extend.Here (to reverse the words of Queen Elizabeth) there was \"but one masterand no mistress\"; andthat man has little right to complain who possessesso much as one corner in the world where he may be happy or miserable, asbest suits him. In his study, then,"}
{"doc_id":"doc_7","qid":"","text":"Wild Things: Diamonds in the Rough Script at IMSDb.
WILD THINGS: DIAMONDS IN THE ROUGH Written by Andy Hurst& Ross Helford INT. MUSEUM - DAY Aperfect rainbow is trapped inside two flawless DIAMONDS, glinting in the morning sun. Tounted on crushed velvet, the identicaldiamonds are on a glass covered pedal stool in the middle of a vast, marble MUSEUM HALL. The stunning beauty of the stones ismatched only by the breathtaking beauty of the young woman who's admiring them. MARIE CLIFFORD's creamy seventeen year old skin is dappled inthe cornucopia of colors emanating from the diamonds... She reaches out tentatively towards the glass case. Not to touch thediamonds, but to run her fingers over a picture that's mounted in the case below the priceless jewels. It's of a MOTHER cradling her BABYDAUGHTER... MARIE Today's the day, Mom... CURATOR(O.S.) You here again, Marie? Marie spins round, sees the bespectacled CURATOR, 60's, standing behindher. MARIE Just leaving. Marie carefully adjusts the sign atop the glass"}
{"doc_id":"doc_8","qid":"","text":"Cinema Paradiso Script at IMSDb.
CINEMA PARADISO by Giuseppe TornatoreCINEMAPARADISO by Giuseppe TornatoreFOR EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES ONLY Shooting Script 1 GIANCALDO. SALVATORE'S MOTHER'S HOUSE. EXT/INT. DAY The October sun slashes through the grayclouds, cuts across the shadow towards the sea, along the coast where the new suburbs of the city of Giancaldo have been built up. Bright lightstreams through the windows, glancing off the white walls in an almost blinding reflection. MARIA, a woman a little over sixty, is trying to find somebody on thephone. MARIA ...Salvatore, that's right, Salvatore. Di Vita Salvatore ...But, miss, what do you mean you don't know him?!...I...Yes... (Shegives a nervous sigh. She has dialed her way through endless numbers but still hasn't managed to speak to Mr. Di Vita. She finally heaves a sigh of relief.)...That's right, good for you! Oh!...yes...And I'm his mother. I'm calling from Sicily. Been trying all day...Ah, he's not there...But would you be so kind as to giveme...?...Yes... (She nods at another woman around forty sitting nearby: it is LIA, her daughter, who jots down the numbers her mother dictates:) ...Six, five, six,two, two, oh, six...Thanks ever so much...Goodbye. Goodbye. She hangs up, takes the number LIA has jotted down, determined to have still another"}
{"doc_id":"doc_9","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Last Chronicle of Barset, by AnthonyTrollopeThis 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 Last Chronicle of BarsetAuthor: Anthony TrollopeRelease Date: January, 2002 [eBook #3045][Most recently updated: December 1,2010]Language: English***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET***E-text prepared by Kenneth David Cooperandrevised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the 64 illustrations by George HousmanThomas from the First Edition (Smith, Elder and Co., 1867). See 3045-h.htm or3045-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/3045/3045-h/3045-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/3045/3045-h.zip)THE LAST CHRONICLEOF BARSETbyANTHONY TROLLOPEFirst published in monthly installments from December 1, 1866, toJuly 6, 1867, and in book form in 1867[Illustration: Mr.Crawley before the Magistrates. (Frontispiece)]CONTENTS I. How Did He Get It? II. By Heavens He Had Better Not! III. The Archdeacon'sThreat IV. The Clergyman's House at Hogglestock V. What the World Thought About It VI. Grace Crawley VII. Miss Prettyman's PrivateRoom VIII. Mr. Crawley Is Taken to Silverbridge IX. Grace Crawley Goes to Allington X. Dinner at Framley Court XI. The Bishop Sends HisInhibition XII. Mr. Crawley Seeks for Sympathy XIII. The Bishop's Angel XIV. Major Grantly Consults a Friend XV. Up in London XVI. Down atAllington XVII. Mr. Crawley Is Summoned to Barchester XVIII. The Bishop of Barchester Is Crushed XIX. Where Did It Come From? XX. What Mr.Walker Thought About It XXI. Mr. Robarts on His Embassy XXII. Major Grantly at Home XXIII. Miss Lily Dale's Resolution XXIV. Mrs. DobbsBroughton's Dinner-party XXV. Miss Madalina Demolines XXVI. The Picture XXVII. A Hero at Home XXVIII. Showing How Major Grantly Took aWalk XXIX. Miss Lily Dale's Logic XXX. Showing What Major Grantly Did After His Walk XXXI. Showing How Major Grantly Returned toGuestwick XXXII. Mr. Toogood XXXIII. The Plumstead Foxes XXXIV. Mrs. Proudie Sends for Her Lawyer XXXV. Lily Dale Writes Two Words in HerBook XXXVI. Grace Crawley Returns Home XXXVII. Hook Court XXXVIII. Jael XXXIX. A New Flirtation XL. Mr. Toogood's Ideas AboutSociety XLI. Grace Crawley at Home XLII. Mr. Toogood Travels Professionally XLIII. Mr. Crosbie Goes into the City XLIV. \"I Suppose I Must Let YouHave It\" XLV. Lily Dale Goes to London XLVI. The Bayswater Romance XLVII. Dr. Tempest at the Palace XLVIII. The Softness of Sir RaffleBuffle XLIX. Near the Close L. Lady Lufton's Proposition LI. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton Piles Her Fagots LII. Why Don't You Have an \"It\" forYourself? LIII. Rotten Row LIV. The Clerical Commission LV. Framley Parsonage LVI. The Archdeacon Goes to Framley LVII. A DoublePledge LVIII. The Cross-grainedness of Men LIX. A Lady Presents Her Compliments to Miss L. D. LX. The End of Jael and Sisera LXI. \"It's Doggedas Does It\" LXII. Mr. Crawley's Letter to the Dean LXIII. Two Visitors to Hogglestock LXIV. The Tragedy in Hook Court LXV. Miss Van Siever MakesHer Choice LXVI. Requiescat in Pace LXVII. In Memoriam LXVIII. The Obstinacy of Mr. Crawley LXIX. Mr. Crawley's Last Appearance in His OwnPulpit LXX. Mrs. Arabin Is Caught LXXI. Mr. Toogood at Silverbridge LXXII. Mr. Toogood at \"The Dragon of Wantly\" LXXIII. There Is Comfort atPlumstead LXXIV. The Crawleys Are Informed LXXV. Madalina's Heart Is Bleeding LXXVI. I Think He Is Light of Heart LXXVII. The ShatteredTree LXXVIII. The Arabins Return to Barchester LXXIX. Mr. Crawley Speaks of His Coat LXXX. Miss Demolines Desires to Become a Finger-post LXXXI.Barchester Cloisters LXXXII. The Last Scene at Hogglestock LXXXIII. Mr. Crawley Is Conquered LXXXIV. ConclusionTITLED ILLUSTRATIONS Mr. Crawleybefore the Magistrates. Frontispiece Mr. and Mrs. Crawley. Chapter I \"I love you as though you were my own,\" said theSchoolmistress. Chapter VI \"A convicted thief,\" repeated Mrs. Proudie. Chapter XI \"Speak out, Dan.\" Chapter XII GraceCrawley is introduced to Squire Dale. Chapter XVI Farmer Mangle and Mr. Crawley. Chapter XVII \"She's more like Eleanor than any oneelse.\" Chapter XXII \"I am very glad to have the opportunity of shaking hands with you.\" Chapter XXIV \"What do you think of it, Mrs.Broughton?\" Chapter XXVI Squire Dale and Major Grantly. Chapter XXVIII \"Never mind Mr. Henry.\" Chapter XXXIII Lily wishesthat they might swear to be Brother and Sister. Chapter XXXV She read the beginning--\"Dearest Grace.\" Chapter XXXVI \"Mamma, I've gotsomething to tell you.\" Chapter XLI Mr. Toogood and the old Waiter. Chapter XLII They pronounced her to be very much like aLady. Chapter XLV \"As right as a trivet, Uncle.\" Chapter XLVIII Posy and her Grandpapa. Chapter XLIX Mrs.Dobbs Broughton piles her Fagots. Chapter LI \"Because of Papa's disgrace.\" Chapter LV \"But it will never pass away,\" said Grace. ChapterLVII \"Honour thy Father,--that thy days may be long in the Land.\" Chapter LVIII \"It's dogged as does it.\" Chapter LXI Mrs.Proudie's Emissary. Chapter LXIII \"You do not know what starving is, my dear.\" Chapter LXV \"They will come to hear a ruined man declarehis own ruin.\" Chapter LXIX \"No sale after all?\" Chapter LXXI \"These are the young Hogglestockians, arethey?\" Chapter LXXIV The last Denial. Chapter LXXVII \"What is it that I behold?\" ChapterLXXX \"Peradventure he signifies his Consent.\" Chapter LXXXIICHAPTER I.HOW DID HE GET IT?[Illustration]\"I can never bring myself to believe it, John,\" saidMary Walker,the pretty daughter of Mr. George Walker, attorney of Silverbridge.Walker and Winthrop was the name of the firm, and they wererespectable people,who did all the solicitors' business that hadto be done in that part of Barsetshire on behalf of the Crown, wereemployed on the local business of the Duke ofOmnium who is great inthose parts, and altogether held their heads up high, as provinciallawyers often do. They,--the Walkers,--lived in a great brickhouse in themiddle of the town, gave dinners, to which the countygentlemen not unfrequently condescended to come, and in a mild wayled the fashion in Silverbridge. \"I cannever bring myself to believeit, John,\" said Miss Walker.\"You'll have to bring yourself to believe it,\" said John, withouttaking his eyes from his book.\"Aclergyman,--and such a clergyman too!\"\"I don't see that that has anything to do with it.\" And as he nowspoke, John did take his eyes off his book. \"Why shouldnot aclergyman turn thief as well as anybody else? You girls always seemto forget that clergymen are only men after all.\"\"Their conduct is likely to be better thanthat of other men, Ithink.\"\"I deny it utterly,\" said John Walker. \"I'll undertake to say thatat this moment there are more clergymen in debt in Barsetshirethanthere are either lawyers or doctors. This man has always been indebt. Since he has been in the county I don't think he has ever beenable to show his face inthe High Street of Silverbridge.\"\"John, that is saying more than you have a right to say,\" said Mrs.Walker.\"Why, mother, this very cheque was given to a butcherwho hadthreatened a few days before to post bills all about the county,giving an account of the debt that was due to him, if the money wasnot paid atonce.\"\"More shame for Mr. Fletcher,\" said Mary. \"He has made a fortune asbutcher in Silverbridge.\"\"What has that to do with it? Of course a man likes to havehismoney. He had written three times to the bishop, and he had senta man over to Hogglestock to get his little bill settled six daysrunning. You see he got it atlast. Of course, a tradesman must lookfor his money.\"\"Mamma, do you think that Mr. Crawley stole the cheque?\" Mary, as sheasked the question, came andstood over her mother, looking at herwith anxious eyes.\"I would rather give no opinion, my dear.\"\"But you must think something when everybody is talking aboutit,mamma.\"\"Of course my mother thinks he did,\" said John, going back to hisbook. \"It is impossible that she should think otherwise.\"\"That is not fair, John,\" saidMrs. Walker; \"and I won't have youfabricate thoughts for me, or put the expression of them into mymouth. The whole affair is very painful, and as your fatherisengaged in the inquiry, I think that the less said about the matterin this house the better. I am sure that that would be your father'sfeeling.\"\"Of course I shouldsay nothing about it before him,\" said Mary. \"Iknow that papa does not wish to have it talked about. But how is oneto help thinking about such a thing? It wouldbe so terrible for allof us who belong to the Church.\"\"I do not see that at all,\" said John. \"Mr. Crawley is not more thanany other man just because he's aclergyman. I hate all that kind ofclap-trap. There are a lot of people here in Silverbridge who thinkthe matter shouldn't be followed up, just because the man is inaposition which makes the crime more criminal in him than it would bein another.\"\"But I feel sure that Mr. Crawley has committed no crime at all,\"said Mary.\"Mydear,\" said Mrs. Walker, \"I have just said that I would ratheryou would not talk about it. Papa will be in directly.\"\"I won't, mamma;--only--\"\"Only! yes; just only!\"said John. \"She'd go on till dinner if anyone would stay to hear her.\"\"You've said twice as much as I have, John.\" But John had left theroom before his sister's lastwords could reach him.\"You know, mamma, it is quite impossible not to help thinking of it,\"said Mary.\"I dare say it is, my dear.\"\"And when one knows the peopleit does make it so dreadful.\"\"But do you know them? I never spoke to Mr. Crawley in my life, andI do not think I ever saw her.\"\"I knew Grace very well,--whenshe used to come first to MissPrettyman's school.\"\"Poor girl. I pity her.\"\"Pity her! Pity is no word for it, mamma. My heart bleeds for them.And yet I do not believefor a moment that he stole the cheque. Howcan it be possible? For though he may have been in debt because theyhave been so very, very poor; yet we all knowthat he has been anexcellent clergyman. When the Robartses were dining here last, Iheard Mrs. Robarts say that for piety and devotion to his duties shehadhardly ever seen any one equal to him. And the Robartses knowmore of them than anybody.\"\"They say that the dean is his great friend.\"\"What a pity it is that the"}
{"doc_id":"doc_10","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of Child Christopher, by William MorrisThis 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: Child ChristopherAuthor: William MorrisRelease Date: July 1, 2008 [EBook #234]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK CHILD CHRISTOPHER ***Produced by John HammCHILD CHRISTOPHER AND GOLDILIND THE FAIRby William Morris1895CHAPTER I. OF THEKING OF OAKENREALM, AND HIS WIFE AND HIS CHILD.Of old there was a land which was so much a woodland, that a minstrelthereof said it that a squirrel mightgo from end to end, and all about,from tree to tree, and never touch the earth: therefore was that landcalled Oakenrealm.The lord and king thereof was a starkman, and so great a warrior thatin his youth he took no delight in aught else save battle and tourneys.But when he was hard on forty years old, he came across adaughter ofa certain lord, whom he had vanquished, and his eyes bewrayed himinto longing, so that he gave back to the said lord the havings he hadconqueredof him that he might lay the maiden in his kingly bed. So hebrought her home with him to Oakenrealm and wedded her.Tells the tale that he rued not his bargain,but loved her so dearlythat for a year round he wore no armour, save when she bade him play inthe tilt-yard for her desport and pride.So wore the days till shewent with child and was near her time, andthen it betid that three kings who marched on Oakenrealm banded themtogether against him, and his lords and thanescried out on him to leadthem to battle, and it behoved him to do as they would.So he sent out the tokens and bade an hosting at his chief city, andwhen all wasready he said farewell to his wife and her babe unborn, andwent his ways to battle once more: but fierce was his heart against thefoemen, that they had draggedhim away from his love and his joy.Even amidst of his land he joined battle with the host of the ravagers,and the tale of them is short to tell, for they were as thewheat beforethe hook. But as he followed up the chase, a mere thrall of the fleersturned on him and cast his spear, and it reached him whereas his hawberkwasbroken, and stood deep in, so that he fell to earth unmighty: andwhen his lords and chieftains drew about him, and cunning men strove toheal him, it was of noavail, and he knew that his soul was departing.Then he sent for a priest, and for the Marshal of the host, who was agreat lord, and the son of his father's brother,and in few words badehim look to the babe whom his wife bore about, and if it were a man, tocherish him and do him to learn all that a king ought to know; and ifitwere a maiden, that he should look to her wedding well and worthily: andhe let swear him on his sword, on the edges and the hilts, that he woulddo even so,and be true unto his child if child there were: and he badehim have rule, if so be the lords would, and all the people, till thechild were of age to be king: and theMarshal swore, and all the lordswho stood around bare witness to his swearing. Thereafter the priesthouselled the King, and he received his Creator, and a littlewhileafter his soul departed.But the Marshal followed up the fleeing foe, and two battles more hefought before he beat them flat to earth; and then they cravedforpeace, and he went back to the city in mickle honour.But in the King's city of Oakenham he found but little joy; for boththe King was bemoaned, whereas hehad been no hard man to his folk; andalso, when the tidings and the King's corpse came back to Oakenrealm,his Lady and Queen took sick for sorrow and fear,and fell into labourof her child, and in childing of a man-bairn she died, but the ladlived, and was like to do well.So there was one funeral for the slain King and forher whom his slayinghad slain: and when that was done, the little king was borne to thefont, and at his christening he gat to name Christopher.Thereafter theMarshal summoned all them that were due thereto to comeand give homage to the new king, and even so did they, though he werebut a babe, yea, and who hadbut just now been a king lying in hismother's womb. But when the homage was done, then the Marshal calledtogether the wise men, and told them how the Kingthat was had given himin charge his son as then unborn, and the ruling of the realm till thesaid son were come to man's estate: but he bade them seek oneworthierif they had heart to gainsay the word of their dying lord. Then all theysaid that he was worthy and mighty and the choice of their dear lord,and that theywould have none but he.So then was the great folk-mote called, and the same matter was laidbefore all the people, and none said aught against it, whereas nomanwas ready to name another to that charge and rule, even had it been hisown self.Now then by law was the Marshal, who hight Rolf, lord and earl of theland ofOakenrealm. He ruled well and strongly, and was a fell warrior:he was well befriended by many of the great; and the rest of them fearedhim and his friends: asfor the commonalty, they saw that he held therealm in peace; and for the rest, they knew little and saw less of him,and they paid to his bailiffs and sheriffs aslittle as they could, andmore than they would. But whereas that left them somewhat to grind theirteeth on, and they were not harried, they were not so illcontent. Sothe Marshal throve, and lacked nothing of a king's place save the barename.CHAPTER II. OF THE KING'S SON.As for the King's son, to whom the folkhad of late done homage as king,he was at first seen about a corner of the High House with his nurses;and then in a while it was said, and the tale noted, but notmuch, thathe must needs go for his health's sake, and because he was puny, to somestead amongst the fields, and folk heard say that he was gone to thestronghouse of a knight somewhat stricken in years, who was called LordRichard the Lean. The said house was some twelve miles from Oakenham,not far from thenorthern edge of the wild-wood. But in a while, scarcemore than a year, Lord Richard brake up house at the said castle, andwent southward through the forest. Ofthis departure was little said,for he was not a man amongst the foremost. As for the King's little son,if any remembered that he was in the hands of the said LordRichard,none said aught about it; for if any thought of the little babe at all,they said to themselves, Never will he come to be king.Now as for Lord Richard theLean, he went far through the wood, anduntil he was come to another house of his, that stood in a clearingsomewhat near to where Oakenrealm marched onanother country, whichhight Meadham; though the said wild-wood ended not where Oakenrealmended, but stretched a good way into Meadham; and betwixt oneand theother much rough country there was.It is to be said that amongst those who went to this stronghold of thewoods was the little King Christopher, no longerpuny, but a stoutbabe enough: so he was borne amongst the serving men and thralls tothe castle of the Outer March; and he was in no wise treated as agreatman's son; but there was more than one woman who was kind to him, andas he waxed in strength and beauty month by month, both carle andquean fell tonoting him, and, for as little as he was, he began to bewell-beloved.As to the stead where he was nourished, though it were far away amongstthe woods, it wasno such lonely or savage place: besides the castle andthe houses of it, there was a merry thorpe in the clearing, the houseswhereof were set down by the side ofa clear and pleasant little stream.Moreover the goodmen and swains of the said township were no ill folk,but bold of heart, free of speech, and goodly of favour;and the womenof them fair, kind, and trusty. Whiles came folk journeying in toOakenrealm or out to Meadham, and of these some were minstrels, who hadwiththem tidings of what was astir whereas folk were thicker in theworld, and some chapmen, who chaffered with the thorpe-dwellers, andtook of them the woodlandspoil for such outland goods as those woodmenneeded.So wore the years, and in Oakenham King Christopher was well nighforgotten, and in the wild-wood hadnever been known clearly for King'sson. At first, by command of Rolf the Marshal, a messenger cameevery year from Lord Richard with a letter that told of howthe ladChristopher did. But when five years were worn, the Marshal bade sendhim tidings thereof every three years; and by then it was come to thetwelfth year,and still the tidings were that the lad throve ever, andmeanwhile the Marshal sat fast in his seat with none to gainsay, theword went to Lord Richard that heshould send no more, for that he, theMarshal, had heard enough of the boy; and if he throve it were well, andif not, it was no worse. So wore the days and theyears.CHAPTER III. OF THE KING OF MEADHAM AND HIS DAUGHTER.Tells the tale that in the country which lay south of Oakenrealm, andwas called Meadham,there was in these days a king whose wife was dead,but had left him a fair daughter, who was born some four years afterKing Christopher. A good man was thisKing Roland, mild, bounteous, andno regarder of persons in his justice; and well-beloved he was of hisfolk: yet could not their love keep him alive; for, whenashis daughterwas of the age of twelve years, he sickened unto death; and so, when heknew that his end drew near, he sent for the wisest of his wise men,andthey came unto him sorrowing in the High House of his chiefest city,which hight Meadhamstead. So he bade them sit down nigh unto his bed,and took up theword and spake:\"Masters, and my good lords, ye may see clearly that a sundering is athand, and that I must needs make a long journey, whence I shallcomeback never; now I would, and am verily of duty bound thereto, that Ileave behind me some good order in the land. Furthermore, I would thatmy daughter,when she is of age thereto, should be Queen in Meadham, andrule the land; neither will it be many years before she shall be of ripeage for ruling, if ever she maybe; and I deem not that there shall beany lack in her, whereas her mother could all courtesy, and was as wiseas a woman may be. But how say ye, mymasters?\"So they all with one consent said Yea, and they would ask for no betterking than their lady his daughter. Then said the King:\"Hearken carefully, for mytime is short: Yet is she young and a maiden,though she be wise. Now therefore do I need some man well looked to ofthe folk, who shall rule the land in hername till she be of eighteenwinters, and who shall be her good friend and counsellor into all wisdomthereafter. Which of you, my masters, is meet for thismatter?\"Then they all looked one on the other, and spake not. And the King said:\"Speak, some one of you, without fear; this is no time for tarrying.\"Thereonspake an elder, the oldest of them, and said: \"Lord, this isthe very truth, that none of us here present are meet for this office:whereas, among other matters, webe all unmeet for battle; some of ushave never been warriors, and other some are past the age for leading anhost. To say the sooth, King, there is but one man inMeadham who may dowhat thou wilt, and not fail; both for his wisdom, and his might afield,and the account which is had of him amongst the people; and that"}
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CELESTE AND JESSE FOREVER Writtenby Rashida Jones & WillMcCormack 5.01.11 1MONTAGE OVER THE OPENING CREDITS TO SUNNY LEVINE'S \"LOVE 1 RHINO\": A progression of imagesof CELESTE and JESSE, ages 18 to 30. Visual media evolves with them throughout the years. A1 POLAROIDSOF HIGH SCHOOL MOMENTS: A1 Celeste is a chronic overachiever and Jesse is sweet, goofy and funny. He makes her laugh. They are bestfriends but it's clear that Jesse wishes they were more. Close-up of their hands crossed, making \"C\" and \"J\" shapes. Celeste and her footballplayer boyfriend, Mike, kissing. Jesse watches enviously from the sidelines, holding Mike's helmet. B1DIPOSABLE CAMERA PHOTOS: B1 They go to college together, study together, drink together. They are still best friends. Junior year,Celeste with Saleem, her hot, black militant boyfriend. They kiss passionately. A moment later, Jesse poses reluctantly with the"}
{"doc_id":"doc_16","qid":"","text":"Flash Gordon Script at IMSDb.
FLASH GORDON Written by Lorenzo SempleJr. FADE IN: EXT. WIDE AFRICAN LANDSCAPE - MORNING At first onlydarkness, then the rising sun paints in an endless savanna from horizon to horizon. We hear savage drums beating in the distance coming from someunknown place. The sun clears the horizon. Suddenly it changes amazingly: the white disc goes through a rapid series ofcolor transitions, from yellow to green to purple to an incredible BLOOD RED. From it shoots a RED LIGHTNING BOLT. The skyechoes with THUNDER. We hear a HOWLING ethereal wind, but not a twig of the brush stirs as bolt after bolt of RED LIGHTNINGrips the sky, with each one a TITLE or CREDIT appearing. Under FINAL CREDIT snow is beginning to fall on theburning blood-red savanna. EXT. PLANE IN FLIGHT - DAY I's a Twin Otter with the logo of somecommuter airline. It buzzes along over pleasant countryside, through a sky that's almost unnaturally serene and filled with fleecy whiteclouds. INT. PLANE IN FLIGHT - DAY There are just two passengers in the cabin. One is DALEARDEN, a great looking dark-haired girl sitting by herself and reading a book entitled \"KARATE FOR THE SINGLE GIRL.... A Guide to Survival In"}
{"doc_id":"doc_17","qid":"","text":"Project Gutenberg's Stories from Pentamerone, by Giambattista BasileThis 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: Stories from PentameroneAuthor: Giambattista BasilePosting Date: March 1, 2009 [EBook #2198]Release Date: May, 2000Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES FROM PENTAMERONE ***Produced by Batsy Bybell. HTML version by Al Haines.Stories fromPentameronebyGiambattista BasileNOTEThe collection of folk-tales known as Il Pentamerone was firstpublished at Naples and in the Neopolitan dialect, byGiambattistaBasile, Conte di Torrone, who is believed to have collected themchiefly in Crete and Venice, and to have died about the year1637.CONTENTS 1. How the Tales came to be told 2. The Myrtle 3. Peruonto 4. Vardiello 5. The Flea 6. Cenerentola 7. TheMerchant 8. Goat-Face 9. The Enchanted Doe 10. Parsley 11. The Three Sisters 12. Violet 13. Pippo 14. The Serpent 15. The She-Bear 16. The Dove 17.Cannetella 18. Corvetto 19. The Booby 20. The Stone in the Cock's Head 21. The Three Enchanted Princes 22. The Dragon 23. The Two Cakes 24. The SevenDoves 25. The Raven 26. The Months 27. Pintosmalto 28. The Golden Root 29. Sun, Moon, and Talia 30. Nennillo and Nennella 31. The Three Citrons 32.ConclusionIHOW THE TALES CAME TO BE TOLDIt is an old saying, that he who seeks what he should not, finds whathe would not. Every one has heard of the apewho, in trying to pull onhis boots, was caught by the foot. And it happened in like manner to awretched slave, who, although she never had shoes to her feet,wantedto wear a crown on her head. But the straight road is the best; and,sooner or later, a day comes which settles all accounts. At last,having by evil meansusurped what belonged to another, she fell to theground; and the higher she had mounted, the greater was her fall--asyou shall see.Once upon a time the King ofWoody Valley had a daughter named Zoza,who was never seen to laugh. The unhappy father, who had no othercomfort in life but this only daughter, left nothinguntried to driveaway her melancholy. So he sent for folks who walk on stilts, fellowswho jump through hoops, for boxers, for conjurers, for jugglers whoperformsleight-of-hand tricks, for strong men, for dancing dogs, forleaping clowns, for the donkey that drinks out of a tumbler--in short,he tried first one thing and thenanother to make her laugh. But allwas time lost, for nothing could bring a smile to her lips.So at length the poor father, at wit's end, and to make a lasttrial,ordered a large fountain of oil to be set in front of the palace gates,thinking to himself that when the oil ran down the street, along whichthe people passedlike a troop of ants, they would be obliged, in ordernot to soil their clothes, to skip like grasshoppers, leap like goats,and run like hares; while one would gopicking and choosing his way,and another go creeping along the wall. In short, he hoped thatsomething might come to pass to make his daughter laugh.So thefountain was made; and as Zoza was one day standing at thewindow, grave and demure, and looking as sour as vinegar, there came bychance an old woman,who, soaking up the oil with a sponge, began tofill a little pitcher which she had brought with her. And as she waslabouring hard at this ingenious device, a youngpage of the courtpassing by threw a stone so exactly to a hair that he hit the pitcherand broke it to pieces. Whereupon the old woman, who had no hair onhertongue, turned to the page, full of wrath, and exclaimed, \"Ah, youimpertinent young dog, you mule, you gallows-rope, you spindle-legs!Ill luck to you! Mayyou be pierced by a Catalan lance! May a thousandills befall you and something more to boot, you thief, you knave!\"The lad, who had little beard and lessdiscretion, hearing this stringof abuse, repaid the old woman in her own coin, saying, \"Have you done,you grandmother of witches, you old hag, youchild-strangler!\"When the old woman heard these compliments she flew into such a ragethat, losing hold of the bridle and escaping from the stable ofpatience,she acted as if she were mad, cutting capers in the air andgrinning like an ape. At this strange spectacle Zoza burst into such afit of laughter that she well-nighfainted away. But when the old womansaw herself played this trick, she flew into a passion, and turning afierce look on Zoza she exclaimed: \"May you never havethe least littlebit of a husband, unless you take the Prince of Round-Field.\"Upon hearing this, Zoza ordered the old woman to be called; and desiredto knowwhether, in her words, she had laid on her a curse, or had onlymeant to insult her. And the old woman answered, \"Know then, that thePrince of whom I spoke is amost handsome creature, and is namedTaddeo, who, by the wicked spell of a fairy, having given the lasttouch to the picture of life, has been placed in a tomboutside thewalls of the city; and there is an inscription upon a stone, sayingthat whatever woman shall in three days fill with tears a pitcher thathangs there upona hook will bring the Prince to life and shall takehim for a husband. But as it is impossible for two human eyes to weepso much as to fill a pitcher that would holdhalf a barrel, I havewished you this wish in return for your scoffing and jeering at me. AndI pray that it may come to pass, to avenge the wrong you have doneme.\"So saying, she scuttled down the stairs, for fear of a beating.Zoza pondered over the words of the old woman, and after turning over ahundred thoughts inher mind, until her head was like a mill full ofdoubts, she was at last struck by a dart of the passion that blinds thejudgment and puts a spell on the reasoning ofman. She took a handfulof dollars from her father's coffers and left the palace, walking onand on, until she arrived at the castle of a fairy, to whomsheunburdened her heart. The fairy, out of pity for such a fair younggirl, who had two spurs to make her fall--little help and much love foran unknownobject--gave her a letter of recommendation to a sister ofhers, who was also a fairy. And this second fairy received her likewisewith great kindness; and on thefollowing morning, when Night commandsthe birds to proclaim that whoever has seen a flock of black shadowsgone astray shall be well rewarded, she gave her abeautiful walnut,saying, \"Take this, my dear daughter, and keep it carefully; but neveropen it, but in time of the greatest need.\" And then she gave her alsoaletter, commending her to another sister.After journeying a long way, Zoza arrived at this fairy's castle, andwas received with the same affection. And the nextmorning this fairylikewise gave her a letter to another sister, together with a chestnut,cautioning her in the same manner. Then Zoza travelled on to thenextcastle, where she was received with a thousand caresses and given afilbert, which she was never to open, unless the greatest necessityobliged her. So sheset out upon her journey, and passed so manyforests and rivers, that at the end of seven years, just at the time ofday when the Sun, awakened by the coming ofthe cocks, has saddled hissteed to run his accustomed stages, she arrived almost lame atRound-Field.There, at the entrance to the city, she saw a marble tomb,at the footof a fountain, which was weeping tears of crystal at seeing itself shutup in a porphyry prison. And, lifting up the pitcher, she placed it inher lap andbegan to weep into it, imitating the fountain to make twolittle fountains of her eyes. And thus she continued without everraising her head from the mouth of thepitcher--until, at the end oftwo days, it was full within two inches of the top. But, being weariedwith so much weeping, she was unawares overtaken by sleep, andwasobliged to rest for an hour or so under the canopy of her eyes.Meanwhile a certain Slave, with the legs of a grasshopper, came, as shewas wont, to thefountain, to fill her water-cask. Now she knew themeaning of the fountain which was talked of everywhere; and when shesaw Zoza weeping so incessantly, andmaking two little streams from hereyes, she was always watching and spying until the pitcher should befull enough for her to add the last drops to it; and thus toleave Zozacheated of her hopes. Now, therefore, seeing Zoza asleep, she seizedher opportunity; and dexterously removing the pitcher from under Zoza,andplacing her own eyes over it, she filled it in four seconds. Buthardly was it full, when the Prince arose from the white marble shrine,as if awakened from a deepsleep, and embraced that mass of dark flesh,and carried her straightways to his palace; feasts and marvellousilluminations were made, and he took her for hiswife.When Zoza awoke and saw the pitcher gone, and her hopes with it, andthe shrine open, her heart grew so heavy that she was on the point ofunpacking thebales of her soul at the custom-house of Death. But, atlast, seeing that there was no help for her misfortune, and that shecould only blame her own eyes, whichhad served her so ill, she wenther way, step by step, into the city. And when she heard of the feastswhich the Prince had made, and the dainty creature he hadmarried, sheinstantly knew how all this mischief had come to pass; and said toherself, sighing, \"Alas, two dark things have brought me to theground,--sleep anda black slave!\" Then she took a fine house facingthe palace of the Prince; from whence, though she could not see theidol of her heart, she could at least look uponthe walls wherein whatshe sighed for was enclosed.But Taddeo, who was constantly flying like a bat round that black nightof a Slave, chanced to perceive Zozaand was entranced with her beauty.When the Slave saw this she was beside herself with rage, and vowedthat if Taddeo did not leave the window, she would killher baby whenit was born.Taddeo, who was anxiously desiring an heir, was afraid to offend hiswife and tore himself away from the sight of Zoza; who seeingthislittle balm for the sickness of her hopes taken away from her, knewnot, at first, what to do. But, recollecting the fairies' gifts, sheopened the walnut, and outof it hopped a little dwarf like a doll, themost graceful toy that was ever seen in the world. Then, seatinghimself upon the window, the dwarf began to sing withsuch a trill andgurgling, that he seemed a veritable king of the birds.The Slave, when she saw and heard this, was so enraptured that, callingTaddeo, she said,\"Bring me the little fellow who is singing yonder, orI will kill the child when it is born.\" So the Prince, who allowed thisugly woman to put the saddle on his back,sent instantly to Zoza, toask if she would not sell the dwarf. Zoza answered she was not amerchant, but that he was welcome to it as a gift. So Taddeoacceptedthe offer, for he was anxious to keep his wife in good humour.Four days after this, Zoza opened the chestnut, when out came a henwith twelve littlechickens, all of pure gold, and, being placed on thewindow, the Slave saw them and took a vast fancy to them; and callingTaddeo, she showed him the beautifulsight, and again ordered him toprocure the hen and chickens for her. So Taddeo, who let himself becaught in the web, and become the sport of the ugly creature,"}
{"doc_id":"doc_18","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wailing Asteroid, by Murray LeinsterThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostotherparts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project GutenbergLicense included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll haveto check the laws of the country whereyou are located before using this ebook.Title: The Wailing AsteroidAuthor: Murray LeinsterRelease Date: September 20, 2015 [EBook #50022]Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WAILING ASTEROID ***Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net THE WAILING ASTEROID by Murray Leinster An AvonOriginal AVON BOOK DIVISION The Hearst Corporation 959 Eighth Avenue New York 19, NewYorkCopyright, 1960, by Murray Leinster. Published by arrangement withthe author. Printed in the U.S.A.[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncoverany evidencethat the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] * * * * *There was no life on the asteroid, but the miles of rock-hewncorridorsthrough which the earth party wandered left no doubt about the purposeof the asteroid.It was a mighty fortress, stocked with weapons of destructionbeyondman's power to understand.And yet there was no life here, nor had there been for untold centuries.What race had built this stronghold? Whatunimaginable power were theydefending against? Why was it abandoned? There was no answer, all wasdead.But--not quite all.For in a room above the tomb-likefortress a powerful transmitterbeamed its birdlike, fluting sounds toward earth. Near it, on a hugestar-map of the universe, with light-years measured by inches,ten tinyred sparks were moving, crawling inexorably toward the center.Moving, at many times the speed of light, with the acquired massof suns ... moving, on acourse that would pass through the solarsystem.The unknown aliens would not even see our sun explode from the forceof their passing, would not even noticethe tiny speck called Earth asit died.... * * * * *Chapter 1The signals from space began a little after midnight, local time, on aFriday. Theywere first picked up in the South Pacific, just westwardof the International Date Line. A satellite-watching station on anisland named Kalua was the first to receivethem, though nobody heardthe first four or five minutes. But it is certain that the very firstmessage was picked up and recorded by the monitor instruments.Thesatellite-tracking unit on Kalua was practically a duplicate ofall its fellows. There was the station itself with a vertical antennaoutside pointing at the stars. Therewere various lateral antennaeheld two feet above ground by concrete posts. In the instrument roomin the building a light burned over a desk, three or fourmonitorlights glowed dimly to indicate that the self-recording instrumentswere properly operating, and there was a multiple-channel tape recorderbuilt into thewall. Its twin tape reels turned sedately, winding abrown plastic ribbon from one to the other at a moderate pace.The staff man on duty had gone to theinstallation's kitchen for a cupof coffee. No sound originated in the room, unless one counted thefluttering of a piece of weighted-down paper on the desk.Outside,palm trees whispered and rustled their long fronds in the southeasttrade wind under a sky full of glittering stars. Beyond, there wasthe dull booming ofsurf upon the barrier reef of the island. But theinstruments made no sound. Only the tape reels moved.The signals began abruptly. They came out of a speakerand wereinstantly recorded. They were elfin and flutelike and musical. Theywere crisp and distinct. They did not form a melody, but nearly all thecomponents ofmelody were there. Pure musical notes, each with its ownpitch, all of different lengths, like quarter-notes and eighth-notesin music. The sounds needed onlyrhythm and arrangement to form aplaintive tune.Nothing happened. The sounds continued for something over a minute.They stopped long enough to seem tohave ended. Then they began again.When the staff man came back into the room with a coffee cup in hishand, he heard the flutings instantly. His jaw dropped.He said, \"Whatthe hell?\" and went to look at the instruments. He spilled some of hiscoffee when he saw their readings.The tracking dials said that the signalscame from a stationary sourcealmost directly overhead. If they were from a stationary source,no plane was transmitting them. Nor could they be coming fromanartificial satellite. A plane would move at a moderate pace across thesky. A satellite would move faster. Much faster. This source, accordingto the instruments,did not move at all.The staff man listened with a blank expression on his face. There wasbut one rational explanation, which he did not credit for an instant.Thereasonable answer would have been that somebody, somewhere, had puta satellite out into an orbit requiring twenty-four hours for a circuitof the earth, insteadof the ninety to one-hundred-twenty-four-minuteorbits of the satellites known to sweep around the world from westto east and pole to pole. But the piping,musical sounds were notthe sort of thing that modern physicists would have contrived tocarry information about cosmic-particle frequency, spacetemperature,micrometeorites, and the like.The signals stopped again, and again resumed. The staff man wasgalvanized into activity. He rushed to waken othermembers of theoutpost. When he got back, the signals continued for a minute andstopped altogether. But they were recorded on tape, with theinstrumentreadings that had been made during their duration. The staff man playedthe tape back for his companions.They felt as he did. These were signals fromspace where man had neverbeen. They had listened to the first message ever to reach mankind fromthe illimitable emptiness between the stars and planets. Manwas notalone. Man was no longer isolated. Man....The staff of the tracking station was very much upset. Most of themen were white-faced by the time the tapedmessage had been re-playedthrough to its end. They were frightened.Considering everything, they had every reason to be.The second pick-up was in Darjeeling,in northern India. The Indiangovernment was then passing through one of its periods of enthusiasticinterest in science. It had set up a satellite-observation postin aformer British cavalry stable on the outskirts of the town. The actinghead of the observing staff happened to hear the second broadcast toreach Earth. Itarrived some seventy-nine minutes after the firstreception, and it was picked up by two stations, Kalua and Darjeeling.The Darjeeling observer was incredulous atwhat he heard--fiverepetitions of the same sequence of flutelike notes. After eachpause--when it seemed that the signals had stopped before they actuallydidso--the reception was exactly the same as the one before. Itwas inconceivable that such a succession of sounds, lasting a fullminute, could be exactly repeated byany natural chain of events. Fiverepetitions were out of the question. The notes were signals. They werea communication which was repeated to be sure it wasreceived.The third broadcast was heard in Lebanon in addition to Kalua andDarjeeling. Reception in all three places was simultaneous. A signalfrom a nearbysatellite could not possibly have been picked up so fararound the Earth's curvature. The widening of the area of reception,too, proved that there was no newsatellite aloft with an orbit periodof exactly twenty-four hours, so that it hung motionless in the skyrelative to Earth. Tracking observations, in fact, showed thesource ofthe signals to move westward, as time passed, with the apparent motionof a star. No satellite of Earth could possibly exist with such anorbit unless itwas close enough to show a detectable parallax. Thisdid not.A French station picked up the next batch of plaintive sounds. Kalua,Darjeeling, and Lebanon stillreceived. By the time the next signal wasdue, Croydon, in England, had its giant radar-telescope trained on thepart of the sky from which all the tracking stationsagreed the signalscame.Croydon painstakingly made observations during four seventy-nine-minuteintervals and four five-minute receptions of the fluting noises.Itreported that there was a source of artificial signals at an extremelygreat distance, position right ascension so-and-so, declinationsuch-and-such. The signalsbegan every seventy-nine minutes. They couldbe heard by any receiving instrument capable of handling the microwavefrequency involved. The broadcast wasextremely broad-band. It coveredmore than two octaves and sharp tuning was not necessary. A man-madesignal would have been confined to as narrow awave-band as possible,to save power for one reason, so it could not be imagined that thesignal was anything but artificial. Yet no Earth science could havesent atransmitter out so far.When sunrise arrived at the tracking station on Kalua, it ceased toreceive from space. On the other hand, tracking stations in theUnitedStates, the Antilles, and South America began to pick up the crypticsounds.The first released news of the happening was broadcast in the UnitedStates. Inthe South Pacific and India and the Near East and Europe,the whole matter seemed too improbable for the notification of thepublic. News pressure in the UnitedStates, though, is very great. Herethe news rated broadcast, and got it.That was why Joe Burke did not happen to complete the business forwhich he'd takenSandy Lund to a suitable, romantic spot. She was hissecretary and the only permanent employee in the highly individualbusiness he'd begun and operated. He'dknown her all his life, andit seemed to him that for most of it he'd wanted to marry her. Butsomething had happened to him when he was quite a small boy--andstillhappened at intervals--which interposed a mental block. He'd alwayswanted to be romantic with her, but there was a matter of two moonsin a strange-starredsky, and trees with foliage like none on Earth,and an overwhelming emotion. There was no rational explanation for it.There could be none. Often he'd told himselfthat Sandy was real andutterly desirable, and this lunatic repetitive experience was at worstinsanity and at the least delusion. But he'd never been able to domorethan stammer when talk between them went away from matter-of-factthings.Tonight, though, he'd parked his car where a river sparkled in themoonlight. Therewas a scent of pine and arbutus in the air and a faintthread of romantic music came from his car's radio. He'd brought Sandyhere to propose to her. He wasdoggedly resolved to break the chains apsychological oddity had tied him up in.He cleared his throat. He'd taken Sandy out to dinner, ostensibly tocelebrate thecompletion of a development job for Interiors, Inc. Burkehad started Burke Development, Inc., some four years out of collegewhen he found he didn't likeworking for other people and could workfor himself. Its function was to develop designs and processes forcompanies too small to have research-and-development"}
{"doc_id":"doc_19","qid":"","text":"Shallow Grave Script at IMSDb.
SHALLOW GRAVE Written by JohnHodge FINAL DRAFT INT. DAY A blurred image forms on a whitescreen. A horizontal strip of face, eyes motionless and unblinking. DAVID (VOICE-OVER) Taketrust, for instance, or friendship: these are the important things in life, the things that matter, that help you on your way. If you can't trust yourfriends, well, what then? EXT. DAWN A series of fast-cut static scenes of empty streets. DAVID (VOICE-OVER) This could have been any city: they're all the same. A rapid,swerving track along deserted streets and down narrow lanes and passageways. Accompanied by soundtrack and credits. The trackends outside a solid, fashionable Edinburgh tenement. INT. STAIRWELL. DAY At the door of a flat on thethird floor of the tenement. The door is dark, heavy wood and on it is a plastic card embossed with the names of three tenants. They are Alex Law,David Stevens, and Juliet Miller. A man climbs the stairs and reaches the door. He is Cameron Clarke, thin and in his latetwenties with a blue anorak and lank, greasy hair. He is carrying an awkwardly bulky plastic bag. Cameron gives the doorbell an ineffectual ring and"}
{"doc_id":"doc_20","qid":"","text":"Project Gutenberg's The House of the Seven Gables, by Nathaniel HawthorneThis 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.netTitle: The House of the Seven GablesAuthor: Nathaniel HawthorneRelease Date: June 17, 2008 [EBook #77]Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES ***Produced by Judith Boss. HTML version by Al Haines.THE HOUSE OF THE SEVENGABLESbyNATHANIEL HAWTHORNETable of Contents INTRODUCTORY NOTE AUTHOR'S PREFACE I. THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY II. THE LITTLESHOP-WINDOW III. THE FIRST CUSTOMER IV. A DAY BEHIND THE COUNTER V. MAY AND NOVEMBER VI. MAULE'S WELL VII. THE GUEST VIII. THEPYNCHEON OF TO-DAY IX. CLIFFORD AND PHOEBE X. THE PYNCHEON GARDEN XI. THE ARCHED WINDOW XII. THE DAGUERREOTYPIST XIII. ALICEPYNCHEON XIV. PHOEBE'S GOOD-BYE XV. THE SCOWL AND SMILE XVI. CLIFFORD'S CHAMBER XVII. THE FLIGHT OF TWO OWLS XVIII. GOVERNORPYNCHEON XIX. ALICE'S POSIES XX. THE FLOWER OF EDEN XXI. THE DEPARTURE INTRODUCTORY NOTE.THE HOUSE OF THE SEVENGABLES.IN September of the year during the February of which Hawthorne hadcompleted \"The Scarlet Letter,\" he began \"The House of the SevenGables.\"Meanwhile, he had removed from Salem to Lenox, in BerkshireCounty, Massachusetts, where he occupied with his family a small redwooden house, still standingat the date of this edition, near theStockbridge Bowl.\"I sha'n't have the new story ready by November,\" he explained to hispublisher, on the 1st of October, \"for Iam never good for anything inthe literary way till after the first autumnal frost, which hassomewhat such an effect on my imagination that it does on thefoliagehere about me-multiplying and brightening its hues.\" But by vigorousapplication he was able to complete the new work about the middle ofthe Januaryfollowing.Since research has disclosed the manner in which the romance isinterwoven with incidents from the history of the Hawthorne family,\"The House of theSeven Gables\" has acquired an interest apart fromthat by which it first appealed to the public. John Hathorne (as thename was then spelled), thegreat-grandfather of Nathaniel Hawthorne,was a magistrate at Salem in the latter part of the seventeenthcentury, and officiated at the famous trials for witchcraftheld there.It is of record that he used peculiar severity towards a certain womanwho was among the accused; and the husband of this woman prophesiedthat Godwould take revenge upon his wife's persecutors. Thiscircumstance doubtless furnished a hint for that piece of tradition inthe book which represents a Pyncheon ofa former generation as havingpersecuted one Maule, who declared that God would give his enemy \"bloodto drink.\" It became a conviction with the Hawthornefamily that acurse had been pronounced upon its members, which continued in force inthe time of the romancer; a conviction perhaps derived from therecordedprophecy of the injured woman's husband, just mentioned; and,here again, we have a correspondence with Maule's malediction in thestory. Furthermore, thereoccurs in the \"American Note-Books\" (August27, 1837), a reminiscence of the author's family, to the followingeffect. Philip English, a character well-known inearly Salem annals,was among those who suffered from John Hathorne's magisterialharshness, and he maintained in consequence a lasting feud with theoldPuritan official. But at his death English left daughters, one of whomis said to have married the son of Justice John Hathorne, whom Englishhad declared hewould never forgive. It is scarcely necessary to pointout how clearly this foreshadows the final union of those hereditaryfoes, the Pyncheons and Maules, throughthe marriage of Phoebe andHolgrave. The romance, however, describes the Maules as possessing someof the traits known to have been characteristic of theHawthornes: forexample, \"so long as any of the race were to be found, they had beenmarked out from other men--not strikingly, nor as with a sharp line,but withan effect that was felt rather than spoken of--by anhereditary characteristic of reserve.\" Thus, while the generalsuggestion of the Hawthorne line and its fortuneswas followed in theromance, the Pyncheons taking the place of the author's family, certaindistinguishing marks of the Hawthornes were assigned to theimaginaryMaule posterity.There are one or two other points which indicate Hawthorne's method ofbasing his compositions, the result in the main of pureinvention, onthe solid ground of particular facts. Allusion is made, in the firstchapter of the \"Seven Gables,\" to a grant of lands in Waldo County,Maine, owned bythe Pyncheon family. In the \"American Note-Books\"there is an entry, dated August 12, 1837, which speaks of theRevolutionary general, Knox, and his land-grantin Waldo County, byvirtue of which the owner had hoped to establish an estate on theEnglish plan, with a tenantry to make it profitable for him. Anincident ofmuch greater importance in the story is the supposed murderof one of the Pyncheons by his nephew, to whom we are introduced asClifford Pyncheon. In allprobability Hawthorne connected with this,in his mind, the murder of Mr. White, a wealthy gentleman of Salem,killed by a man whom his nephew had hired. Thistook place a few yearsafter Hawthorne's graduation from college, and was one of thecelebrated cases of the day, Daniel Webster taking part prominently inthetrial. But it should be observed here that such resemblances asthese between sundry elements in the work of Hawthorne's fancy anddetails of reality are onlyfragmentary, and are rearranged to suit theauthor's purposes.In the same way he has made his description of Hepzibah Pyncheon'sseven-gabled mansionconform so nearly to several old dwellingsformerly or still extant in Salem, that strenuous efforts have beenmade to fix upon some one of them as the veritableedifice of theromance. A paragraph in the opening chapter has perhaps assisted thisdelusion that there must have been a single original House of theSevenGables, framed by flesh-and-blood carpenters; for it runs thus:--\"Familiar as it stands in the writer's recollection--for it has been anobject of curiosity withhim from boyhood, both as a specimen of thebest and stateliest architecture of a long-past epoch, and as the sceneof events more full of interest perhaps thanthose of a gray feudalcastle--familiar as it stands, in its rusty old age, it is thereforeonly the more difficult to imagine the bright novelty with which itfirst caughtthe sunshine.\"Hundreds of pilgrims annually visit a house in Salem, belonging to onebranch of the Ingersoll family of that place, which is stoutlymaintained tohave been the model for Hawthorne's visionary dwelling.Others have supposed that the now vanished house of the identicalPhilip English, whose blood, as wehave already noticed, became mingledwith that of the Hawthornes, supplied the pattern; and still a thirdbuilding, known as the Curwen mansion, has beendeclared the onlygenuine establishment. Notwithstanding persistent popular belief, theauthenticity of all these must positively be denied; although it ispossiblethat isolated reminiscences of all three may have blended withthe ideal image in the mind of Hawthorne. He, it will be seen, remarksin the Preface, alluding tohimself in the third person, that he trustsnot to be condemned for \"laying out a street that infringes uponnobody's private rights... and building a house ofmaterials long inuse for constructing castles in the air.\" More than this, he stated topersons still living that the house of the romance was not copied fromanyactual edifice, but was simply a general reproduction of a style ofarchitecture belonging to colonial days, examples of which survivedinto the period of his youth,but have since been radically modified ordestroyed. Here, as elsewhere, he exercised the liberty of a creativemind to heighten the probability of his pictureswithout confininghimself to a literal description of something he had seen.While Hawthorne remained at Lenox, and during the composition of thisromance,various other literary personages settled or stayed for a timein the vicinity; among them, Herman Melville, whose intercourseHawthorne greatly enjoyed, HenryJames, Sr., Doctor Holmes, J. T.Headley, James Russell Lowell, Edwin P. Whipple, Frederika Bremer, andJ. T. Fields; so that there was no lack of intellectualsociety inthe midst of the beautiful and inspiring mountain scenery of the place.\"In the afternoons, nowadays,\" he records, shortly before beginning thework, \"thisvalley in which I dwell seems like a vast basin filled withgolden Sunshine as with wine;\" and, happy in the companionship of hiswife and their three children, heled a simple, refined, idyllic life,despite the restrictions of a scanty and uncertain income. A letterwritten by Mrs. Hawthorne, at this time, to a member of herfamily,gives incidentally a glimpse of the scene, which may properly find aplace here. She says: \"I delight to think that you also can lookforth, as I do now, upona broad valley and a fine amphitheater ofhills, and are about to watch the stately ceremony of the sunset fromyour piazza. But you have not this lovely lake, nor,I suppose, thedelicate purple mist which folds these slumbering mountains in airyveils. Mr. Hawthorne has been lying down in the sun shine, slightlyfleckeredwith the shadows of a tree, and Una and Julian have beenmaking him look like the mighty Pan, by covering his chin and breastwith long grass-blades, that lookedlike a verdant and venerablebeard.\" The pleasantness and peace of his surroundings and of hismodest home, in Lenox, may be taken into account as harmonizingwiththe mellow serenity of the romance then produced. Of the work, when itappeared in the early spring of 1851, he wrote to Horatio Bridge thesewords, nowpublished for the first time:--\"'The House of the Seven Gables' in my opinion, is better than 'TheScarlet Letter:' but I should not wonder if I had refined upontheprincipal character a little too much for popular appreciation, nor ifthe romance of the book should be somewhat at odds with the humble andfamiliar sceneryin which I invest it. But I feel that portions of itare as good as anything I can hope to write, and the publisher speaksencouragingly of its success.\"From England,especially, came many warm expressions of praise,--a factwhich Mrs. Hawthorne, in a private letter, commented on as thefulfillment of a possibility whichHawthorne, writing in boyhood to hismother, had looked forward to. He had asked her if she would not likehim to become an author and have his books read inEngland.G. P. L. PREFACE.WHEN a writer calls his work a Romance, it need hardly be observed thathe wishes to claim a certain latitude, bothas to its fashion andmaterial, which he would not have felt himself entitled to assume hadhe professed to be writing a Novel. The latter form of compositionispresumed to aim at a very minute fidelity, not merely to the possible,but to the probable and ordinary course of man's experience. Theformer--while, as a work"}
{"doc_id":"doc_21","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cossacks, by Leo TolstoyThis 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 CossacksAuthor: Leo TolstoyTranslator: Louise and Aylmer MaudeRelease Date: January 18, 2009 [EBook #4761]Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COSSACKS ***Produced by Steve Harris, Charles Franks and the OnlineDistributed ProofreadingTeam.THE COSSACKSA Tale of 1852ByLeo Tolstoy (1863)Translated by Louise and Aylmer MaudeChapter IAll is quiet in Moscow. The squeak of wheels is seldomheard in thesnow-covered street. There are no lights left in the windows and thestreet lamps have been extinguished. Only the sound of bells, borneover the cityfrom the church towers, suggests the approach of morning.The streets are deserted. At rare intervals a night-cabman's sledgekneads up the snow and sand in thestreet as the driver makes his wayto another corner where he falls asleep while waiting for a fare. Anold woman passes by on her way to church, where a few waxcandles burnwith a red light reflected on the gilt mountings of the icons. Workmenare already getting up after the long winter night and going to theirwork--butfor the gentlefolk it is still evening.From a window in Chevalier's Restaurant a light--illegal at thathour--is still to be seen through a chink in the shutter. Attheentrance a carriage, a sledge, and a cabman's sledge, stand closetogether with their backs to the curbstone. A three-horse sledge fromthe post-station is therealso. A yard-porter muffled up and pinchedwith cold is sheltering behind the corner of the house.'And what's the good of all this jawing?' thinks the footman whositsin the hall weary and haggard. 'This always happens when I'm on duty.'From the adjoining room are heard the voices of three young men,sitting there at atable on which are wine and the remains of supper.One, a rather plain, thin, neat little man, sits looking with tiredkindly eyes at his friend, who is about to starton a journey. Another,a tall man, lies on a sofa beside a table on which are empty bottles,and plays with his watch-key. A third, wearing a short, fur-lined coat,ispacing up and down the room stopping now and then to crack an almondbetween his strong, rather thick, but well-tended fingers. He keepssmiling at somethingand his face and eyes are all aglow. He speakswarmly and gesticulates, but evidently does not find the words he wantsand those that occur to him seem to himinadequate to express what hasrisen to his heart.'Now I can speak out fully,' said the traveller. 'I don't want todefend myself, but I should like you at least tounderstand me as Iunderstand myself, and not look at the matter superficially. You say Ihave treated her badly,' he continued, addressing the man with thekindlyeyes who was watching him.'Yes, you are to blame,' said the latter, and his look seemed toexpress still more kindliness and weariness.'I know why you say that,'rejoined the one who was leaving. 'To beloved is in your opinion as great a happiness as to love, and if a manobtains it, it is enough for his whole life.''Yes, quiteenough, my dear fellow, more than enough!' confirmed theplain little man, opening and shutting his eyes.'But why shouldn't the man love too?' said the travellerthoughtfully,looking at his friend with something like pity. 'Why shouldn't onelove? Because love doesn't come ... No, to be beloved is a misfortune.It is amisfortune to feel guilty because you do not give something youcannot give. O my God!' he added, with a gesture of his arm. 'If it allhappened reasonably, andnot all topsy-turvy--not in our way but in away of its own! Why, it's as if I had stolen that love! You think sotoo, don't deny it. You must think so. But will youbelieve it, of allthe horrid and stupid things I have found time to do in my life--andthere are many--this is one I do not and cannot repent of. Neither atthebeginning nor afterwards did I lie to myself or to her. It seemedto me that I had at last fallen in love, but then I saw that it was aninvoluntary falsehood, and thatthat was not the way to love, and Icould not go on, but she did. Am I to blame that I couldn't? What was Ito do?''Well, it's ended now!' said his friend, lighting acigar to master hissleepiness. 'The fact is that you have not yet loved and do not knowwhat love is.'The man in the fur-lined coat was going to speak again, andput hishands to his head, but could not express what he wanted to say.'Never loved! ... Yes, quite true, I never have! But after all, I havewithin me a desire tolove, and nothing could be stronger than thatdesire! But then, again, does such love exist? There always remainssomething incomplete. Ah well! What's the useof talking? I've made anawful mess of life! But anyhow it's all over now; you are quite right.And I feel that I am beginning a new life.''Which you will again make amess of,' said the man who lay on the sofaplaying with his watch-key. But the traveller did not listen to him.'I am sad and yet glad to go,' he continued. 'Why Iam sad I don'tknow.'And the traveller went on talking about himself, without noticing thatthis did not interest the others as much as it did him. A man isneversuch an egotist as at moments of spiritual ecstasy. At such times itseems to him that there is nothing on earth more splendid andinteresting thanhimself.'Dmitri Andreich! The coachman won't wait any longer!' said a youngserf, entering the room in a sheepskin coat, with a scarf tied roundhis head. 'Thehorses have been standing since twelve, and it's nowfour o'clock!'Dmitri Andreich looked at his serf, Vanyusha. The scarf roundVanyusha's head, his felt bootsand sleepy face, seemed to be callinghis master to a new life of labour, hardship, and activity.'True enough! Good-bye!' said he, feeling for the unfastened hookandeye on his coat.In spite of advice to mollify the coachman by another tip, he put onhis cap and stood in the middle of the room. The friends kissed once,thenagain, and after a pause, a third time. The man in the fur-linedcoat approached the table and emptied a champagne glass, then took theplain little man's handand blushed.'Ah well, I will speak out all the same ... I must and will be frankwith you because I am fond of you ... Of course you love her--I alwaysthoughtso--don't you?''Yes,' answered his friend, smiling still more gently.'And perhaps...''Please sir, I have orders to put out the candles,' said the sleepyattendant, whohad been listening to the last part of the conversationand wondering why gentlefolk always talk about one and the same thing.'To whom shall I make out the bill?To you, sir?' he added, knowingwhom to address and turning to the tall man.'To me,' replied the tall man. 'How much?''Twenty-six rubles.'The tall manconsidered for a moment, but said nothing and put the billin his pocket.The other two continued their talk.'Good-bye, you are a capital fellow!' said the short plainman with themild eyes. Tears filled the eyes of both. They stepped into the porch.'Oh, by the by,' said the traveller, turning with a blush to the tallman, 'will yousettle Chevalier's bill and write and let me know?''All right, all right!' said the tall man, pulling on his gloves. 'HowI envy you!' he added quite unexpectedly whenthey were out in theporch.The traveller got into his sledge, wrapped his coat about him, andsaid: 'Well then, come along!' He even moved a little to make roominthe sledge for the man who said he envied him--his voice trembled.'Good-bye, Mitya! I hope that with God's help you...' said the tallone. But his wish was thatthe other would go away quickly, and so hecould not finish the sentence.They were silent a moment. Then someone again said, 'Good-bye,' and avoice cried,'Ready,' and the coachman touched up the horses.'Hy, Elisar!' One of the friends called out, and the other coachman andthe sledge-drivers began moving,clicking their tongues and pulling atthe reins. Then the stiffened carriage-wheels rolled squeaking over thefrozen snow.'A fine fellow, that Olenin!' said one of thefriends. 'But what anidea to go to the Caucasus--as a cadet, too! I wouldn't do it foranything. ... Are you dining at the club to-morrow?''Yes.'They separated.Thetraveller felt warm, his fur coat seemed too hot. He sat on thebottom of the sledge and unfastened his coat, and the three shaggypost-horses dragged themselvesout of one dark street into another,past houses he had never before seen. It seemed to Olenin that onlytravellers starting on a long journey went through thosestreets. Allwas dark and silent and dull around him, but his soul was full ofmemories, love, regrets, and a pleasant tearful feeling.Chapter II'I'm fond of them,very fond! ... First-rate fellows! ... Fine!' hekept repeating, and felt ready to cry. But why he wanted to cry, whowere the first-rate fellows he was so fond of--wasmore than he quiteknew. Now and then he looked round at some house and wondered why itwas so curiously built; sometimes he began wondering why thepost-boyand Vanyusha, who were so different from himself, sat so near, andtogether with him were being jerked about and swayed by the tugs theside-horsesgave at the frozen traces, and again he repeated: 'Firstrate ... very fond!' and once he even said: 'And how it seizes one ...excellent!' and wondered what madehim say it. 'Dear me, am I drunk?'he asked himself. He had had a couple of bottles of wine, but it wasnot the wine alone that was having this effect on Olenin. Herememberedall the words of friendship heartily, bashfully, spontaneously (as hebelieved) addressed to him on his departure. He remembered the clasp ofhands,glances, the moments of silence, and the sound of a voicesaying, 'Good-bye, Mitya!' when he was already in the sledge. Heremembered his own deliberatefrankness. And all this had a touchingsignificance for him. Not only friends and relatives, not only peoplewho had been indifferent to him, but even those who didnot like him,seemed to have agreed to become fonder of him, or to forgive him,before his departure, as people do before confession or death. 'PerhapsI shall notreturn from the Caucasus,' he thought. And he felt that heloved his friends and some one besides. He was sorry for himself. Butit was not love for his friends thatso stirred and uplifted his heartthat he could not repress the meaningless words that seemed to rise ofthemselves to his lips; nor was it love for a woman (he hadnever yetbeen in love) that had brought on this mood. Love for himself, lovefull of hope--warm young love for all that was good in his own soul(and at thatmoment it seemed to him that there was nothing but good init)--compelled him to weep and to mutter incoherent words.Olenin was a youth who had nevercompleted his university course, neverserved anywhere (having only a nominal post in some government officeor other), who had squandered half his fortuneand had reached the ageof twenty-four without having done anything or even chosen a career. Hewas what in Moscow society is termed un jeune homme.At theage of eighteen he was free--as only rich young Russians in the'forties who had lost their parents at an early age could be. Neitherphysical nor moral fetters ofany kind existed for him; he could do ashe liked, lacking nothing and bound by nothing. Neither relatives, norfatherland, nor religion, nor wants, existed for him."}
{"doc_id":"doc_22","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pierre and Jean, by Guy de MaupassantThis 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: Pierre and JeanAuthor: Guy de MaupassantTranslator: Clara BellRelease Date: April 12, 2006 [EBook #3804]Last Updated: February 23,2018Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PIERRE AND JEAN ***Produced by Dagny; John Bickers;HTML file by David WidgerPIERRE & JEANBy Guy De MaupassantTranslated By Clara BellCHAPTER Iâ\u0000\u0000Tschah!â\u0000\u0000 exclaimed old Roland suddenly, after he hadremainedmotionless for a quarter of an hour, his eyes fixed on the water, whilenow and again he very slightly lifted his line sunk in the sea.Mme. Roland, dozingin the stern by the side of Mme. Rosemilly, who hadbeen invited to join the fishing-party, woke up, and turning her head tolook at her husband, said:â\u0000\u0000Well,well! Gerome.â\u0000\u0000And the old fellow replied in a fury:â\u0000\u0000They do not bite at all. I have taken nothing since noon. Only menshould ever go fishing. Womenalways delay the start till it is toolate.â\u0000\u0000His two sons, Pierre and Jean, who each held a line twisted round hisforefinger, one to port and one to starboard, bothbegan to laugh, andJean remarked:â\u0000\u0000You are not very polite to our guest, father.â\u0000\u0000M. Roland was abashed, and apologized.â\u0000\u0000I beg your pardon, Mme.Rosemilly, but that is just like me. I inviteladies because I like to be with them, and then, as soon as I feel thewater beneath me, I think of nothing but thefish.â\u0000\u0000Mme. Roland was now quite awake, and gazing with a softened look at thewide horizon of cliff and sea.â\u0000\u0000You have had good sport, all the same,â\u0000\u0000she murmured.But her husband shook his head in denial, though at the same time heglanced complacently at the basket where the fish caught by the threemenwere still breathing spasmodically, with a low rustle of clammyscales and struggling fins, and dull, ineffectual efforts, gasping inthe fatal air. Old Roland took thebasket between his knees and tiltedit up, making the silver heap of creatures slide to the edge that hemight see those lying at the bottom, and their death-throesbecame moreconvulsive, while the strong smell of their bodies, a wholesome reekof brine, came up from the full depths of the creel. The old fishermansniffed iteagerly, as we smell at roses, and exclaimed:â\u0000\u0000Cristi! But they are fresh enough!â\u0000\u0000 and he went on: â\u0000\u0000How many did youpull out, doctor?â\u0000\u0000His eldestson, Pierre, a man of thirty, with black whiskers trimmedsquare like a lawyer's, his mustache and beard shaved away, replied:â\u0000\u0000Oh, not many; three orfour.â\u0000\u0000The father turned to the younger. â\u0000\u0000And you, Jean?â\u0000\u0000 said he.Jean, a tall fellow, much younger than his brother, fair, with a fullbeard, smiled andmurmured:â\u0000\u0000Much the same as Pierre--four or five.â\u0000\u0000Every time they told the same fib, which delighted father Roland. He hadhitched his line round arow-lock, and folding his arms he announced:â\u0000\u0000I will never again try to fish after noon. After ten in the morning itis all over. The lazy brutes will not bite; theyare taking their siestain the sun.â\u0000\u0000 And he looked round at the sea on all sides, with thesatisfied air of a proprietor.He was a retired jeweller who had been ledby an inordinate love ofseafaring and fishing to fly from the shop as soon as he had made enoughmoney to live in modest comfort on the interest of his savings.Heretired to le Havre, bought a boat, and became an amateur skipper.His two sons, Pierre and Jean, had remained at Paris to continue theirstudies, and came forthe holidays from time to time to share theirfather's amusements.On leaving school, Pierre, the elder, five years older than Jean, hadfelt a vocation to variousprofessions and had tried half a dozen insuccession, but, soon disgusted with each in turn, he started afreshwith new hopes. Medicine had been his last fancy, andhe had set to workwith so much ardour that he had just qualified after an unusually shortcourse of study, by a special remission of time from the minister. Hewasenthusiastic, intelligent, fickle, but obstinate, full of Utopiasand philosophical notions.Jean, who was as fair as his brother was dark, as deliberate as hisbrotherwas vehement, as gentle as his brother was unforgiving, hadquietly gone through his studies for the law and had just taken hisdiploma as a licentiate, at the timewhen Pierre had taken his inmedicine. So they were now having a little rest at home, and both lookedforward to settling in Havre if they could find a satisfactoryopening.But a vague jealousy, one of those dormant jealousies which grow upbetween brothers or sisters and slowly ripen till they burst, on theoccasion of amarriage perhaps, or of some good fortune happening toone of them, kept them on the alert in a sort of brotherly andnon-aggressive animosity. They were fondof each other, it is true, butthey watched each other. Pierre, five years old when Jean was born,had looked with the eyes of a little petted animal at that otherlittleanimal which had suddenly come to lie in his father's and mother's armsand to be loved and fondled by them. Jean, from his birth, had alwaysbeen a patternof sweetness, gentleness, and good temper, and Pierre hadby degrees begun to chafe at ever-lastingly hearing the praises of thisgreat lad, whose sweetness inhis eyes was indolence, whose gentlenesswas stupidity, and whose kindliness was blindness. His parents, whosedream for their sons was some respectable andundistinguished calling,blamed him for so often changing his mind, for his fits of enthusiasm,his abortive beginnings, and all his ineffectual impulsestowardsgenerous ideas and the liberal professions.Since he had grown to manhood they no longer said in so many words:â\u0000\u0000Look at Jean and follow hisexample,â\u0000\u0000 but every time he heard them sayâ\u0000\u0000Jean did this--Jean does that,â\u0000\u0000 he understood their meaning and thehint the words conveyed.Theirmother, an orderly person, a thrifty and rather sentimental womanof the middle class, with the soul of a soft-hearted book-keeper, wasconstantly quenching thelittle rivalries between her two big sonsto which the petty events of their life constantly gave rise. Anotherlittle circumstance, too, just now disturbed her peace ofmind, andshe was in fear of some complications; for in the course of the winter,while her boys were finishing their studies, each in his own line, shehad made theacquaintance of a neighbour, Mme. Rosemilly, the widow of acaptain of a merchantman who had died at sea two years before. The youngwidow--quite young,only three-and-twenty--a woman of strong intellectwho knew life by instinct as the free animals do, as though shehad seen, gone through, understood, andweighted every conceivablecontingency, and judged them with a wholesome, strict, and benevolentmind, had fallen into the habit of calling to work or chat for anhourin the evening with these friendly neighbours, who would give her a cupof tea.Father Roland, always goaded on by his seafaring craze, would questiontheirnew friend about the departed captain; and she would talk of him,and his voyages, and his old-world tales, without hesitation, like aresigned and reasonablewoman who loves life and respects death.The two sons on their return, finding the pretty widow quite at home inthe house, forthwith began to court her, lessfrom any wish to charm herthan from the desire to cut each other out.Their mother, being practical and prudent, sincerely hoped that one ofthem might win theyoung widow, for she was rich; but then she wouldhave liked that the other should not be grieved.Mme. Rosemilly was fair, with blue eyes, a mass of light wavinghair,fluttering at the least breath of wind, and an alert, daring, pugnaciouslittle way with her, which did not in the least answer to the sobermethod of hermind.She already seemed to like Jean best, attracted, no doubt, by anaffinity of nature. This preference, however, she betrayed only byan almost imperceptibledifference of voice and look and also byoccasionally asking his opinion. She seemed to guess that Jean'sviews would support her own, while those of Pierre mustinevitablybe different. When she spoke of the doctor's ideas on politics, art,philosophy, or morals, she would sometimes say: â\u0000\u0000Your crotchets.â\u0000\u0000 Thenhewould look at her with the cold gleam of an accuser drawing up anindictment against women--all women, poor weak things.Never till his sons came home had M.Roland invited her to join hisfishing expeditions, nor had he ever taken his wife; for he liked to putoff before daybreak, with his ally, Captain Beausire, a mastermarinerretired, whom he had first met on the quay at high tides and with whomhe had struck up an intimacy, and the old sailor Papagris, known as JeanBart, inwhose charge the boat was left.But one evening of the week before, Mme. Rosemilly, who had been diningwith them, remarked, â\u0000\u0000It must be great fun to goout fishing.â\u0000\u0000 Thejeweller, flattered by her interest and suddenly fired with the wishto share his favourite sport with her, and to make a convert afterthemanner of priests, exclaimed: â\u0000\u0000Would you like to come?â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000To be sure I should.â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000Next Tuesday?â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000Yes, next Tuesday.â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000Areyou the woman to be ready to start at five in the morning?â\u0000\u0000She exclaimed in horror:â\u0000\u0000No, indeed: that is too much.â\u0000\u0000He was disappointed and chilled,suddenly doubting her true vocation.However, he said:â\u0000\u0000At what hour can you be ready?â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000Well--at nine?â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000Not before?â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000No, notbefore. Even that is very early.â\u0000\u0000The old fellow hesitated; he certainly would catch nothing, for when thesun has warmed the sea the fish bite no more; but thetwo brothers hadeagerly pressed the scheme, and organized and arranged everything thereand then.So on the following Tuesday the Pearl had dropped anchorunder the whiterocks of Cape la Heve; they had fished till midday, then they had sleptawhile, and then fished again without catching anything; and then itwasthat father Roland, perceiving, rather late, that all that Mme.Rosemilly really enjoyed and cared for was the sail on the sea, andseeing that his lines hungmotionless, had uttered in a spirit ofunreasonable annoyance, that vehement â\u0000\u0000Tschah!â\u0000\u0000 which applied as much tothe pathetic widow as to the creatureshe could not catch.Now he contemplated the spoil--his fish--with the joyful thrill of amiser; seeing as he looked up at the sky that the sun was gettinglow:â\u0000\u0000Well, boys,â\u0000\u0000 said he, â\u0000\u0000suppose we turn homeward.â\u0000\u0000The young men hauled in their lines, coiled them up, cleaned the hooksand stuck theminto corks, and sat waiting.Roland stood up to look out like a captain.â\u0000\u0000No wind,â\u0000\u0000 said he. â\u0000\u0000You will have to pull, young 'uns.â\u0000\u0000And suddenlyextending one arm to the northward, he exclaimed:â\u0000\u0000Here comes the packet from Southampton.â\u0000\u0000Away over the level sea, spread out like a blue sheet,vast and sheenyand shot with flame and gold, an inky cloud was visible against the rosysky in the quarter to which he pointed, and below it they could makeoutthe hull of the steamer, which looked tiny at such a distance. And tosouthward other wreaths of smoke, numbers of them, could be seen, allconverging"}
{"doc_id":"doc_23","qid":"","text":"Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom Script at IMSDb.
INDIANA JONES AND THE TEMPLE OF DOOM STORYBY: GEORGE LUCAS SCREENPLAY BY: WILLARDHUYCK AND GLORIA KATZ TM* & (c) Lucasfilm Ltd.,1984 -------------- FADE IN:1. INT. \"THE DRAGON\" NIGHTCLUB - NIGHT 1. AChinese GONG SOUNDS and the glittering doors of an art Deco pa- poda slide open to reveal a mammoth silver stairway down which rows of beautifulwomen start descending (BEGIN MAIN TITLES) The lovely ladies are a mix of races and they sing a strange, haunting melody -- one might think them aheavenly choir, if it weren't for their sexy, clinging lame gowns.2. INT. CLUB ENTRANCE 2. From the etherealbeauties, we cut to a street urchin's dirty face: SHORT ROUND is a ten-year-old Chinese kis wearing a beat- up American baseball cap. Sneaking intothe club, Short Round weaves past the fancy gowns and silk suits, heading toward the music in the main ballroom.3. INT. THEBALLROOM 3. Short Round enters and stares across the smoky nightclub. On the stage, he sees a giant"}
{"doc_id":"doc_24","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Great Stone Face, by Nathaniel HawthorneThis 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 Great Stone Face And Other Tales Of The White MountainsAuthor: Nathaniel HawthorneRelease Date: February 25, 2006[EBook #1916]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT STONE FACE ***Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer andDavid WidgerTHE GREAT STONE FACE AND OTHER TALES OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINSBy Nathaniel Hawthorne1882CONTENTS Introduction The Great StoneFace The Ambitious Guest The Great Carbuncle Sketches From MemoryINTRODUCTIONTHE first three numbers in this collection are tales of the WhiteHillsin New Hampshire. The passages from Sketches from Memory show thatHawthorne had visited the mountains in one of his occasional ramblesfrom home, butthere are no entries in his Note Books which giveaccounts of such a visit. There is, however, among these notesthe following interesting paragraph, written in1840 and clearlyforeshadowing The Great Stone Face:'The semblance of a human face to be formed on the side of a mountain,or in the fracture of a small stone,by a lusus naturae [freak ofnature]. The face is an object of curiosity for years or centuries, andby and by a boy is born whose features gradually assume theaspect ofthat portrait. At some critical juncture the resemblance is found to beperfect. A prophecy may be connected.'It is not impossible that this conceitoccurred to Hawthorne before hehad himself seen the Old Man of the Mountain, or the Profile, in theFranconia Notch which is generally associated in the minds ofreaderswith The Great Stone Face.In The Ambitious Guest he has made use of the incident still told totravellers through the Notch, of the destruction of the Willeyfamilyin August, 1826. The house occupied by the family was on the slope ofa mountain, and after a long drought there was a terrible tempest whichnot onlyraised the river to a great height but loosened the surface ofthe mountain so that a great landslide took place. The house was inthe track of the slide, and thefamily rushed out of doors. Had theyremained within they would have been safe, for a ledge above the houseparted the avalanche so that it was diverted into twopaths and sweptpast the house on either side. Mr. and Mrs. Willey, their five children,and two hired men were crushed under the weight of earth, rocks,andtrees.In the Sketches from Memory Hawthorne gives an intimation of the talewhich he might write and did afterward write of The Great Carbuncle. Thepaperis interesting as showing what were the actual experiences out ofwhich he formed his imaginative stories.THE GREAT STONE FACE and Other Tales Of The WhiteMountainsTHE GREAT STONE FACEOne afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boysat at the door of their cottage, talking about theGreat Stone Face.They had but to lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen,though miles away, with the sunshine brightening all its features.And whatwas the Great Stone Face? Embosomed amongst a family oflofty mountains, there was a valley so spacious that it contained manythousand inhabitants. Some ofthese good people dwelt in log-huts, withthe black forest all around them, on the steep and difficult hillsides.Others had their homes in comfortable farm-houses,and cultivated therich soil on the gentle slopes or level surfaces of the valley. Others,again, were congregated into populous villages, where some wild,highlandrivulet, tumbling down from its birthplace in the uppermountain region, had been caught and tamed by human cunning, andcompelled to turn the machinery ofcotton-factories. The inhabitants ofthis valley, in short, were numerous, and of many modes of life. But allof them, grown people and children, had a kind offamiliarity with theGreat Stone Face, although some possessed the gift of distinguishingthis grand natural phenomenon more perfectly than many oftheirneighbors.The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of Nature in her mood of majestieplayfulness, formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain bysomeimmense rocks, which had been thrown together in such a position as,when viewed at a proper distance, precisely to resemble the features ofthe humancountenance. It seemed as if an enormous giant, or a Titan,had sculptured his own likeness on the precipice. There was the broadarch of the forehead, a hundredfeet in height; the nose, with its longbridge; and the vast lips, which, if they could have spoken, would haverolled their thunder accents from one end of the valleyto the other.True it is, that if the spectator approached too near, he lost theoutline of the gigantic visage, and could discern only a heap ofponderous and giganticrocks, piled in chaotic ruin one upon another.Retracing his steps, however, the wondrous features would again be seen;and the farther he withdrew from them,the more like a human face, withall its original divinity intact, did they appear; until, as it grew dimin the distance, with the clouds and glorified vapor of themountainsclustering about it, the Great Stone Face seemed positively to be alive.It was a happy lot for children to grow up to manhood or womanhood withtheGreat Stone Face before their eyes, for all the features were noble,and the expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glowof a vast, warm heart,that embraced all mankind in its affections, andhad room for more. It was an education only to look at it. According tothe belief of many people, the valley owedmuch of its fertility to thisbenign aspect that was continually beaming over it, illuminating theclouds, and infusing its tenderness into the sunshine.As we beganwith saying, a mother and her little boy sat at theircottage-door, gazing at the Great Stone Face, and talking about it. Thechild's name was Ernest.'Mother,' saidhe, while the Titanic visage miled on him, 'I wish thatit could speak, for it looks so very kindly that its voice must needsbe pleasant. If I were to See a man withsuch a face, I should love himdearly.' 'If an old prophecy should come to pass,' answered his mother,'we may see a man, some time for other, with exactly such aface asthat.' 'What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?' eagerly inquiredErnest. 'Pray tell me all about it!'So his mother told him a story that her own motherhad told to her, whenshe herself was younger than little Ernest; a story, not of things thatwere past, but of what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, soveryold, that even the Indians, who formerly inhabited this valley, hadheard it from their forefathers, to whom, as they affirmed, it had beenmurmured by themountain streams, and whispered by the wind among thetree-tops. The purport was, that, at some future day, a child shouldbe born hereabouts, who wasdestined to become the greatest and noblestpersonage of his time, and whose countenance, in manhood, should bearan exact resemblance to the Great StoneFace. Not a few old-fashionedpeople, and young ones likewise, in the ardor of their hopes, stillcherished an enduring faith in this old prophecy. But others, whohadseen more of the world, had watched and waited till they were weary, andhad beheld no man with such a face, nor any man that proved to be muchgreater ornobler than his neighbors, concluded it to be nothing butan idle tale. At all events, the great man of the prophecy had not yetappeared.'O mother, dear mother!'cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his head,'I do hope that I shall live to see him!'His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful woman, and felt that itwaswisest not to discourage the generous hopes of her little boy. Soshe only said to him, 'Perhaps you may.'And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother toldhim. It wasalways in his mind, whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face.He spent his childhood in the log-cottage where he was born, and wasdutiful to hismother, and helpful to her in many things, assistingher much with his little hands, and more with his loving heart. In thismanner, from a happy yet often pensivechild, he grew up to be a mild,quiet, unobtrusive boy, and sun-browned with labor in the fields, butwith more intelligence brightening his aspect than is seen inmany ladswho have been taught at famous schools. Yet Ernest had had no teacher,save only that the Great Stone Face became one to him. When the toilof theday was over, he would gaze at it for hours, until he began toimagine that those vast features recognized him, and gave him a smile ofkindness andencouragement, responsive to his own look of veneration.We must not take upon us to affirm that this was a mistake, althoughthe Face may have looked nomore kindly at Ernest than at all theworld besides. But the secret was that the boy's tender and confidingsimplicity discerned what other people could not see;and thus the love,which was meant for all, became his peculiar portion.About this time there went a rumor throughout the valley, that the greatman, foretoldfrom ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance tothe Great Stone Face, had appeared at last. It seems that, many yearsbefore, a young man had migratedfrom the valley and settled at adistant seaport, where, after getting together a little money, he hadset up as a shopkeeper. His name but I could never learnwhether it washis real one, or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and successin life--was Gathergold.Being shrewd and active, and endowed byProvidence with that inscrutablefaculty which develops itself in what the world calls luck, he became anexceedingly rich merchant, and owner of a whole fleet ofbulky-bottomedships. All the countries of the globe appeared to join hands for themere purpose of adding heap after heap to the mountainous accumulationof thisone man's wealth. The cold regions of the north, almost withinthe gloom and shadow of the Arctic Circle, sent him their tribute in theshape of furs; hot Africasifted for him the golden sands of her rivers,and gathered up the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of theforests; the east came bringing him the rich shawls,and spices, andteas, and the effulgence of diamonds, and the gleaming purity of largepearls. The ocean, not to be behindhand with the earth, yielded uphermighty whales, that Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil, and make aprofit on it. Be the original commodity what it might, it was goldwithin his grasp. It mightbe said of him, as of Midas, in the fable,that whatever he touched with his finger immediately glistened, and grewyellow, and was changed at once into sterlingmetal, or, which suitedhim still better, into piles of coin. And, when Mr. Gathergold hadbecome so very rich that it would have taken him a hundred years onlytocount his wealth, he bethought himself of his native valley, andresolved to go back thither, and end his days where he was born. Withthis purpose in view, hesent a skilful architect to build him such apalace as should be fit for a man of his vast wealth to live in.As I have said above, it had already been rumored in thevalley thatMr. Gathergold had turned out to be the prophetic personage so long andvainly looked for, and that his visage was the perfect and undeniablesimilitude"}
{"doc_id":"doc_25","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Fortune of the Rougons, by Emile ZolaThis 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 Fortune of the RougonsAuthor: Emile ZolaEditor: Ernest Alfred VizetellyRelease Date: April 22, 2006 [EBook #5135]Last Updated:September 5, 2016Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS***Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David WidgerTHE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONSBy Emile ZolaEdited With Introduction By Ernest AlfredVizetellyINTRODUCTIONâ\u0000\u0000The Fortune of the Rougonsâ\u0000\u0000 is the initial volume of theRougon-Macquart series. Though it was by no means M. Zolaâ\u0000\u0000s firstessayin fiction, it was undoubtedly his first great bid for genuine literaryfame, and the foundation of what must necessarily be regarded as hislife-work. The ideaof writing the â\u0000\u0000natural and social history of afamily under the Second Empire,â\u0000\u0000 extending to a score of volumes, wasdoubtless suggested to M. Zola byBalzacâ\u0000\u0000s immortal â\u0000\u0000Comedie Humaine.â\u0000\u0000 He was twenty-eight years of age when this idea first occurred to him;he was fifty-three when he at last sentthe manuscript of his concludingvolume, â\u0000\u0000Dr. Pascal,â\u0000\u0000 to the press. He had spent five-and-twenty yearsin working out his scheme, persevering with itdoggedly and stubbornly,whatever rebuffs he might encounter, whatever jeers and whatever insultsmight be directed against him by the ignorant, the prejudiced,and thehypocritical. Truth was on the march and nothing could stay it; even as,at the present hour, its march, if slow, none the less continues athwartanotherand a different crisis of the illustrious novelistâ\u0000\u0000s career.It was in the early summer of 1869 that M. Zola first began the actualwriting of â\u0000\u0000The Fortune ofthe Rougons.â\u0000\u0000 It was only in the followingyear, however, that the serial publication of the work commenced inthe columns of â\u0000\u0000Le Siecle,â\u0000\u0000 theRepublican journal of most influencein Paris in those days of the Second Empire. The Franco-German warinterrupted this issue of the story, and publication inbook form didnot take place until the latter half of 1871, a time when both the warand the Commune had left Paris exhausted, supine, with little or nointerest inanything. No more unfavourable moment for the issue of anambitious work of fiction could have been found. Some two or threeyears went by, as I wellremember, before anything like a revival ofliterature and of public interest in literature took place. Thus, M.Zola launched his gigantic scheme under auspiceswhich would have mademany another man recoil. â\u0000\u0000The Fortune of the Rougons,â\u0000\u0000 and two or threesubsequent volumes of his series, attracted but amoderate degreeof attention, and it was only on the morrow of the publication ofâ\u0000\u0000Lâ\u0000\u0000Assommoirâ\u0000\u0000 that he awoke, like Byron, to find himself famous.Aspreviously mentioned, the Rougon-Macquart series forms twentyvolumes. The last of these, â\u0000\u0000Dr. Pascal,â\u0000\u0000 appeared in 1893. Sincethen M. Zola haswritten â\u0000\u0000Lourdes,â\u0000\u0000 â\u0000\u0000Rome,â\u0000\u0000 and â\u0000\u0000Paris.â\u0000\u0000 Critics haverepeated _ad nauseam_ that these last works constitute a new departureon M.Zolaâ\u0000\u0000s part, and, so far as they formed a new series, thisis true. But the suggestion that he has in any way repented of theRougon-Macquart novels isridiculous. As he has often told me of recentyears, it is, as far as possible, his plan to subordinate his style andmethods to his subject. To have written a book likeâ\u0000\u0000Rome,â\u0000\u0000 so largelydevoted to the ambitions of the Papal See, in the same way as he hadwritten books dealing with the drunkenness or other vices ofParis,would have been the climax of absurdity.Yet the publication of â\u0000\u0000Rome,â\u0000\u0000 was the signal for a general outcry onthe part of English and Americanreviewers that Zolaism, as typified bythe Rougon-Macquart series, was altogether a thing of the past. To mythinking this is a profound error. M. Zola has alwaysremained faithfulto himself. The only difference that I perceive between his latestwork, â\u0000\u0000Paris,â\u0000\u0000 and certain Rougon-Macquart volumes, is that withtime,experience and assiduity, his genius has expanded and ripened, and thatthe hesitation, the groping for truth, so to say, which may be found insome of hisearlier writings, has disappeared.At the time when â\u0000\u0000The Fortune of the Rougonsâ\u0000\u0000 was first published, nonebut the author himself can have imagined thatthe foundation-stone ofone of the great literary monuments of the century had just been laid.From the â\u0000\u0000storyâ\u0000\u0000 point of view the book is one of M.Zolaâ\u0000\u0000s very best,although its construction--particularly as regards the long interlude ofthe idyll of Miette and Silvere--is far from being perfect. Such aworkwhen first issued might well bring its author a measure of popularity,but it could hardly confer fame. Nowadays, however, looking backward,and bearing inmind that one here has the genius of M. Zolaâ\u0000\u0000s lifework,â\u0000\u0000The Fortune of the Rougonsâ\u0000\u0000 becomes a book of exceptional interestand importance. Thishas been so well understood by French readers thatduring the last six or seven years the annual sales of the work haveincreased threefold. Where, over a courseof twenty years, 1,000 copieswere sold, 2,500 and 3,000 are sold to-day. How many living Englishnovelists can say the same of their early essays in fiction,issued morethan a quarter of a century ago?I may here mention that at the last date to which I have authenticfigures, that is, Midsummer 1897 (prior, of course,to what is calledâ\u0000\u0000Lâ\u0000\u0000Affaire Dreyfusâ\u0000\u0000), there had been sold of the entire Rougon-Macquartseries (which had begun in 1871) 1,421,000 copies. Thesewere of theordinary Charpentier editions of the French originals. By adding theretoseveral _editions de luxe_ and the widely-circulated popular illustratededitionsof certain volumes, the total amounts roundly to 2,100,000.â\u0000\u0000Rome,â\u0000\u0000 â\u0000\u0000Lourdes,â\u0000\u0000 â\u0000\u0000Paris,â\u0000\u0000 and all M. Zolaâ\u0000\u0000s other works, apart fromtheâ\u0000\u0000Rougon-Macquartâ\u0000\u0000 series, together with the translations into adozen different languages--English, German, Italian, Spanish, Dutch,Danish, Portuguese,Bohemian, Hungarian, and others--are not includedin the above figures. Otherwise the latter might well be doubled. Noris account taken of the many serial issueswhich have brought M. Zolaâ\u0000\u0000sviews to the knowledge of the masses of all Europe.It is, of course, the celebrity attaching to certain of M. Zolaâ\u0000\u0000sliteraryefforts that has stimulated the demand for his other writings.Among those which are well worthy of being read for their own sakes, Iwould assign a prominentplace to the present volume. Much of the storyelement in it is admirable, and, further, it shows M. Zola as agenuine satirist and humorist. The Rougonsâ\u0000\u0000yellow drawing-room andits habitues, and many of the scenes between Pierre Rougon and his wifeFelicite, are worthy of the pen of Douglas Jerrold. The wholeaccount,indeed, of the town of Plassans, its customs and its notabilities, issatire of the most effective kind, because it is satire true to life,and never degeneratesinto mere caricature.It is a rather curious coincidence that, at the time when M. Zola wasthus portraying the life of Provence, his great contemporary,bosomfriend, and rival for literary fame, the late Alphonse Daudet, shouldhave been producing, under the title of â\u0000\u0000The Provencal Don Quixote,â\u0000\u0000 thatunrivalled presentment of the foibles of the French Southerner,with everyone nowadays knows as â\u0000\u0000Tartarin of Tarascon.â\u0000\u0000 It is possiblethat M. Zola, whilewriting his book, may have read the instalments ofâ\u0000\u0000Le Don Quichotte Provencalâ\u0000\u0000 published in the Paris â\u0000\u0000Figaro,â\u0000\u0000 and it maybe that this perusalimparted that fillip to his pen to which we owethe many amusing particulars that he gives us of the town of Plassans.Plassans, I may mention, is really theProvencal Aix, which M. Zolaâ\u0000\u0000sfather provided with water by means of a canal still bearing his name.M. Zola himself, though born in Paris, spent the greaterpart of hischildhood there. Tarascon, as is well known, never forgave AlphonseDaudet for his â\u0000\u0000Tartarinâ\u0000\u0000; and in a like way M. Zola, who doubtlesscountsmore enemies than any other literary man of the period, has nonebitterer than the worthy citizens of Aix. They cannot forget or forgivethe rascallyRougon-Macquarts.The name Rougon-Macquart has to me always suggested that splendid andamusing type of the cynical rogue, Robert Macaire. But, of course,bothRougon and Macquart are genuine French names and not inventions. Indeed,several years ago I came by chance upon them both, in an old Frenchdeedwhich I was examining at the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris. Ithere found mention of a Rougon family and a Macquart family dwellingvirtually side by side inthe same village. This, however, was inChampagne, not in Provence. Both families farmed vineyards for a oncefamous abbey in the vicinity of Epernay, early inthe seventeenthcentury. To me, personally, this trivial discovery meant a great deal.It somehow aroused my interest in M. Zola and his works. Of the latter Ihadthen only glanced through two or three volumes. With M. Zola himselfI was absolutely unacquainted. However, I took the liberty to inform himof my littlediscovery; and afterwards I read all the books that he hadpublished. Now, as it is fairly well known, I have given the greaterpart of my time, for several yearspast, to the task of familiarisingEnglish readers with his writings. An old deed, a chance glance,followed by the great friendship of my life and years of patientlabour.If I mention this matter, it is solely with the object of endorsing thetruth of the saying that the most insignificant incidents frequentlyinfluence and evenshape our careers.But I must come back to â\u0000\u0000The Fortune of the Rougons.â\u0000\u0000 It has, as I havesaid, its satirical and humorous side; but it also contains astrongelement of pathos. The idyll of Miette and Silvere is a very touchingone, and quite in accord with the conditions of life prevailing inProvence at the period M.Zola selects for his narrative. Miette isa frank child of nature; Silvere, her lover, in certain respectsforeshadows, a quarter of a century in advance, the AbbePierre Fromontof â\u0000\u0000Lourdes,â\u0000\u0000 â\u0000\u0000Rome,â\u0000\u0000 and â\u0000\u0000Paris.â\u0000\u0000 The environment differs, of course,but germs of the same nature may readily bedetected in both characters.As for the other personages of M. Zolaâ\u0000\u0000s book--on the one hand, AuntDide, Pierre Rougon, his wife, Felicite, and their sonsEugene, Aristideand Pascal, and, on the other, Macquart, his daughter Gervaise ofâ\u0000\u0000Lâ\u0000\u0000Assommoir,â\u0000\u0000 and his son Jean of â\u0000\u0000La Terreâ\u0000\u0000 and â\u0000\u0000LaDebacle,â\u0000\u0000 togetherwith the members of the Mouret branch of the ravenous, neurotic, duplexfamily--these are analysed or sketched in a way which renderstheirsubsequent careers, as related in other volumes of the series,thoroughly consistent with their origin and their up-bringing. I ventureto asset that, although itis possible to read individual volumes ofthe Rougon-Macquart series while neglecting others, nobody can reallyunderstand any one of these books unless he"}
{"doc_id":"doc_26","qid":"","text":"Buffy the Vampire Slayer Script at IMSDb.
THE BEST EXOTIC MARIGOLD HOTEL Written by Ol Parker Based on thebook THESE FOOLISH THINGS by Deborah Moggach 10/01/11 1 OVER BLACK 1 Muffled music; soothing, generic. AUTOMATEDVOICE Thank you for your patience. Your call is important to us. We will be with you shortly. 2 INT. MANSION FLAT, LONDON -DAY 2 A neat, well-appointed flat, tastefully decorated. Framed against a large window which looks out over the city, an elegant womanin her 70's: EVELYN GREENSLADE. She's on the phone, on hold. On the desk in front of her is a brand new laptop computer; the screen reads'Getting Started ...' AUTOMATED VOICE (ON PHONE) Thank you for your patience. Your call isimportant to us. We will be with you shortly. Evelyn's patience is strained nonetheless. She taps her fingers on the desk. AUTOMATEDVOICE (cont'd) (ON PHONE) Thank you for your patience. Your call is - A slightly-accented voice finallyinterrupts. FEMALE VOICE Mrs Greenslade, thank you for WAITING"}
{"doc_id":"doc_32","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of Riders of the Purple Sage, by Zane GreyThis 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: Riders of the Purple SageAuthor: Zane GreyPosting Date: November 7, 2009 [Etext #1300]Release Date: April, 2000Last updated:February 3, 2011Last updated: June 23, 2013Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE ***Produced byBill Brewer and Rick FaneRIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGEBy Zane GreyCHAPTER I. LASSITERA sharp clip-crop of iron-shod hoofs deadened and died away, andcloudsof yellow dust drifted from under the cottonwoods out over the sage.Jane Withersteen gazed down the wide purple slope with dreamy andtroubled eyes. Arider had just left her and it was his message thatheld her thoughtful and almost sad, awaiting the churchmen who werecoming to resent and attack her right tobefriend a Gentile.She wondered if the unrest and strife that had lately come to thelittle village of Cottonwoods was to involve her. And then shesighed,remembering that her father had founded this remotest border settlementof southern Utah and that he had left it to her. She owned all theground andmany of the cottages. Withersteen House was hers, and thegreat ranch, with its thousands of cattle, and the swiftest horses ofthe sage. To her belonged AmberSpring, the water which gave verdureand beauty to the village and made living possible on that wild purpleupland waste. She could not escape being involved bywhatever befellCottonwoods.That year, 1871, had marked a change which had been gradually comingin the lives of the peace-loving Mormons of the border.Glaze--StoneBridge--Sterling, villages to the north, had risen against theinvasion of Gentile settlers and the forays of rustlers. There had beenopposition to theone and fighting with the other. And now Cottonwoodshad begun to wake and bestir itself and grown hard.Jane prayed that the tranquillity and sweetness of herlife would not bepermanently disrupted. She meant to do so much more for her people thanshe had done. She wanted the sleepy quiet pastoral days to lastalways.Trouble between the Mormons and the Gentiles of the community wouldmake her unhappy. She was Mormon-born, and she was a friend to poorandunfortunate Gentiles. She wished only to go on doing good and beinghappy. And she thought of what that great ranch meant to her. She lovedit all--the grove ofcottonwoods, the old stone house, the amber-tintedwater, and the droves of shaggy, dusty horses and mustangs, the sleek,clean-limbed, blooded racers, and thebrowsing herds of cattle and thelean, sun-browned riders of the sage.While she waited there she forgot the prospect of untoward change. Thebray of a lazy burrobroke the afternoon quiet, and it was comfortinglysuggestive of the drowsy farmyard, and the open corrals, and the greenalfalfa fields. Her clear sight intensifiedthe purple sage-slope as itrolled before her. Low swells of prairie-like ground sloped up tothe west. Dark, lonely cedar-trees, few and far between, stoodoutstrikingly, and at long distances ruins of red rocks. Farther on, up thegradual slope, rose a broken wall, a huge monument, looming dark purpleand stretchingits solitary, mystic way, a wavering line that fadedin the north. Here to the westward was the light and color and beauty.Northward the slope descended to a dimline of canyons from which rosean up-flinging of the earth, not mountainous, but a vast heave of purpleuplands, with ribbed and fan-shaped walls, castle-crownedcliffs, andgray escarpments. Over it all crept the lengthening, waning afternoonshadows.The rapid beat of hoofs recalled Jane Withersteen to the question athand.A group of riders cantered up the lane, dismounted, and threwtheir bridles. They were seven in number, and Tull, the leader, a tall,dark man, was an elder ofJane's church.\"Did you get my message?\" he asked, curtly.\"Yes,\" replied Jane.\"I sent word I'd give that rider Venters half an hour to come down tothe village. Hedidn't come.\"\"He knows nothing of it;\" said Jane. \"I didn't tell him. I've beenwaiting here for you.\"\"Where is Venters?\"\"I left him in the courtyard.\"\"Here, Jerry,\"called Tull, turning to his men, \"take the gang and fetchVenters out here if you have to rope him.\"The dusty-booted and long-spurred riders clanked noisily intothe groveof cottonwoods and disappeared in the shade.\"Elder Tull, what do you mean by this?\" demanded Jane. \"If you mustarrest Venters you might have thecourtesy to wait till he leaves myhome. And if you do arrest him it will be adding insult to injury. It'sabsurd to accuse Venters of being mixed up in that shootingfray in thevillage last night. He was with me at the time. Besides, he let me takecharge of his guns. You're only using this as a pretext. What do youmean to do toVenters?\"\"I'll tell you presently,\" replied Tull. \"But first tell me why youdefend this worthless rider?\"\"Worthless!\" exclaimed Jane, indignantly. \"He's nothing of thekind.He was the best rider I ever had. There's not a reason why I shouldn'tchampion him and every reason why I should. It's no little shame to me,Elder Tull, thatthrough my friendship he has roused the enmity of mypeople and become an outcast. Besides I owe him eternal gratitude forsaving the life of little Fay.\"\"I'veheard of your love for Fay Larkin and that you intend to adopther. But--Jane Withersteen, the child is a Gentile!\"\"Yes. But, Elder, I don't love the Mormon childrenany less because Ilove a Gentile child. I shall adopt Fay if her mother will give her tome.\"\"I'm not so much against that. You can give the child Mormonteaching,\"said Tull. \"But I'm sick of seeing this fellow Venters hang around you.I'm going to put a stop to it. You've so much love to throw away onthese beggarsof Gentiles that I've an idea you might love Venters.\"Tull spoke with the arrogance of a Mormon whose power could not bebrooked and with the passion of a manin whom jealousy had kindled aconsuming fire.\"Maybe I do love him,\" said Jane. She felt both fear and anger stir herheart. \"I'd never thought of that. Poor fellow!he certainly needs someone to love him.\"\"This'll be a bad day for Venters unless you deny that,\" returned Tull,grimly.Tull's men appeared under the cottonwoodsand led a young man out intothe lane. His ragged clothes were those of an outcast. But he stood talland straight, his wide shoulders flung back, with the musclesof hisbound arms rippling and a blue flame of defiance in the gaze he bent onTull.For the first time Jane Withersteen felt Venters's real spirit. Shewondered if shewould love this splendid youth. Then her emotion cooledto the sobering sense of the issue at stake.\"Venters, will you leave Cottonwoods at once and forever?\"asked Tull,tensely.\"Why?\" rejoined the rider.\"Because I order it.\"Venters laughed in cool disdain.The red leaped to Tull's dark cheek.\"If you don't go it means yourruin,\" he said, sharply.\"Ruin!\" exclaimed Venters, passionately. \"Haven't you already ruined me?What do you call ruin? A year ago I was a rider. I had horses andcattleof my own. I had a good name in Cottonwoods. And now when I come intothe village to see this woman you set your men on me. You hound me. Youtrailme as if I were a rustler. I've no more to lose--except my life.\"\"Will you leave Utah?\"\"Oh! I know,\" went on Venters, tauntingly, \"it galls you, the idea ofbeautifulJane Withersteen being friendly to a poor Gentile. You wanther all yourself. You're a wiving Mormon. You have use for her--andWithersteen House and AmberSpring and seven thousand head of cattle!\"Tull's hard jaw protruded, and rioting blood corded the veins of hisneck.\"Once more. Will you go?\"\"NO!\"\"Then I'll haveyou whipped within an inch of your life,\" replied Tull,harshly. \"I'll turn you out in the sage. And if you ever come backyou'll get worse.\"Venters's agitated facegrew coldly set and the bronze changedJane impulsively stepped forward. \"Oh! Elder Tull!\" she cried. \"Youwon't do that!\"Tull lifted a shaking finger towardher.\"That'll do from you. Understand, you'll not be allowed to hold this boyto a friendship that's offensive to your Bishop. Jane Withersteen, yourfather left youwealth and power. It has turned your head. You haven'tyet come to see the place of Mormon women. We've reasoned with you,borne with you. We've patientlywaited. We've let you have your fling,which is more than I ever saw granted to a Mormon woman. But you haven'tcome to your senses. Now, once for all, youcan't have any furtherfriendship with Venters. He's going to be whipped, and he's got to leaveUtah!\"\"Oh! Don't whip him! It would be dastardly!\" implored Jane,with slowcertainty of her failing courage.Tull always blunted her spirit, and she grew conscious that she hadfeigned a boldness which she did not possess. Heloomed up now indifferent guise, not as a jealous suitor, but embodying the mysteriousdespotism she had known from childhood--the power of hercreed.\"Venters, will you take your whipping here or would you rather go outin the sage?\" asked Tull. He smiled a flinty smile that was morethan inhuman, yetseemed to give out of its dark aloofness a gleam ofrighteousness.\"I'll take it here--if I must,\" said Venters. \"But by God!--Tull you'dbetter kill me outright. That'llbe a dear whipping for you and yourpraying Mormons. You'll make me another Lassiter!\"The strange glow, the austere light which radiated from Tull's face,mighthave been a holy joy at the spiritual conception of exalted duty.But there was something more in him, barely hidden, a something personaland sinister, a deep ofhimself, an engulfing abyss. As his religiousmood was fanatical and inexorable, so would his physical hate bemerciless.\"Elder, I--I repent my words,\" Janefaltered. The religion in her, thelong habit of obedience, of humility, as well as agony of fear, spoke inher voice. \"Spare the boy!\" she whispered.\"You can't savehim now,\" replied Tull stridently.Her head was bowing to the inevitable. She was grasping the truth,when suddenly there came, in inward constriction, ahardening of gentleforces within her breast. Like a steel bar it was stiffening all thathad been soft and weak in her. She felt a birth in her of something newandunintelligible. Once more her strained gaze sought the sage-slopes.Jane Withersteen loved that wild and purple wilderness. In timesof sorrow it had been herstrength, in happiness its beauty was hercontinual delight. In her extremity she found herself murmuring, \"Whencecometh my help!\" It was a prayer, as if forthfrom those lonely purplereaches and walls of red and clefts of blue might ride a fearless man,neither creed-bound nor creed-mad, who would hold up a restraininghandin the faces of her ruthless people.The restless movements of Tull's men suddenly quieted down. Thenfollowed a low whisper, a rustle, a sharpexclamation.\"Look!\" said one, pointing to the west.\"A rider!\"Jane Withersteen wheeled and saw a horseman, silhouetted against thewestern sky, coming ridingout of the sage. He had ridden down from theleft, in the golden glare of the sun, and had been unobserved till closeat hand. An answer to her prayer!\"Do youknow him? Does any one know him?\" questioned Tull, hurriedly.His men looked and looked, and one by one shook their heads.\"He's come from far,\" said"}
{"doc_id":"doc_33","qid":"","text":"It Happened One Night Script at IMSDb.
IT HAPPENED ONENIGHT Written by Robert previous hit Riskin based on a story by Samuel Hopkins Adams The HARBOR at Miami Beach fades in, providing quick views ofyachts, aquaplanes, and luxurious ship-craft lying at anchor in the calm, tranquil waters of tropical Florida.This dissolves to the NAME PLATE on the side of a yacht, reading \"ELSPETH II,\" and this in turn to a YACHTCORRIDOR where a steward is standing in front of a cabin door, near a small collapsible table upon which thereis a tray of steaming food. He lifts lids and examines the contents. A heavy-set sailor stands guard near thecabin door.[1] STEWARD Fine! Fine!"}
{"doc_id":"doc_34","qid":"","text":"Interstellar Script at IMSDb.
INTERSTELLAR Writtenby Jonathan Nolan STORYBY Jonathan Nolan, Kip Thorne & LyndaObst MARCH12 2008 SPACE. But not the dark lonely corner of it we're used to. This is a glittering inferno -- the center of adistant galaxy. Suddenly, something TEARS past at incredible speed: a NEUTRON STAR. It SMASHES headlong through everythingit encounters... planets, stars. Can anything stop this juggernaut? Yes. Something looms at the heart of the galaxy,hidden inside the blinding starlight, a dark flaw in the fabric of existence itself: a BLACK HOLE. The neutron star is pulled intothe black hole's swirl, spiraling closer and closer to destruction. Finally, it contacts the hole's edge and EXPLODES. TheEXPLOSION is so powerful that it sends shock waves into the fabric of space-time itself. We ride one of these waves, racing back out from the blackhole. Suddenly, a portion of the wave disappears down a crystal- like hole, emerging in a much darker region of the universe"}
{"doc_id":"doc_35","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg eBook, Cousin Henry, by Anthony TrollopeThis 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: Cousin HenryAuthor: Anthony TrollopeRelease Date: January 1, 2008 [eBook #24103]Language: English***START OF THE PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK COUSIN HENRY***E-text prepared by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.COUSIN HENRYbyANTHONY TROLLOPEFirst published in serial form in the_Manchester Weekly Times_ andthe _North British Weekly Mail_ in the spring of 1879 and in bookform in October, 1879CONTENTS I. Uncle Indefer II.Isabel Brodrick III. Cousin Henry IV. The Squire's Death V. Preparing for the Funeral VI. Mr Apjohn's Explanation VII. Looking for the Will VIII.The Reading of the Will IX. Alone at Llanfeare X. Cousin Henry Dreams a Dream XI. Isabel at Hereford XII. Mr Owen XIII. The _CarmarthenHerald_ XIV. An Action for Libel XV. Cousin Henry Makes Another Attempt XVI. Again at Hereford XVII. Mr Cheekey XVIII. Cousin Henry Goes toCarmarthen XIX. Mr Apjohn Sends for Assistance XX. Doubts XXI. Mr Apjohn's Success XXII. How Cousin Henry Was Let Off Easily XXIII. Isabel'sPetition XXIV. ConclusionCHAPTER IUncle Indefer\"I have a conscience, my dear, on this matter,\" said an old gentlemanto a young lady, as the two were sittingin the breakfast parlour ofa country house which looked down from the cliffs over the sea on thecoast of Carmarthenshire.\"And so have I, Uncle Indefer; and asmy conscience is backed by myinclination, whereas yours is not--\"\"You think that I shall give way?\"\"I did not mean that.\"\"What then?\"\"If I could only make youunderstand how very strong is myinclination, or disinclination--how impossible to be conquered,then--\"\"What next?\"\"Then you would know that I could never giveway, as you call it, andyou would go to work with your own conscience to see whether it beimperative with you or not. You may be sure of this,--I shall neversaya word to you in opposition to your conscience. If there be aword to be spoken it must come from yourself.\"There was a long pause in the conversation, a silencefor an hour,during which the girl went in and out of the room and settled herselfdown at her work. Then the old man went back abruptly to the subjectthey haddiscussed. \"I shall obey my conscience.\"\"You ought to do so, Uncle Indefer. What should a man obey but hisconscience?\"\"Though it will break my heart.\"\"No; no,no!\"\"And will ruin you.\"\"That is a flea's bite. I can brave my ruin easily, but not yourbroken heart.\"\"Why should there be either, Isabel?\"\"Nay, sir; have you notsaid but now, because of our consciences?Not to save your heart from breaking,--though I think your heartis dearer to me than anything else in the world,--couldI marrymy cousin Henry. We must die together, both of us, you and I, orlive broken-hearted, or what not, sooner than that. Would I not doanything possible atyour bidding?\"\"I used to think so.\"\"But it is impossible for a young woman with a respect for herselfsuch as I have to submit herself to a man that she loathes. Doasyour conscience bids you with the old house. Shall I be less tenderto you while you live because I shall have to leave the place whenyou are dead? Shall Iaccuse you of injustice or unkindness inmy heart? Never! All that is only an outside circumstance to me,comparatively of little moment. But to be the wife of aman Idespise!\" Then she got up and left the room.A month passed by before the old man returned to the subject, whichhe did seated in the same room, at thesame hour of the day,--atabout four o'clock, when the dinner things had been removed.\"Isabel,\" he said, \"I cannot help myself.\"\"As to what, Uncle Indefer?\" Sheknew very well what was the matterin which, as he said, he could not help himself. Had there beenanything in which his age had wanted assistance from heryouth therewould have been no hesitation between them; no daughter was ever moretender; no father was ever more trusting. But on this subject itwasnecessary that he should speak more plainly before she could reply tohim.\"As to your cousin and the property.\"\"Then in God's name do not trouble yourselffurther in looking forhelp where there is none to be had. You mean that the estate ought togo to a man and not to a woman?\"\"It ought to go to a Jones.\"\"I am nota Jones, nor likely to become a Jones.\"\"You are as near to me as he is,--and so much dearer!\"\"But not on that account a Jones. My name is Isabel Brodrick. Awomannot born to be a Jones may have the luck to become one by marriage,but that will never be the case with me.\"\"You should not laugh at that which is to mea duty.\"\"Dear, dear uncle!\" she said, caressing him, \"if I seemed tolaugh\"--and she certainly had laughed when she spoke of the luck ofbecoming a Jones--\"it isonly that you may feel how little importanceI attach to it all on my own account.\"\"But it is important,--terribly important!\"\"Very well. Then go to work with twothings in your mind fixed asfate. One is that you must leave Llanfeare to your nephew HenryJones, and the other that I will not marry your nephew HenryJones.When it is all settled it will be just as though the old place wereentailed, as it used to be.\"\"I wish it were.\"\"So do I, if it would save you trouble.\"\"But it isn'tthe same;--it can't be the same. In getting back theland your grandfather sold I have spent the money I had saved foryou.\"\"It shall be all the same to me, and Iwill take pleasure in thinkingthat the old family place shall remain as you would have it. I can beproud of the family though I can never bear the name.\"\"You donot care a straw for the family.\"\"You should not say that, Uncle Indefer. It is not true. I careenough for the family to sympathise with you altogether in whatyouare doing, but not enough for the property to sacrifice myself inorder that I might have a share in it.\"\"I do not know why you should think so much evil ofHenry.\"\"Do you know any reason why I should think well enough of him tobecome his wife? I do not. In marrying a man a woman should be ableto love everylittle trick belonging to him. The parings of his nailsshould be a care to her. It should be pleasant to her to serve him inthings most menial. Would it be so to me,do you think, with HenryJones?\"\"You are always full of poetry and books.\"\"I should be full of something very bad if I were to allow myself tostand at the altar withhim. Drop it, Uncle Indefer. Get it out ofyour mind as a thing quite impossible. It is the one thing I can'tand won't do, even for you. It is the one thing that youought not toask me to do. Do as you like with the property,--as you think right.\"\"It is not as I like.\"\"As your conscience bids you, then; and I with myself, which istheonly little thing that I have in the world, will do as I like, or asmy conscience bids me.\"These last words she spoke almost roughly, and as she said them shelefthim, walking out of the room with an air of offended pride.But in this there was a purpose. If she were hard to him, hard andobstinate in her determination, thenwould he be enabled to be soalso to her in his determination, with less of pain to himself. Shefelt it to be her duty to teach him that he was justified in doingwhathe liked with his property, because she intended to do whatshe liked with herself. Not only would she not say a word towardsdissuading him from this change inhis old intentions, but she wouldmake the change as little painful to him as possible by teaching himto think that it was justified by her own manner to him.Forthere was a change, not only in his mind, but in his declaredintentions. Llanfeare had belonged to Indefer Joneses for manygenerations. When the late Squire haddied, now twenty years ago,there had been remaining out of ten children only one, the eldest,to whom the property now belonged. Four or five coming insuccessionafter him had died without issue. Then there had been a Henry Jones,who had gone away and married, had become the father of the HenryJones abovementioned, and had then also departed. The youngest, adaughter, had married an attorney named Brodrick, and she also haddied, having no other child butIsabel. Mr Brodrick had marriedagain, and was now the father of a large family, living at Hereford,where he carried on his business. He was not very \"well-to-do\"in theworld. The new Mrs Brodrick had preferred her own babies to Isabel,and Isabel when she was fifteen years of age had gone to her bacheloruncle atLlanfeare. There she had lived for the last ten years,making occasional visits to her father at Hereford.Mr Indefer Jones, who was now between seventy andeighty years old,was a gentleman who through his whole life had been disturbed byreflections, fears, and hopes as to the family property on which hehad beenborn, on which he had always lived, in possession of whichhe would certainly die, and as to the future disposition of whichit was his lot in life to be altogetherresponsible. It had beenentailed upon him before his birth in his grandfather's time, whenhis father was about to be married. But the entail had not beencarriedon. There had come no time in which this Indefer Jones hadbeen about to be married, and the former old man having been given toextravagance, and beengenerally in want of money, had felt it morecomfortable to be without an entail. His son had occasionally beeninduced to join with him in raising money. Thus notonly since he hadhimself owned the estate, but before his father's death, there hadbeen forced upon him reflections as to the destination of Llanfeare.At fifty hehad found himself unmarried, and unlikely to marry.His brother Henry was then alive; but Henry had disgraced thefamily,--had run away with a married womanwhom he had married aftera divorce, had taken to race courses and billiard-rooms, and had beenaltogether odious to his brother Indefer. Nevertheless the boywhichhad come from this marriage, a younger Henry, had been educated athis expense, and had occasionally been received at Llanfeare. Hehad been popularwith no one there, having been found to be a slyboy, given to lying, and, as even the servants said about the place,unlike a Jones of Llanfeare. Then had comethe time in which Isabelhad been brought to Llanfeare. Henry had been sent away from Oxfordfor some offence not altogether trivial, and the Squire haddeclaredto himself and others that Llanfeare should never fall into hishands.Isabel had so endeared herself to him that before she had beentwo years in the houseshe was the young mistress of the place.Everything that she did was right in his eyes. She might haveanything that she would ask, only that she would ask fornothing. Atthis time the cousin had been taken into an office in London, and hadbecome,--so it was said of him,--a steady young man of business. Butstill, whenallowed to show himself at Llanfeare, he was unpalatableto them all--unless it might be to the old Squire. It was certainlythe case that in his office in London hemade himself useful, and itseemed that he had abandoned that practice of running into debt andhaving the bills sent down to Llanfeare which he had adoptedearly inhis career.During all this time the old Squire was terribly troubled aboutthe property. His will was always close at his hand. Till Isabelwas twenty-one this"}
{"doc_id":"doc_36","qid":"","text":"Charlie's Angels Script at IMSDb.
SHREK Written by William Steig & TedElliott SHREK Once upon a time there was a lovely princess. But she had anenchantment upon her of a fearful sort which could only be broken by love's first kiss. She was locked awayin a castle guarded by a terrible fire-breathing dragon. Many brave knights had attempted to free her fromthis dreadful prison, but non prevailed. She waited in the dragon's keep in the highest room of the tallesttower for her true love and true love's first kiss. (laughs) Like that's ever gonna happen. What a load of -(toilet flush) Allstar - by Smashmouth begins to play. Shrek goes about his day. While in a nearby town, the villagers get togetherto go after the ogre. NIGHT - NEAR SHREK'S HOME MAN1 Think it's inthere? MAN2 All right. Let's get it! MAN1 Whoa. Hold on.Do you know what that thing can do to you? MAN3 Yeah, it'll grind your bones forit's bread. Shrek sneaks up behind them and laughs. SHREK Yes, well,"}
{"doc_id":"doc_39","qid":"","text":"Big White, The Script at IMSDb.
THE BIG WHITE Written by CollinFriesen FADE IN: EXT. ROAD - WINTER DAY A police car, nothing more than a speck on the landscape, is intermittently visiblethrough the blowing snow. INT. POLICE CAR - SAME A CORPORAL (20s), behind the wheel, with a bored DETECTIVE BOYLE (60s) at hisside. CORPORAL So his hand is like, off, right. So he puts on a tourniquet, puts the hand in his pocket, walksfive miles through the bush til he gets to the highway, where he passes out, on the road, right. Then this logging truck comesalong... DETECTIVE BOYLE (looking ahead) Hey. The Corporal looks forward. CAR'S POV:Through the windshield of a WOMAN (40s), dressed in her pajamas and a parka, skipping down the middle of the road. EXT. ROAD The policecar pulls to a stop, just as the woman does a pirouette and falls over backwards. Detective Boyle and the other Cop get out and walkover. CORPORAL (into his radio) Dispatch, this is unit 611, we need a first responsder-- DETECTIVE BOYLE Cancel that. The Woman kicks up a leg, wiggles her foot. DETECTIVEBOYLE (cont'd) I know where she belongs. As they lift her up...1 INT. INSIDE A TRASH DUMPSTER - LATE"}
{"doc_id":"doc_40","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wheels of Chance, by H. G. WellsThis 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: The Wheels of Chance A Bicycling IdyllAuthor: H. G. WellsRelease Date: April, 1998 [Etext #1264]Posting Date: November 10,2009 [EBook #1264]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHEELS OF CHANCE ***Produced by Dianne BeanTHE WHEELSOF CHANCE; A BICYCLING IDYLLBy H.G. Wells1896I. THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTER IN THE STORYIf you (presuming you are of the sex that does such things)--ifyou hadgone into the Drapery Emporium--which is really only magnificent forshop--of Messrs. Antrobus & Co.--a perfectly fictitious \"Co.,\" bythe bye--of Putney,on the 14th of August, 1895, had turned to theright-hand side, where the blocks of white linen and piles of blanketsrise up to the rail from which the pink andblue prints depend, youmight have been served by the central figure of this story that is nowbeginning. He would have come forward, bowing and swaying, hewould haveextended two hands with largish knuckles and enormous cuffs over thecounter, and he would have asked you, protruding a pointed chin andwithoutthe slightest anticipation of pleasure in his manner, what hemight have the pleasure of showing you. Under certain circumstances--as,for instance, hats, babylinen, gloves, silks, lace, or curtains--hewould simply have bowed politely, and with a drooping expression, andmaking a kind of circular sweep, invited you to\"step this way,\"and so led you beyond his ken; but under other and happierconditions,--huckaback, blankets, dimity, cretonne, linen, calico, arecases inpoint,--he would have requested you to take a seat, emphasisingthe hospitality by leaning over the counter and gripping a chair back ina spasmodic manner, andso proceeded to obtain, unfold, and exhibithis goods for your consideration. Under which happier circumstances youmight--if of an observing turn of mind and nottoo much of a housewifeto be inhuman--have given the central figure of this story less cursoryattention.Now if you had noticed anything about him, it would havebeen chiefly tonotice how little he was noticeable. He wore the black morning coat, theblack tie, and the speckled grey nether parts (descending into shadowandmystery below the counter) of his craft. He was of a pallidcomplexion, hair of a kind of dirty fairness, greyish eyes, and askimpy, immature moustache under hispeaked indeterminate nose.His features were all small, but none ill-shaped. A rosette of pinsdecorated the lappel of his coat. His remarks, you would observe,wereentirely what people used to call cliche, formulae not organic to theoccasion, but stereotyped ages ago and learnt years since by heart.\"This, madam,\" hewould say, \"is selling very well.\" \"We are doing avery good article at four three a yard.\" \"We could show you somethingbetter, of course.\" \"No trouble, madam, Iassure you.\" Such were thesimple counters of his intercourse. So, I say, he would have presentedhimself to your superficial observation. He would have dancedaboutbehind the counter, have neatly refolded the goods he had shown you,have put on one side those you selected, extracted a little book witha carbon leaf anda tinfoil sheet from a fixture, made you out a littlebill in that weak flourishing hand peculiar to drapers, and have bawled\"Sayn!\" Then a puffy little shop-walkerwould have come into view,looked at the bill for a second, very hard (showing you a partingdown the middle of his head meanwhile), have scribbled a stillmoreflourishing J. M. all over the document, have asked you if therewas nothing more, have stood by you--supposing that you were payingcash--until the centralfigure of this story reappeared with the change.One glance more at him, and the puffy little shop-walker would have beenbowing you out, with fountains ofcivilities at work all about you. Andso the interview would have terminated.But real literature, as distinguished from anecdote, does not concernitself withsuperficial appearances alone. Literature is revelation.Modern literature is indecorous revelation. It is the duty of theearnest author to tell you what you would nothave seen--even at thecost of some blushes. And the thing that you would not have seen aboutthis young man, and the thing of the greatest moment to thisstory, thething that must be told if the book is to be written, was--let us faceit bravely--the Remarkable Condition of this Young Man's Legs.Let us approach thebusiness with dispassionate explicitness. Let usassume something of the scientific spirit, the hard, almost professorialtone of the conscientious realist. Let us treatthis young man's legs asa mere diagram, and indicate the points of interest with the unemotionalprecision of a lecturer's pointer. And so to our revelation. Ontheinternal aspect of the right ankle of this young man you would haveobserved, ladies and gentlemen, a contusion and an abrasion; on theinternal aspect of theleft ankle a contusion also; on its externalaspect a large yellowish bruise. On his left shin there were twobruises, one a leaden yellow graduating here and thereinto purple,and another, obviously of more recent date, of a blotchy red--tumid andthreatening. Proceeding up the left leg in a spiral manner, anunnaturalhardness and redness would have been discovered on the upper aspect ofthe calf, and above the knee and on the inner side, an extraordinaryexpanseof bruised surface, a kind of closely stippled shading ofcontused points. The right leg would be found to be bruised in amarvellous manner all about and under theknee, and particularly on theinterior aspect of the knee. So far we may proceed with our details.Fired by these discoveries, an investigator might perhaps havepursuedhis inquiries further--to bruises on the shoulders, elbows, and even thefinger joints, of the central figure of our story. He had indeed beenbumped andbattered at an extraordinary number of points. But enoughof realistic description is as good as a feast, and we have exhibitedenough for our purpose. Even inliterature one must know where to drawthe line.Now the reader may be inclined to wonder how a respectable young shopmanshould have got his legs, and indeedhimself generally, into such adreadful condition. One might fancy that he had been sitting with hisnether extremities in some complicated machinery, athreshing-machine,say, or one of those hay-making furies. But Sherlock Holmes (now happilydead) would have fancied nothing of the kind. He would haverecognisedat once that the bruises on the internal aspect of the left leg,considered in the light of the distribution of the other abrasions andcontusions, pointedunmistakably to the violent impact of the MountingBeginner upon the bicycling saddle, and that the ruinous state of theright knee was equally eloquent of theconcussions attendant on thatperson's hasty, frequently causeless, and invariably ill-conceiveddescents. One large bruise on the shin is even more characteristicofthe 'prentice cyclist, for upon every one of them waits the jest of theunexpected treadle. You try at least to walk your machine in an easymanner, andwhack!--you are rubbing your shin. So out of innocence weripen. Two bruises on that place mark a certain want of aptitude inlearning, such as one might expectin a person unused to muscularexercise. Blisters on the hands are eloquent of the nervous clutchof the wavering rider. And so forth, until Sherlock ispresentlyexplaining, by the help of the minor injuries, that the machine riddenis an old-fashioned affair with a fork instead of the diamond frame, acushioned tire,well worn on the hind wheel, and a gross weight all onof perhaps three-and-forty pounds.The revelation is made. Behind the decorous figure of theattentiveshopman that I had the honour of showing you at first, rises a visionof a nightly struggle, of two dark figures and a machine in a darkroad,--the road, tobe explicit, from Roehampton to Putney Hill,--andwith this vision is the sound of a heel spurning the gravel, a gaspingand grunting, a shouting of \"Steer, man,steer!\" a wavering unsteadyflight, a spasmodic turning of the missile edifice of man and machine,and a collapse. Then you descry dimly through the dusk thecentralfigure of this story sitting by the roadside and rubbing his leg atsome new place, and his friend, sympathetic (but by no means depressed),repairing thedisplacement of the handle-bar.Thus even in a shop assistant does the warmth of manhood assert itself,and drive him against all the conditions of his calling,against thecounsels of prudence and the restrictions of his means, to seek thewholesome delights of exertion and danger and pain. And our firstexamination ofthe draper reveals beneath his draperies--the man! Towhich initial fact (among others) we shall come again in the end.IIBut enough of these revelations. Thecentral figure of our story is nowgoing along behind the counter, a draper indeed, with your purchases inhis arms, to the warehouse, where the various articlesyou have selectedwill presently be packed by the senior porter and sent to you. Returningthence to his particular place, he lays hands on a folded pieceofgingham, and gripping the corners of the folds in his hands, begins tostraighten them punctiliously. Near him is an apprentice, apprenticed tothe same highcalling of draper's assistant, a ruddy, red-haired ladin a very short tailless black coat and a very high collar, who isdeliberately unfolding and refolding somepatterns of cretonne. Bytwenty-one he too may hope to be a full-blown assistant, even as Mr.Hoopdriver. Prints depend from the brass rails above them, behindarefixtures full of white packages containing, as inscriptions testify,Lino, Hd Bk, and Mull. You might imagine to see them that the two wereboth intent uponnothing but smoothness of textile and rectitude offold. But to tell the truth, neither is thinking of the mechanicalduties in hand. The assistant is dreaming of thedelicious time--onlyfour hours off now--when he will resume the tale of his bruises andabrasions. The apprentice is nearer the long long thoughts of boyhood,andhis imagination rides cap-a-pie through the chambers of his brain,seeking some knightly quest in honour of that Fair Lady, the last butone of the girl apprenticesto the dress-making upstairs. He inclinesrather to street fighting against revolutionaries--because then shecould see him from the window.Jerking them back tothe present comes the puffy little shop-walker,with a paper in his hand. The apprentice becomes extremely active. Theshopwalker eyes the goods in hand.\"Hoopdriver,\" he says, \"how's thatline of g-sez-x ginghams?\"Hoopdriver returns from an imaginary triumph over the uncertainties ofdismounting. \"They're goingfairly well, sir. But the larger checks seemhanging.\"The shop-walker brings up parallel to the counter. \"Any particular timewhen you want your holidays?\" heasks.Hoopdriver pulls at his skimpy moustache. \"No--Don't want them too late,sir, of course.\"\"How about this day week?\"Hoopdriver becomes rigidly meditative,gripping the corners of thegingham folds in his hands. His face is eloquent of conflictingconsiderations. Can he learn it in a week? That's the question.Otherwise"}
{"doc_id":"doc_41","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Variable Man, by Philip K. DickThis 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 Variable ManAuthor: Philip K. DickIllustrator: Alex EbelRelease Date: April 27, 2010 [EBook #32154][Last updated: May 4,2011]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VARIABLE MAN ***Produced by Greg Weeks, Barbara Tozier and theOnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net This etext was produced from Space Science Fiction September 1953. Extensive research didnot uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.[Illustration]THE VARIABLE MANBY PHILIP K. DICKILLUSTRATED BYEBEL He fixed things--clocks, refrigerators, vidsenders and destinies. But he had no business in the future, where the calculators could not handle him. Hewas Earth's only hope--and its sure failure!Security Commissioner Reinhart rapidly climbed the front steps andentered the Council building. Council guardsstepped quickly aside andhe entered the familiar place of great whirring machines. His thinface rapt, eyes alight with emotion, Reinhart gazed intently up atthecentral SRB computer, studying its reading.\"Straight gain for the last quarter,\" observed Kaplan, the laborganizer. He grinned proudly, as if personallyresponsible. \"Not bad,Commissioner.\"\"We're catching up to them,\" Reinhart retorted. \"But too damn slowly.We must finally go over--and soon.\"Kaplan was in atalkative mood. \"We design new offensive weapons, theycounter with improved defenses. And nothing is actually made!Continual improvement, but neither wenor Centaurus can stop designinglong enough to stabilize for production.\"\"It will end,\" Reinhart stated coldly, \"as soon as Terra turns out aweapon for whichCentaurus can build no defense.\"\"Every weapon has a defense. Design and discord. Immediateobsolescence. Nothing lasts long enough to--\"\"What we count on isthe _lag_,\" Reinhart broke in, annoyed. His hardgray eyes bored into the lab organizer and Kaplan slunk back. \"Thetime lag between our offensive design andtheir counter development.The lag varies.\" He waved impatiently toward the massed banks of SRBmachines. \"As you well know.\"At this moment, 9:30 AM, May 7,2136, the statistical ratio on the SRBmachines stood at 21-17 on the Centauran side of the ledger. All factsconsidered, the odds favored a successful repulsion byProximaCentaurus of a Terran military attack. The ratio was based on thetotal information known to the SRB machines, on a gestalt of the vastflow of data thatpoured in endlessly from all sectors of the Sol andCentaurus systems.21-17 on the Centauran side. But a month ago it had been 24-18 in theenemy's favor.Things were improving, slowly but steadily. Centaurus,older and less virile than Terra, was unable to match Terra's rate oftechnocratic advance. Terra was pullingahead.\"If we went to war now,\" Reinhart said thoughtfully, \"we would lose.We're not far enough along to risk an overt attack.\" A harsh, ruthlessglow twistedacross his handsome features, distorting them into astern mask. \"But the odds are moving in our favor. Our offensivedesigns are gradually gaining on theirdefenses.\"\"Let's hope the war comes soon,\" Kaplan agreed. \"We're all on edge.This damn waiting....\"The war would come soon. Reinhart knew it intuitively. Theair wasfull of tension, the _elan_. He left the SRB rooms and hurried downthe corridor to his own elaborately guarded office in the Securitywing. It wouldn't belong. He could practically feel the hot breath ofdestiny on his neck--for him a pleasant feeling. His thin lips set ina humorless smile, showing an even line of whiteteeth against histanned skin. It made him feel good, all right. He'd been working at ita long time.First contact, a hundred years earlier, had ignited instantconflictbetween Proxima Centauran outposts and exploring Terran raiders. Flashfights, sudden eruptions of fire and energy beams.And then the long, dreary yearsof inaction between enemies wherecontact required years of travel, even at nearly the speed of light.The two systems were evenly matched. Screen againstscreen. Warshipagainst power station. The Centauran Empire surrounded Terra, an ironring that couldn't be broken, rusty and corroded as it was. Radicalnewweapons had to be conceived, if Terra was to break out.Through the windows of his office, Reinhart could see endlessbuildings and streets, Terrans hurrying backand forth. Bright specksthat were commute ships, little eggs that carried businessmen andwhite-collar workers around. The huge transport tubes that shotmassesof workmen to factories and labor camps from their housing units. Allthese people, waiting to break out. Waiting for the day.Reinhart snapped on hisvidscreen, the confidential channel. \"Give meMilitary Designs,\" he ordered sharply. * * * * *He sat tense, his wiry body taut, as thevidscreen warmed into life.Abruptly he was facing the hulking image of Peter Sherikov, directorof the vast network of labs under the Ural Mountains.Sherikov'sgreat bearded features hardened as he recognized Reinhart.His bushy black eyebrows pulled up in a sullen line. \"What do youwant? You know I'm busy. We havetoo much work to do, as it is.Without being bothered by--politicians.\"\"I'm dropping over your way,\" Reinhart answered lazily. He adjustedthe cuff of hisimmaculate gray cloak. \"I want a full description ofyour work and whatever progress you've made.\"\"You'll find a regular departmental report plate filed in theusualway, around your office someplace. If you'll refer to that you'll knowexactly what we--\"\"I'm not interested in that. I want to _see_ what you're doing. AndIexpect you to be prepared to describe your work fully. I'll be thereshortly. Half an hour.\" * * * * *Reinhart cut the circuit. Sherikov's heavyfeatures dwindled andfaded. Reinhart relaxed, letting his breath out. Too bad he had towork with Sherikov. He had never liked the man. The big Polishscientistwas an individualist, refusing to integrate himself withsociety. Independent, atomistic in outlook. He held concepts of theindividual as an end, diametricallycontrary to the accepted organicstate Weltansicht.But Sherikov was the leading research scientist, in charge of theMilitary Designs Department. And on Designsthe whole future of Terradepended. Victory over Centaurus--or more waiting, bottled up in theSol System, surrounded by a rotting, hostile Empire, now sinkingintoruin and decay, yet still strong.Reinhart got quickly to his feet and left the office. He hurried downthe hall and out of the Council building.A few minutes laterhe was heading across the mid-morning sky in hishighspeed cruiser, toward the Asiatic land-mass, the vast Uralmountain range. Toward the Military Designslabs.Sherikov met him at the entrance. \"Look here, Reinhart. Don't thinkyou're going to order me around. I'm not going to--\"\"Take it easy.\" Reinhart fell into stepbeside the bigger man. Theypassed through the check and into the auxiliary labs. \"No immediatecoercion will be exerted over you or your staff. You're freetocontinue your work as you see fit--for the present. Let's get thisstraight. My concern is to integrate your work with our total socialneeds. As long as your work issufficiently productive--\"Reinhart stopped in his tracks.\"Pretty, isn't he?\" Sherikov said ironically.\"What the hell is it?\"Icarus, we call him. Remember the Greekmyth? The legend of Icarus.Icarus flew.... This Icarus is going to fly, one of these days.\"Sherikov shrugged. \"You can examine him, if you want. I suppose thisiswhat you came here to see.\"Reinhart advanced slowly. \"This is the weapon you've been working on?\"\"How does he look?\"Rising up in the center of the chamberwas a squat metal cylinder, agreat ugly cone of dark gray. Technicians circled around it, wiring upthe exposed relay banks. Reinhart caught a glimpse of endlesstubesand filaments, a maze of wires and terminals and parts criss-crossingeach other, layer on layer.\"What is it?\" Reinhart perched on the edge of a workbench,leaning hisbig shoulders against the wall. \"An idea of Jamison Hedge--the sameman who developed our instantaneous interstellar vidcasts forty yearsago. He wastrying to find a method of faster than light travel whenhe was killed, destroyed along with most of his work. After that ftlresearch was abandoned. It looked as ifthere were no future in it.\"\"Wasn't it shown that nothing could travel faster than light?\"\"The interstellar vidcasts do! No, Hedge developed a valid ftl drive.Hemanaged to propel an object at fifty times the speed of light. Butas the object gained speed, its length began to diminish and its massincreased. This was in linewith familiar twentieth-century conceptsof mass-energy transformation. We conjectured that as Hedge's objectgained velocity it would continue to lose length andgain mass untilits length became nil and its mass infinite. Nobody can imagine suchan object.\"\"Go on.\"\"But what actually occurred is this. Hedge's objectcontinued to loselength and gain mass until it reached the theoretical limit ofvelocity, the speed of light. At that point the object, still gainingspeed, simply ceasedto exist. Having no length, it ceased to occupyspace. It disappeared. However, the object had not been _destroyed_.It continued on its way, gaining momentumeach moment, moving in anarc across the galaxy, away from the Sol system. Hedge's objectentered some other realm of being, beyond our powers ofconception.The next phase of Hedge's experiment consisted in a search for someway to slow the ftl object down, back to a sub-ftl speed, hence backinto ouruniverse. This counterprinciple was eventually worked out.\"\"With what result?\"\"The death of Hedge and destruction of most of his equipment. Hisexperimentalobject, in re-entering the space-time universe, came intobeing in space already occupied by matter. Possessing an incrediblemass, just below infinity level,Hedge's object exploded in a titaniccataclysm. It was obvious that no space travel was possible with sucha drive. Virtually all space contains _some_ matter. Tore-enter spacewould bring automatic destruction. Hedge had found his ftl drive andhis counterprinciple, but no one before this has been able to put themto anyuse.\"Reinhart walked over toward the great metal cylinder. Sherikov jumpeddown and followed him. \"I don't get it,\" Reinhart said. \"You said theprinciple is nogood for space travel.\"\"That's right.\"\"What's this for, then? If the ship explodes as soon as it returns toour universe--\"\"This is not a ship.\" Sherikov grinned slyly.\"Icarus is the firstpractical application of Hedge's principles. Icarus is a bomb.\"\"So this is our weapon,\" Reinhart said. \"A bomb. An immense bomb.\"\"A bomb,moving at a velocity greater than light. A bomb which willnot exist in our universe. The Centaurans won't be able to detect orstop it. How could they? As soon asit passes the speed of light itwill cease to exist--beyond all detection.\"\"But--\"\"Icarus will be launched outside the lab, on the surface. He willalign himself withProxima Centaurus, gaining speed rapidly. By thetime he reaches his destination he will be traveling at ftl-100.Icarus will be brought back to this universe within"}
{"doc_id":"doc_42","qid":"","text":"My Week with Marilyn Script at IMSDb.
MY WEEK WITH MARILYN Written by AdrianHodges 1 EXT. TILBURY DOCKS. DAY. 1 Over a DARK SCREEN we see the caption: \"This is a fairy story, an episode out of time andspace, which nevertheless was real\" - Colin Clark. Then, FADE UP ON: Newsreel footage of SIR LAURENCE OLIVIER AND VIVIENLEIGH arriving back at Tilbury Docks to be greeted by an excited crowd of fans. As they progress down the gangplank and stop to signautographs we HEAR an excited commentary OVER: COMMENTATOR \"Returning to England are Britain's acting royaltySir Laurence Olivier and Lady Olivier, better known as stunning Gone With The Wind star Vivien Leigh. Sir Laurence has addeda new string to his bow with the announcement that he is to direct and star in a screen version of Terence Rattigan's stage playThe Sleeping Prince with none other than Hollywood siren Marilyn Monroe. When the world's greatest actor romances the mostfamous woman alive, we can be sure that sparks will fly. Now, now Lady Olivier, don't worry - any romance is strictly forthe camera!\" As OLIVIER and VIVIEN smile for the photographers, we - CUT TO: 2 EXT."}
{"doc_id":"doc_43","qid":"","text":"Hitchcock Script at IMSDb.
HITCHCOCK Written by John J.McLaughlin Based on the book Alfred Hitchcock and the Making of Psychoby Stephen Rebello FADE IN: EXT. MARSHLAND -DUSK We move across smoldering embers and reach a small grass fire. Dirt is thrown over the flames before a BOOTfinishes stamping them out. SUPER: PLAINFIELD, WISCONSIN, 1944 HENRY GEIN(O.S.) We're just lucky it didn't reach the trees... We move up two dirty pairs of overalls to find HENRY andED GEIN sweating away as they continue shovelling out the flames. Both are in their forties and wearing flannel shirts. Ed wears an Elmer Fuddhat. HENRY GEIN (CONT'D) There's gonna be a lot more jobs at that factory by Milwaukee come June. Icould put in a word. ED GEIN You can't leave us, Henry. She needs both OFUS-- HENRY GEIN Can you stop being a momma's boy forone second? Henry looks at Ed and he shrinks back. HENRY GEIN (CONT'D) I'm not trying"}
{"doc_id":"doc_44","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Age of Innocence, by Edith WhartonThis 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.netTitle: The Age of InnocenceAuthor: Edith WhartonPosting Date: August 12, 2008 [EBook #541]Release Date: May, 1996Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AGE OF INNOCENCE ***Produced by Judith Boss and Charles Keller. HTML version by AlHaines.The Age of InnocencebyEdith WhartonJTABLE 6 18 1JTABLE 6 16 19Book II.On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson wassinging inFaust at the Academy of Music in New York.Though there was already talk of the erection, in remote metropolitandistances \"above the Forties,\" of a new OperaHouse which shouldcompete in costliness and splendour with those of the great Europeancapitals, the world of fashion was still content to reassemble everywinterin the shabby red and gold boxes of the sociable old Academy.Conservatives cherished it for being small and inconvenient, and thuskeeping out the \"new people\"whom New York was beginning to dread andyet be drawn to; and the sentimental clung to it for its historicassociations, and the musical for its excellent acoustics,always soproblematic a quality in halls built for the hearing of music.It was Madame Nilsson's first appearance that winter, and what thedaily press had alreadylearned to describe as \"an exceptionallybrilliant audience\" had gathered to hear her, transported through theslippery, snowy streets in private broughams, in thespacious familylandau, or in the humbler but more convenient \"Brown coupe.\" To come tothe Opera in a Brown coupe was almost as honourable a way ofarrivingas in one's own carriage; and departure by the same means had theimmense advantage of enabling one (with a playful allusion todemocratic principles)to scramble into the first Brown conveyance inthe line, instead of waiting till the cold-and-gin congested nose ofone's own coachman gleamed under the portico ofthe Academy. It wasone of the great livery-stableman's most masterly intuitions to havediscovered that Americans want to get away from amusement evenmorequickly than they want to get to it.When Newland Archer opened the door at the back of the club box thecurtain had just gone up on the gardenscene. There was no reason whythe young man should not have come earlier, for he had dined at seven,alone with his mother and sister, and had lingeredafterward over acigar in the Gothic library with glazed black-walnut bookcases andfinial-topped chairs which was the only room in the house where Mrs.Archerallowed smoking. But, in the first place, New York was ametropolis, and perfectly aware that in metropolises it was \"not thething\" to arrive early at the opera;and what was or was not \"thething\" played a part as important in Newland Archer's New York as theinscrutable totem terrors that had ruled the destinies ofhisforefathers thousands of years ago.The second reason for his delay was a personal one. He had dawdledover his cigar because he was at heart a dilettante,and thinking overa pleasure to come often gave him a subtler satisfaction than itsrealisation. This was especially the case when the pleasure was adelicate one,as his pleasures mostly were; and on this occasion themoment he looked forward to was so rare and exquisite in qualitythat--well, if he had timed his arrival inaccord with the primadonna's stage-manager he could not have entered the Academy at a moresignificant moment than just as she was singing: \"He lovesme--heloves me not--HE LOVES ME!--\" and sprinkling the falling daisy petalswith notes as clear as dew.She sang, of course, \"M'ama!\" and not \"he loves me,\"since anunalterable and unquestioned law of the musical world required that theGerman text of French operas sung by Swedish artists should betranslated intoItalian for the clearer understanding ofEnglish-speaking audiences. This seemed as natural to Newland Archeras all the other conventions on which his life wasmoulded: such as theduty of using two silver-backed brushes with his monogram in blueenamel to part his hair, and of never appearing in society without aflower(preferably a gardenia) in his buttonhole.\"M'ama ... non m'ama ...\" the prima donna sang, and \"M'ama!\", with afinal burst of love triumphant, as she pressed thedishevelled daisy toher lips and lifted her large eyes to the sophisticated countenance ofthe little brown Faust-Capoul, who was vainly trying, in a tightpurplevelvet doublet and plumed cap, to look as pure and true as his artlessvictim.Newland Archer, leaning against the wall at the back of the club box,turned hiseyes from the stage and scanned the opposite side of thehouse. Directly facing him was the box of old Mrs. Manson Mingott,whose monstrous obesity had longsince made it impossible for her toattend the Opera, but who was always represented on fashionable nightsby some of the younger members of the family. Onthis occasion, thefront of the box was filled by her daughter-in-law, Mrs. LovellMingott, and her daughter, Mrs. Welland; and slightly withdrawn behindthesebrocaded matrons sat a young girl in white with eyes ecstaticallyfixed on the stagelovers. As Madame Nilsson's \"M'ama!\" thrilled outabove the silent house (theboxes always stopped talking during theDaisy Song) a warm pink mounted to the girl's cheek, mantled her browto the roots of her fair braids, and suffused theyoung slope of herbreast to the line where it met a modest tulle tucker fastened with asingle gardenia. She dropped her eyes to the immense bouquetoflilies-of-the-valley on her knee, and Newland Archer saw herwhite-gloved finger-tips touch the flowers softly. He drew a breath ofsatisfied vanity and his eyesreturned to the stage.No expense had been spared on the setting, which was acknowledged to bevery beautiful even by people who shared his acquaintance withtheOpera houses of Paris and Vienna. The foreground, to the footlights,was covered with emerald green cloth. In the middle distancesymmetrical mounds ofwoolly green moss bounded by croquet hoops formedthe base of shrubs shaped like orange-trees but studded with large pinkand red roses. Gigantic pansies,considerably larger than the roses,and closely resembling the floral pen-wipers made by femaleparishioners for fashionable clergymen, sprang from the mossbeneaththe rose-trees; and here and there a daisy grafted on a rose-branchflowered with a luxuriance prophetic of Mr. Luther Burbank's far-offprodigies.In thecentre of this enchanted garden Madame Nilsson, in whitecashmere slashed with pale blue satin, a reticule dangling from a bluegirdle, and large yellow braidscarefully disposed on each side of hermuslin chemisette, listened with downcast eyes to M. Capoul'simpassioned wooing, and affected a guileless incomprehensionof hisdesigns whenever, by word or glance, he persuasively indicated theground floor window of the neat brick villa projecting obliquely fromthe right wing.\"Thedarling!\" thought Newland Archer, his glance flitting back to theyoung girl with the lilies-of-the-valley. \"She doesn't even guess whatit's all about.\" And hecontemplated her absorbed young face with athrill of possessorship in which pride in his own masculine initiationwas mingled with a tender reverence for herabysmal purity. \"We'llread Faust together ... by the Italian lakes ...\" he thought, somewhathazily confusing the scene of his projected honey-moon withthemasterpieces of literature which it would be his manly privilege toreveal to his bride. It was only that afternoon that May Welland hadlet him guess that she\"cared\" (New York's consecrated phrase of maidenavowal), and already his imagination, leaping ahead of the engagementring, the betrothal kiss and the marchfrom Lohengrin, pictured her athis side in some scene of old European witchery.He did not in the least wish the future Mrs. Newland Archer to be asimpleton. Hemeant her (thanks to his enlightening companionship) todevelop a social tact and readiness of wit enabling her to hold her ownwith the most popular marriedwomen of the \"younger set,\" in which itwas the recognised custom to attract masculine homage while playfullydiscouraging it. If he had probed to the bottom ofhis vanity (as hesometimes nearly did) he would have found there the wish that his wifeshould be as worldly-wise and as eager to please as the marriedladywhose charms had held his fancy through two mildly agitated years;without, of course, any hint of the frailty which had so nearly marredthat unhappy being'slife, and had disarranged his own plans for awhole winter.How this miracle of fire and ice was to be created, and to sustainitself in a harsh world, he had nevertaken the time to think out; buthe was content to hold his view without analysing it, since he knew itwas that of all the carefully-brushed,white-waistcoated,button-hole-flowered gentlemen who succeeded each other in the clubbox, exchanged friendly greetings with him, and turnedtheiropera-glasses critically on the circle of ladies who were the productof the system. In matters intellectual and artistic Newland Archerfelt himself distinctly thesuperior of these chosen specimens of oldNew York gentility; he had probably read more, thought more, and evenseen a good deal more of the world, than anyother man of the number.Singly they betrayed their inferiority; but grouped together theyrepresented \"New York,\" and the habit of masculine solidarity madehimaccept their doctrine on all the issues called moral. He instinctivelyfelt that in this respect it would be troublesome--and also rather badform--to strike out forhimself.\"Well--upon my soul!\" exclaimed Lawrence Lefferts, turning hisopera-glass abruptly away from the stage. Lawrence Lefferts was, onthe whole, theforemost authority on \"form\" in New York. He hadprobably devoted more time than any one else to the study of thisintricate and fascinating question; but studyalone could not accountfor his complete and easy competence. One had only to look at him,from the slant of his bald forehead and the curve of his beautifulfairmoustache to the long patent-leather feet at the other end of his leanand elegant person, to feel that the knowledge of \"form\" must becongenital in any onewho knew how to wear such good clothes socarelessly and carry such height with so much lounging grace. As ayoung admirer had once said of him: \"If anybodycan tell a fellow justwhen to wear a black tie with evening clothes and when not to, it'sLarry Lefferts.\" And on the question of pumps versuspatent-leather\"Oxfords\" his authority had never been disputed.\"My God!\" he said; and silently handed his glass to old SillertonJackson.Newland Archer, followingLefferts's glance, saw with surprise that hisexclamation had been occasioned by the entry of a new figure into oldMrs. Mingott's box. It was that of a slim youngwoman, a little lesstall than May Welland, with brown hair growing in close curls about hertemples and held in place by a narrow band of diamonds. Thesuggestionof this headdress, which gave her what was then called a \"Josephinelook,\" was carried out in the cut of the dark blue velvet gown rathertheatrically"}
{"doc_id":"doc_45","qid":"","text":"Project Gutenberg's The Playboy of the Western World, by J. M. SyngeThis 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: The Playboy of the Western WorldAuthor: J. M. SyngePosting Date: August 27, 2008 [EBook #1240]Release Date: March,1998Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD ***Produced by Judy BossTHE PLAYBOY OFTHE WESTERN WORLDA COMEDY IN THREE ACTSBy J. M. SyngePREFACEIn writing THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD, as in my other plays, Ihave usedone or two words only that I have not heard among the countrypeople of Ireland, or spoken in my own nursery before I could read thenewspapers. A certainnumber of the phrases I employ I have heard alsofrom herds and fishermen along the coast from Kerry to Mayo, orfrom beggar-women and ballad-singers nearerDublin; and I am glad toacknowledge how much I owe to the folk imagination of these fine people.Anyone who has lived in real intimacy with the Irish peasantrywillknow that the wildest sayings and ideas in this play are tame indeed,compared with the fancies one may hear in any little hillside cabin inGeesala, or Carraroe,or Dingle Bay. All art is a collaboration; andthere is little doubt that in the happy ages of literature, strikingand beautiful phrases were as ready to thestory-teller's or theplaywright's hand, as the rich cloaks and dresses of his time. It isprobable that when the Elizabethan dramatist took his ink-horn and satdownto his work he used many phrases that he had just heard, as he satat dinner, from his mother or his children. In Ireland, those of us whoknow the people havethe same privilege. When I was writing \"The Shadowof the Glen,\" some years ago, I got more aid than any learning couldhave given me from a chink in the floorof the old Wicklow house whereI was staying, that let me hear what was being said by the servant girlsin the kitchen. This matter, I think, is of importance, for incountrieswhere the imagination of the people, and the language they use, is richand living, it is possible for a writer to be rich and copious in hiswords, and at thesame time to give the reality, which is the rootof all poetry, in a comprehensive and natural form. In the modernliterature of towns, however, richness is foundonly in sonnets, orprose poems, or in one or two elaborate books that are far away from theprofound and common interests of life. One has, on one side,Mallarmeand Huysmans producing this literature; and on the other, Ibsen and Zoladealing with the reality of life in joyless and pallid words. On thestage onemust have reality, and one must have joy; and that is why theintellectual modern drama has failed, and people have grown sick of thefalse joy of the musicalcomedy, that has been given them in place ofthe rich joy found only in what is superb and wild in reality. In a goodplay every speech should be as fully flavouredas a nut or apple, andsuch speeches cannot be written by anyone who works among people whohave shut their lips on poetry. In Ireland, for a few years more,wehave a popular imagination that is fiery and magnificent, and tender; sothat those of us who wish to write start with a chance that is not givento writers inplaces where the springtime of the local life has beenforgotten, and the harvest is a memory only, and the straw has beenturned into bricks. J. M. S. January21st, 1907.PERSONS CHRISTOPHER MAHON. OLD MAHON, his father, a squatter. MICHAEL JAMES FLAHERTY (called MICHAEL JAMES), apublican. MARGARET FLAHERTY (called PEGEEN MIKE), his daughter. WIDOW QUIN, a woman of about thirty. SHAWN KEOUGH, her cousin, a youngfarmer. PHILLY CULLEN AND JIMMY FARRELL, small farmers. SARA TANSEY, SUSAN BRADY, AND HONOR BLAKE, village girls. A BELLMAN. SOMEPEASANTS.The action takes place near a village, on a wild coast of Mayo. Thefirst Act passes on an evening of autumn, the other two Acts on thefollowingday.THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLDACT I.SCENE: [Country public-house or shebeen, very rough and untidy. Thereis a sort of counter on the right withshelves, holding many bottles andjugs, just seen above it. Empty barrels stand near the counter. At back,a little to left of counter, there is a door into the openair, then,more to the left, there is a settle with shelves above it, with morejugs, and a table beneath a window. At the left there is a large openfire-place, with turffire, and a small door into inner room. Pegeen, awild looking but fine girl, of about twenty, is writing at table. She isdressed in the usual peasant dress.]PEGEEN --[slowly as she writes.] -- Six yards of stuff for to make ayellow gown. A pair of lace boots with lengthy heels on them and brassyeyes. A hat is suited for awedding-day. A fine tooth comb. To besent with three barrels of porter in Jimmy Farrell's creel cart on theevening of the coming Fair to Mister Michael JamesFlaherty. With thebest compliments of this season. Margaret Flaherty.SHAWN KEOGH -- [a fat and fair young man comes in as she signs, looksround awkwardly,when he sees she is alone.] -- Where's himself?PEGEEN -- [without looking at him.] -- He's coming. (She directs theletter.) To Mister Sheamus Mulroy, Wine andSpirit Dealer, Castlebar.SHAWN -- [uneasily.] -- I didn't see him on the road.PEGEEN. How would you see him (licks stamp and puts it on letter) and itdark nightthis half hour gone by?SHAWN -- [turning towards the door again.] -- I stood a while outsidewondering would I have a right to pass on or to walk in and seeyou,Pegeen Mike (comes to fire), and I could hear the cows breathing, andsighing in the stillness of the air, and not a step moving any placefrom this gate to thebridge.PEGEEN -- [putting letter in envelope.] -- It's above at the cross-roadshe is, meeting Philly Cullen; and a couple more are going along with himto KateCassidy's wake.SHAWN -- [looking at her blankly.] -- And he's going that length in thedark night?PEGEEN -- [impatiently.] He is surely, and leaving me lonesomeon thescruff of the hill. (She gets up and puts envelope on dresser, thenwinds clock.) Isn't it long the nights are now, Shawn Keogh, to beleaving a poor girl withher own self counting the hours to the dawn ofday?SHAWN -- [with awkward humour.] -- If it is, when we're wedded in ashort while you'll have no call tocomplain, for I've little will to bewalking off to wakes or weddings in the darkness of the night.PEGEEN -- [with rather scornful good humour.] -- You're makingmightycertain, Shaneen, that I'll wed you now.SHAWN. Aren't we after making a good bargain, the way we're only waitingthese days on Father Reilly'sdispensation from the bishops, or theCourt of Rome.PEGEEN -- [looking at him teasingly, washing up at dresser.] -- It's awonder, Shaneen, the Holy Father'd betaking notice of the likes of you;for if I was him I wouldn't bother with this place where you'll meetnone but Red Linahan, has a squint in his eye, and Patcheen islame inhis heel, or the mad Mulrannies were driven from California and theylost in their wits. We're a queer lot these times to go troubling theHoly Father on hissacred seat.SHAWN -- [scandalized.] If we are, we're as good this place as another,maybe, and as good these times as we were for ever.PEGEEN -- [with scorn.]-- As good, is it? Where now will you meet thelike of Daneen Sullivan knocked the eye from a peeler, or Marcus Quin,God rest him, got six months for maimingewes, and he a great warrant totell stories of holy Ireland till he'd have the old women sheddingdown tears about their feet. Where will you find the like of them,I'msaying?SHAWN -- [timidly.] If you don't it's a good job, maybe; for (withpeculiar emphasis on the words) Father Reilly has small conceit to havethat kindwalking around and talking to the girls.PEGEEN -- [impatiently, throwing water from basin out of the door.] --Stop tormenting me with Father Reilly (imitating hisvoice) when I'masking only what way I'll pass these twelve hours of dark, and not takemy death with the fear. [Looking out of door.]SHAWN -- [timidly.] Would Ifetch you the widow Quin, maybe?PEGEEN. Is it the like of that murderer? You'll not, surely.SHAWN -- [going to her, soothingly.] -- Then I'm thinking himselfwillstop along with you when he sees you taking on, for it'll be a longnight-time with great darkness, and I'm after feeling a kind of fellowabove in the furzy ditch,groaning wicked like a maddening dog, the wayit's good cause you have, maybe, to be fearing now.PEGEEN -- [turning on him sharply.] -- What's that? Is it aman youseen?SHAWN -- [retreating.] I couldn't see him at all; but I heard himgroaning out, and breaking his heart. It should have been a young manfrom hiswords speaking.PEGEEN -- [going after him.] -- And you never went near to see was hehurted or what ailed him at all?SHAWN. I did not, Pegeen Mike. It was adark, lonesome place to behearing the like of him.PEGEEN. Well, you're a daring fellow, and if they find his corpsestretched above in the dews of dawn, what'llyou say then to thepeelers, or the Justice of the Peace?SHAWN -- [thunderstruck.] I wasn't thinking of that. For the love ofGod, Pegeen Mike, don't let on I wasspeaking of him. Don't tell yourfather and the men is coming above; for if they heard that story, they'dhave great blabbing this night at the wake.PEGEEN. I'llmaybe tell them, and I'll maybe not.SHAWN. They are coming at the door, Will you whisht, I'm saying?PEGEEN. Whisht yourself.[She goes behind counter.Michael James, fat jovial publican, comesin followed by Philly Cullen, who is thin and mistrusting, and JimmyFarrell, who is fat and amorous, aboutforty-five.]MEN -- [together.] -- God bless you. The blessing of God on this place.PEGEEN. God bless you kindly.MICHAEL -- [to men who go to the counter.] -- Sitdown now, and takeyour rest. (Crosses to Shawn at the fire.) And how is it you are, ShawnKeogh? Are you coming over the sands to Kate Cassidy'swake?SHAWN. I am not, Michael James. I'm going home the short cut to my bed.PEGEEN -- [speaking across the counter.] -- He's right too, and haveyou noshame, Michael James, to be quitting off for the whole night, andleaving myself lonesome in the shop?MICHAEL -- [good-humouredly.] Isn't it the same whether Igo for thewhole night or a part only? and I'm thinking it's a queer daughter youare if you'd have me crossing backward through the Stooks of the DeadWomen,with a drop taken.PEGEEN. If I am a queer daughter, it's a queer father'd be leaving melonesome these twelve hours of dark, and I piling the turf with thedogsbarking, and the calves mooing, and my own teeth rattling with the fear.JIMMY -- [flatteringly.] -- What is there to hurt you, and you a fine,hardy girl wouldknock the head of any two men in the place?PEGEEN -- [working herself up.] -- Isn't there the harvest boys withtheir tongues red for drink, and the ten tinkers iscamped in the eastglen, and the thousand militia -- bad cess to them! -- walking idlethrough the land. There's lots surely to hurt me, and I won't stop alonein it,let himself do what he will.MICHAEL. If you're that afeard, let Shawn Keogh stop along with you.It's the will of God, I'm thinking, himself should be seeing to you"}
{"doc_id":"doc_46","qid":"","text":"Zerophilia Script at IMSDb.
ZEROPHILIA Written by MartinCurland Revised: March 1,2004 1. FADEIN: EXT. WILDERNESS - NIGHT Mist. Dark trees. Dripping vines. An ENGINE RUMBLES inthe distance. The full moon shimmers on a puddle. A FROG SPLATS IN, splashing a one man puptent. INSIDE THE TENT LUKE's eyes pop open, disoriented, realizing he's fallen asleep reading byflashlight. He's nineteen, still slightly awkward and unaware he's growing handsome. He listens as the ENGINE RUMBLES LOUDER,closer. He peers out through the tent flap. Glaring head lamps ROAR toward him. Scrambling out of his sleeping bag, heHURLS himself against the side of the tent, as... OUTSIDE an RV CAMPER nearly plows down thetent, skidding to a stop in the mud. Stillness. Luke extricates himself from the tent. He runs to thedriver- side window of the RV. LUKE Are you all right? Inside,"}
{"doc_id":"doc_47","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of Persuasion, by Jane AustenThis 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: PersuasionAuthor: Jane AustenRelease Date: June 5, 2008 [EBook #105]Last Updated: February 15, 2015Language: English*** STARTOF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERSUASION ***Produced by Sharon Partridge and Martin Ward. HTML versionby Al Haines.PersuasionbyJaneAusten(1818)Chapter 1Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who,for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage;therehe found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressedone; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, bycontemplating thelimited remnant of the earliest patents; there anyunwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs changed naturallyinto pity and contempt as he turned overthe almost endless creationsof the last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, hecould read his own history with an interest which neverfailed. Thiswas the page at which the favourite volume always opened: \"ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL.\"Walter Elliot, born March 1, 1760, married, July 15,1784, Elizabeth,daughter of James Stevenson, Esq. of South Park, in the county ofGloucester, by which lady (who died 1800) he has issue Elizabeth, bornJune 1,1785; Anne, born August 9, 1787; a still-born son, November 5,1789; Mary, born November 20, 1791.\"Precisely such had the paragraph originally stood from theprinter'shands; but Sir Walter had improved it by adding, for the information ofhimself and his family, these words, after the date of Mary's birth--\"Married,December 16, 1810, Charles, son and heir of Charles Musgrove,Esq. of Uppercross, in the county of Somerset,\" and by inserting mostaccurately the day of themonth on which he had lost his wife.Then followed the history and rise of the ancient and respectablefamily, in the usual terms; how it had been first settled inCheshire;how mentioned in Dugdale, serving the office of high sheriff,representing a borough in three successive parliaments, exertions ofloyalty, and dignity ofbaronet, in the first year of Charles II, withall the Marys and Elizabeths they had married; forming altogether twohandsome duodecimo pages, and concludingwith the arms andmotto:--\"Principal seat, Kellynch Hall, in the county of Somerset,\" andSir Walter's handwriting again in this finale:--\"Heir presumptive, WilliamWalter Elliot, Esq., great grandson of thesecond Sir Walter.\"Vanity was the beginning and the end of Sir Walter Elliot's character;vanity of person and ofsituation. He had been remarkably handsome inhis youth; and, at fifty-four, was still a very fine man. Few womencould think more of their personal appearancethan he did, nor couldthe valet of any new made lord be more delighted with the place he heldin society. He considered the blessing of beauty as inferior onlytothe blessing of a baronetcy; and the Sir Walter Elliot, who unitedthese gifts, was the constant object of his warmest respect anddevotion.His good looks and hisrank had one fair claim on his attachment; sinceto them he must have owed a wife of very superior character to anything deserved by his own. Lady Elliot hadbeen an excellent woman,sensible and amiable; whose judgement and conduct, if they might bepardoned the youthful infatuation which made her Lady Elliot, hadneverrequired indulgence afterwards.--She had humoured, or softened, orconcealed his failings, and promoted his real respectability forseventeen years; andthough not the very happiest being in the worldherself, had found enough in her duties, her friends, and her children,to attach her to life, and make it no matterof indifference to herwhen she was called on to quit them.--Three girls, the two eldestsixteen and fourteen, was an awful legacy for a mother to bequeath,anawful charge rather, to confide to the authority and guidance of aconceited, silly father. She had, however, one very intimate friend, asensible, deservingwoman, who had been brought, by strong attachmentto herself, to settle close by her, in the village of Kellynch; and onher kindness and advice, Lady Elliotmainly relied for the best helpand maintenance of the good principles and instruction which she hadbeen anxiously giving her daughters.This friend, and SirWalter, did not marry, whatever might have beenanticipated on that head by their acquaintance. Thirteen years hadpassed away since Lady Elliot's death, andthey were still nearneighbours and intimate friends, and one remained a widower, the othera widow.That Lady Russell, of steady age and character, andextremely wellprovided for, should have no thought of a second marriage, needs noapology to the public, which is rather apt to be unreasonablydiscontentedwhen a woman does marry again, than when she does not; butSir Walter's continuing in singleness requires explanation. Be itknown then, that Sir Walter, like agood father, (having met with oneor two private disappointments in very unreasonable applications),prided himself on remaining single for his dear daughters'sake. Forone daughter, his eldest, he would really have given up any thing,which he had not been very much tempted to do. Elizabeth hadsucceeded, at sixteen,to all that was possible, of her mother's rightsand consequence; and being very handsome, and very like himself, herinfluence had always been great, and theyhad gone on together mosthappily. His two other children were of very inferior value. Mary hadacquired a little artificial importance, by becoming MrsCharlesMusgrove; but Anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness ofcharacter, which must have placed her high with any people of realunderstanding, wasnobody with either father or sister; her word had noweight, her convenience was always to give way--she was only Anne.To Lady Russell, indeed, she was a mostdear and highly valuedgod-daughter, favourite, and friend. Lady Russell loved them all; butit was only in Anne that she could fancy the mother to revive again.Afew years before, Anne Elliot had been a very pretty girl, but herbloom had vanished early; and as even in its height, her father hadfound little to admire in her,(so totally different were her delicatefeatures and mild dark eyes from his own), there could be nothing inthem, now that she was faded and thin, to excite hisesteem. He hadnever indulged much hope, he had now none, of ever reading her name inany other page of his favourite work. All equality of alliance mustrestwith Elizabeth, for Mary had merely connected herself with an oldcountry family of respectability and large fortune, and had thereforegiven all the honour andreceived none: Elizabeth would, one day orother, marry suitably.It sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than shewas ten years before;and, generally speaking, if there has beenneither ill health nor anxiety, it is a time of life at which scarcelyany charm is lost. It was so with Elizabeth, still thesame handsomeMiss Elliot that she had begun to be thirteen years ago, and Sir Waltermight be excused, therefore, in forgetting her age, or, at least, bedeemedonly half a fool, for thinking himself and Elizabeth as bloomingas ever, amidst the wreck of the good looks of everybody else; for hecould plainly see how old allthe rest of his family and acquaintancewere growing. Anne haggard, Mary coarse, every face in theneighbourhood worsting, and the rapid increase of the crow'sfoot aboutLady Russell's temples had long been a distress to him.Elizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal contentment.Thirteen years had seen hermistress of Kellynch Hall, presiding anddirecting with a self-possession and decision which could never havegiven the idea of her being younger than she was. Forthirteen yearshad she been doing the honours, and laying down the domestic law athome, and leading the way to the chaise and four, and walkingimmediatelyafter Lady Russell out of all the drawing-rooms anddining-rooms in the country. Thirteen winters' revolving frosts hadseen her opening every ball of credit whicha scanty neighbourhoodafforded, and thirteen springs shewn their blossoms, as she travelledup to London with her father, for a few weeks' annual enjoyment ofthegreat world. She had the remembrance of all this, she had theconsciousness of being nine-and-twenty to give her some regrets andsome apprehensions; shewas fully satisfied of being still quite ashandsome as ever, but she felt her approach to the years of danger, andwould have rejoiced to be certain of beingproperly solicited bybaronet-blood within the next twelvemonth or two. Then might she againtake up the book of books with as much enjoyment as in her earlyyouth,but now she liked it not. Always to be presented with the date of herown birth and see no marriage follow but that of a youngest sister,made the book anevil; and more than once, when her father had left itopen on the table near her, had she closed it, with averted eyes, andpushed it away.She had had adisappointment, moreover, which that book, and especiallythe history of her own family, must ever present the remembrance of.The heir presumptive, the veryWilliam Walter Elliot, Esq., whoserights had been so generously supported by her father, had disappointedher.She had, while a very young girl, as soon as shehad known him to be,in the event of her having no brother, the future baronet, meant tomarry him, and her father had always meant that she should. He hadnotbeen known to them as a boy; but soon after Lady Elliot's death, SirWalter had sought the acquaintance, and though his overtures had notbeen met with anywarmth, he had persevered in seeking it, makingallowance for the modest drawing-back of youth; and, in one of theirspring excursions to London, when Elizabethwas in her first bloom, MrElliot had been forced into the introduction.He was at that time a very young man, just engaged in the study of thelaw; and Elizabethfound him extremely agreeable, and every plan in hisfavour was confirmed. He was invited to Kellynch Hall; he was talkedof and expected all the rest of theyear; but he never came. Thefollowing spring he was seen again in town, found equally agreeable,again encouraged, invited, and expected, and again he did notcome; andthe next tidings were that he was married. Instead of pushing hisfortune in the line marked out for the heir of the house of Elliot, hehad purchasedindependence by uniting himself to a rich woman ofinferior birth.Sir Walter had resented it. As the head of the house, he felt that heought to have beenconsulted, especially after taking the young man sopublicly by the hand; \"For they must have been seen together,\" heobserved, \"once at Tattersall's, and twice inthe lobby of the House ofCommons.\" His disapprobation was expressed, but apparently very littleregarded. Mr Elliot had attempted no apology, and shewnhimself asunsolicitous of being longer noticed by the family, as Sir Walterconsidered him unworthy of it: all acquaintance between them hadceased.This veryawkward history of Mr Elliot was still, after an interval ofseveral years, felt with anger by Elizabeth, who had liked the man forhimself, and still more for being her"}
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BURIED Written by Chris Sparling FADEIN: INT. UNKNOWN ROOM - NIGHT Darkness. Silence. After a long beat, we hear movement, confined and contained. Wethen hear the sound of a man, PAUL CONROY, groaning, making confused attempts at words. We hear his movement; short, abrupt shifting, endingalmost immediately with the sound of his body banging against wood. He screams, though it's clear from the sound that his mouth is coveredby something. After attempting to sit up, he immediately bangs his head against something. It's terribly warm and his breathsare labored. He attempts to move to his left and right, only to find that he is confined on those sides, as well. He frantically shifts about,only to discover, by touch, that he is encased in something. Something is very wrong, and he doesn't need to see to know that. Finally,we see him, lit by the flame of the Zippo he holds in his hands, which are bound together in front of him with rope. A rolled-up, dirty rag is tiedtightly around his head, stretched across his mouth. Dried blood stains his hair and forehead. We see that he is lying in an oldfashioned, wooden coffin. Nothing more than a few rotted-out planks of wood nailed together. Realizing the same, Paul is struck byan overwhelming, instant panic. With great difficulty, and while still holding the lit Zippo, Paul removes the muzzle from his"}
{"doc_id":"doc_54","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Woggle-Bug Book, by L. Frank Baum,Illustrated by Ike MorganThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost andwithalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook oronline at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Woggle-Bug BookAuthor: L. Frank BaumRelease Date: June 23, 2007 [eBook #21914]Language: EnglishCharacter setencoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOGGLE-BUG BOOK***E-text prepared by Michael Gray(Lost_Gamer@comcast.net)Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 21914-h.htm or 21914-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/9/1/21914/21914-h/21914-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/9/1/21914/21914-h.zip)THEWOGGLE-BUG BOOKbyL. FRANK BAUMPictures by Ike MorganChicagoThe Reilly & Britton Co.1905Copyright1905byL. Frank BaumEvery Right ReservedThe UniqueAdventures of the WOGGLE-BUGONE day Mr. H. M. Woggle-Bug, T. E., becoming separated from hiscomrades who had accompanied him from the Land of Oz,and finding thattime hung heavy on his hands (he had four of them), decided to walkdown the Main street of the City and try to discover something or otherofinterest.The initials \"H. M.\" before his name meant \"Highly Magnified,\" for thisWoggle-Bug was several thousand times bigger than any other woggle-bugyou eversaw. And the initials \"T. E.\" after his named meant \"ThoroughlyEducated\"--and so he was, in the Land of Oz. But his education, beingapplied to a woggle-bugintellect, was not at all remarkable in thiscountry, where everything is quite different than Oz. Yet theWoggle-Bug did not suspect this, and being, like so manyother thoroughlyeducated persons, proud of his mental attainments, he marched along thestreet with an air of importance that made one wonder whatgreatthoughts were occupying his massive brain.Being about as big, in his magnified state, as a man, the Woggle-Bugtook care to clothe himself like a man; only,instead of choosing sobercolors for his garments, he delighted in the most gorgeous reds andyellows and blues and greens; so that if you looked at him longthebrilliance of his clothing was liable to dazzle your eyes.I suppose the Waggle-Bug did not realize at all what a queer appearancehe made. Being rather nervous,he seldom looked into a mirror; and asthe people he met avoided telling him he was unusual, he had falleninto the habit of considering himself merely an ordinarycitizen of thebig city wherein he resided.So the Woggle-Bug strutted proudly along the street, swinging a cane inone hand, flourishing a pink handkerchief in theother, fumbling hiswatch-fob with another, and feeling his necktie was straight withanother. Having four hands to use would prove rather puzzling to you orme, Iimagine; but the Woggie-Bug was thoroughly accustomed to them.Presently he came to a very fine store with big plate-glass windows,and standing in the centerof the biggest window was a creature sobeautiful and radiant and altogether charming that the first glance ather nearly took his breath away. Her complexion waslovely, for it waswax; but the thing which really caught the Woggle-Bug's fancy was themarvelous dress she wore. Indeed, it was the latest (last year's)Parismodel, although the Woggle-Bug did not know that; and the designer musthave had a real woggly love for bright colors, for the gown was made ofred clothcovered with big checks which were so loud the fashion bookscalled them \"Wagnerian Plaids.\"Never had our friend the Woggle-Bug seen such a beautiful gownbefore,and it afflicted him so strongly that he straightaway fell in love withthe entire outfit--even to the wax-complexioned lady herself! Verypolitely he tipped histo her; but she stared coldly back without inany way acknowledging the courtesy.\"Never mind,\" he thought; \"'faint heart never won fair lady.' And I'mdeterminedto win this kaliedoscope of beauty or perish in theattempt!\" You will notice that our insect had a way of using big wordsto express himself, which leads us tosuspect that the school system inOz is the same they employ in Boston.As, with swelling heart, the Woggle-Bug feasted his eyes upon theenchanting vision, asmall green tag that was attached to a button ofthe waist suddenly attracted his attention. Upon the tag was marked:\"Price $7.93--GREATLY REDUCED.\"\"Ah!\"murmured the Woggle-Bug; \"my darling is in greatly reducedcircumstances, and $7.93 will make her mine! Where, oh where, shall Ifind the seven ninety-threewherewith to liberate this divinity andmake her Mrs. Woggle-Bug?\"\"Move on!\" said a gruff policeman, who came along swinging his club.And the Woggle-Bugobediently moved on, his brain working fast andfurious in the endeavor to think of a way to procure seven dollars andninety-three cents.You see, in the Land ofOz they use no money at all, so that when theWoggle-Bug arrived in America he did not possess a single penny. And noone had presented him with any moneysince.\"Yet there must be several ways to procure money in this country,\" hereflected; \"for otherwise everybody would be as penniless as I am. Buthow, I wonder,do they manage to get it?\"Just then he came along a side street where a number of men were atwork digging a long and deep ditch in which to lay a newsewer.\"Now these men,\" thought the Woggle-Bug, \"must get money for shovelingall that earth, else they wouldn't do it. Here is my chance to win thecharmingvision of beauty in the shop window!\"Seeking out the foreman, he asked for work, and the foreman agreed tohire him.\"How much do you pay these workmen?\"asked the highly magnified one.\"Two dollars a day,\" answered the foreman.\"Then,\" said the Woggle-Bug, \"you must pay me four dollars a day; for Ihave fourarms to their two, and can do double their work.\"\"If that is so, I'll pay you four dollars,\" agreed the man.The Woggle-Bug was delighted.\"In two days,\" he toldhimself, as he threw off his brilliant coat andplaced his hat upon it, and rolled up his sleeves; \"in two days I canearn eight dollars--enough to purchase my greatlyreduced darling andbuy her seven cents worth of caramels besides.\"He seized two spades and began working so rapidly with his four armsthat the foreman said:\"You must have been forewarned.\"\"Why?\" asked the Insect.\"Because there's a saying that to be forewarned is to be four-armed,\"replied the other.\"That isnonsense,\" said the Woggle-Bug, digging with all his might;\"for they call you the foreman, and yet I only see one of you.\"\"Ha, ha!\" laughed the man, and he wasso proud of his new worker thathe went into the corner saloon to tell his friend the barkeeper what atreasure he had found.It was just after noon that theWoggle-Bug hired as a ditch-digger inorder to win his heart's desire; so at noon on the second day he quitwork, and having received eight silver dollars he put onhis coat andrushed away to the store that he might purchase his intended bride.But, alas for the uncertainty of all our hopes! Just as the Woggle-Bugreached thedoor he saw a lady coming out of the store dressed inidentical checks with which he had fallen in love!At first he did not know what to do or say, for the younglady'scomplexion was not wax--far from it. But a glance into the windowshowed him the wax lady now dressed in a plain black tailor-made suit,and at once heknew the wearer of the Wagnerian plaids was his reallove, and not the stiff creature behind the glass.\"Beg pardon!\" he exclaimed, stopping the young lady; \"butyou're mine.Here's the seven ninety-three, and seven cents for candy.\"But she glanced at him in a haughty manner, and walked away with hernose slightlyelevated.He followed. He could not do otherwise with those delightful checksshining before him like beacon-lights to urge him on.The young lady stepped into acar, which whirled away rapidly. For amoment he was nearly paralyzed at his loss; then he started after thecar as fast as he could go, and this was very fastindeed--he being awoggle-bug.Somebody cried: \"Stop, thief!\" and a policeman ran out to arrest him.But the Woggle-Bug used his four hands to push the officeraside, andthe astonished man went rolling into the gutter so recklessly that hisuniform bore marks of the encounter for many days.Still keeping an eye on thecar, the Woggle-Bug rushed on. Hefrightened two dogs, upset a fat gentleman who was crossing the street,leaped over an automobile that shot in front of him,and finally ranplump into the car, which had abruptly stopped to let off a passenger.Breathing hard from his exertions, he jumped upon the rear platform ofthecar, only to see his charmer step off at the front and walkmincingly up the steps of a house. Despite his fatigue, he flew afterher at once, crying out:\"Stop, myvariegated dear--stop! Don't you know you're mine?\"But she slammed the door in his face, and he sat down upon the stepsand wiped his forehead with his pinkhandkerchief and fanned himselfwith his hat and tried to think what he should do next.Presently a very angry man came out of the house. He had a revolverinone hand and a carving-knife in the other.\"What do you mean by insulting my wife?\" he demanded.\"Was that your wife?\" asked the Woggle-Bug, in meekastonishment.\"Of course it is my wife,\" answered the man.\"Oh, I didn't know,\" said the insect, rather humbled. \"But I'll giveyou seven ninety-three for her. That'sall she's worth, you know; for Isaw it marked on the tag.\"The man gave a roar of rage and jumped into the air with the intentionof falling on the Woggle-Bug andhurting him with the knife and pistol.But the Woggle-Bug was suddenly in a hurry, and didn't wait to bejumped on. Indeed, he ran so very fast that the man wascontent to lethim go, especially as the pistol wasn't loaded and the carving-knifewas as dull as such knives usually are.But his wife had conceived a great dislikefor the Wagnerian checkcostume that had won for her the Woggle-Bug's admiration. \"I'll neverwear it again!\" she said to her husband, when he came in and toldherthat the Woggle-Bug was gone.\"Then,\" he replied, \"you'd better give it to Bridget; for she's beenbothering me about her wages lately, and the present willkeep herquite for a month longer.\"So she called Bridget and presented her with the dress, and thedelighted servant decided to wear it that night to MickeySchwartz'sball.Now the poor Woggle-Bug, finding his affection scorned, was feelingvery blue and unhappy that evening, When he walked out, dressed(amongother things) in a purple-striped shirt, with a yellow necktie andpea-green gloves, he looked a great deal more cheerful than he reallywas. He had put onanother hat, for the Woggle-Bug had a superstitionthat to change his hat was to change his luck, and luck seemed to haveoverlooked the fact that he was inexistence.The hat may really have altered his fortunes, as the Insect shortly metIkey Swanson, who gave him a ticket to Mickey Schwartz's ball; forIkey's cleandickey had not come home from the laundry, and so he couldnot go himself.The Woggle-Bug, thinking to distract his mind from his dreams of love,attended thehall, and the first thing he saw as he entered the roomwas Bridget clothed in that same gorgeous gown of Wagnerian plaid thathad so fascinated his bugly"}
{"doc_id":"doc_55","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of Villette, by Charlotte BrontëThis 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: VilletteAuthor: Charlotte BrontëPosting Date: August 23, 2010 [EBook #9182]Release Date: October, 2005First Posted: September12, 2003[Last updated: March 2, 2016]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VILLETTE ***Produced by Delphine Lettau, CharlesFranks and Distributed ProofreadersVILLETTE.BYCHARLOTTE BRONTÃ\u0000.CONTENTSCHAPTER I. BRETTON II. PAULINA III. THEPLAYMATES IV. MISS MARCHMONT V. TURNING A NEW LEAF VI. LONDON VII. VILLETTE VIII. MADAME BECK IX. ISIDORE X. DR.JOHN XI. THE PORTRESS'S CABINET XII. THE CASKET XIII. A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON XIV. THE FÃ\u0000TE XV. THE LONGVACATION XVI. AULD LANG SYNE XVII. LA TERRASSE XVIII. WE QUARREL XIX. THE CLEOPATRA XX. THECONCERT XXI. REACTION XXII. THE LETTER XXIII. VASHTI XXIV. M. DE BASSOMPIERRE XXV. THE LITTLE COUNTESS XXVI. ABURIAL XXVII. THE HÃ\u0000TEL CRÃ\u0000CY XXVIII. THE WATCHGUARD XXIX. MONSIEUR'S FÃ\u0000TE XXX. M. PAUL XXXI. THE DRYAD XXXII. THE FIRSTLETTER XXXIII. M. PAUL KEEPS HIS PROMISE XXXIV. MALEVOLA XXXV. FRATERNITY XXXVI. THE APPLE OF DISCORD XXXVII. SUNSHINEXXXVIII. CLOUD XXXIX. OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE XL. THE HAPPY PAIR XLI. FAUBOURG CLOTILDE XLII. FINISVILLETTE.CHAPTERI.BRETTON.My godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean and ancient town ofBretton. Her husband's family had been residents there for generations,andbore, indeed, the name of their birthplace--Bretton of Bretton:whether by coincidence, or because some remote ancestor had been apersonage of sufficientimportance to leave his name to hisneighbourhood, I know not.When I was a girl I went to Bretton about twice a year, and well Iliked the visit. The house and itsinmates specially suited me. Thelarge peaceful rooms, the well-arranged furniture, the clear widewindows, the balcony outside, looking down on a fine antiquestreet,where Sundays and holidays seemed always to abide--so quiet was itsatmosphere, so clean its pavement--these things pleased me well.One child in ahousehold of grown people is usually made very much of,and in a quiet way I was a good deal taken notice of by Mrs. Bretton,who had been left a widow, withone son, before I knew her; herhusband, a physician, having died while she was yet a young andhandsome woman.She was not young, as I remember her, butshe was still handsome, tall,well-made, and though dark for an Englishwoman, yet wearing always theclearness of health in her brunette cheek, and its vivacity ina pairof fine, cheerful black eyes. People esteemed it a grievous pity thatshe had not conferred her complexion on her son, whose eyes wereblue--though, even inboyhood, very piercing--and the colour of hislong hair such as friends did not venture to specify, except as the sunshone on it, when they called it golden. Heinherited the lines of hismother's features, however; also her good teeth, her stature (or thepromise of her stature, for he was not yet full-grown), and, whatwasbetter, her health without flaw, and her spirits of that tone andequality which are better than a fortune to the possessor.In the autumn of the year ---- I wasstaying at Bretton; my godmotherhaving come in person to claim me of the kinsfolk with whom was at thattime fixed my permanent residence. I believe she thenplainly sawevents coming, whose very shadow I scarce guessed; yet of which thefaint suspicion sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and made me gladto changescene and society.Time always flowed smoothly for me at my godmother's side; not withtumultuous swiftness, but blandly, like the gliding of a full riverthrough aplain. My visits to her resembled the sojourn of Christianand Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with \"green trees on eachbank, and meadows beautifiedwith lilies all the year round.\" The charmof variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident; but I likedpeace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that whenthe latter cameI almost felt it a disturbance, and wished rather it had still heldaloof.One day a letter was received of which the contents evidently causedMrs.Bretton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was fromhome, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrous communication:to me, however, noreference was made, and the cloud seemed to pass.The next day, on my return from a long walk, I found, as I entered mybedroom, an unexpected change. In,addition to my own French bed in itsshady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib, draped with white; andin addition to my mahogany chest of drawers, I saw atiny rosewoodchest. I stood still, gazed, and considered.\"Of what are these things the signs and tokens?\" I asked. The answerwas obvious. \"A second guest iscoming: Mrs. Bretton expects othervisitors.\"On descending to dinner, explanations ensued. A little girl, I wastold, would shortly be my companion: the daughterof a friend anddistant relation of the late Dr. Bretton's. This little girl, it wasadded, had recently lost her mother; though, indeed, Mrs. Bretton erelong subjoined,the loss was not so great as might at first appear.Mrs. Home (Home it seems was the name) had been a very pretty, but agiddy, careless woman, who hadneglected her child, and disappointedand disheartened her husband. So far from congenial had the unionproved, that separation at last ensued--separation bymutual consent,not after any legal process. Soon after this event, the lady havingover-exerted herself at a ball, caught cold, took a fever, and diedafter a verybrief illness. Her husband, naturally a man of verysensitive feelings, and shocked inexpressibly by too suddencommunication of the news, could hardly, it seems,now be persuaded butthat some over-severity on his part--some deficiency in patience andindulgence--had contributed to hasten her end. He had brooded overthisidea till his spirits were seriously affected; the medical men insistedon travelling being tried as a remedy, and meanwhile Mrs. Bretton hadoffered to takecharge of his little girl. \"And I hope,\" added mygodmother in conclusion, \"the child will not be like her mamma; assilly and frivolous a little flirt as ever sensibleman was weak enoughto marry. For,\" said she, \"Mr. Home _is_ a sensible man in his way,though not very practical: he is fond of science, and lives half hislife in alaboratory trying experiments--a thing his butterfly wifecould neither comprehend nor endure; and indeed\" confessed mygodmother, \"I should not have liked itmyself.\"In answer to a question of mine, she further informed me that her latehusband used to say, Mr. Home had derived this scientific turn from amaternaluncle, a French savant; for he came, it seems; of mixed Frenchand Scottish origin, and had connections now living in France, of whommore than one wrote _de_before his name, and called himself noble.That same evening at nine o'clock, a servant was despatched to meet thecoach by which our little visitor was expected.Mrs. Bretton and I satalone in the drawing-room waiting her coming; John Graham Bretton beingabsent on a visit to one of his schoolfellows who lived in thecountry.My godmother read the evening paper while she waited; I sewed. It was awet night; the rain lashed the panes, and the wind sounded angryandrestless.\"Poor child!\" said Mrs. Bretton from time to time. \"What weather forher journey! I wish she were safe here.\"A little before ten the door-bell announcedWarren's return. No soonerwas the door opened than I ran down into the hall; there lay a trunkand some band-boxes, beside them stood a person like anurse-girl, andat the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in hisarms.\"Is that the child?\" I asked.\"Yes, miss.\"I would have opened the shawl,and tried to get a peep at the face, butit was hastily turned from me to Warren's shoulder.\"Put me down, please,\" said a small voice when Warren openedthedrawing-room door, \"and take off this shawl,\" continued the speaker,extracting with its minute hand the pin, and with a sort of fastidioushaste doffing theclumsy wrapping. The creature which now appeared madea deft attempt to fold the shawl; but the drapery was much too heavyand large to be sustained orwielded by those hands and arms. \"Give itto Harriet, please,\" was then the direction, \"and she can put it away.\"This said, it turned and fixed its eyes on Mrs.Bretton.\"Come here, little dear,\" said that lady. \"Come and let me see if youare cold and damp: come and let me warm you at the fire.\"The child advancedpromptly. Relieved of her wrapping, she appearedexceedingly tiny; but was a neat, completely-fashioned little figure,light, slight, and straight. Seated on mygodmother's ample lap, shelooked a mere doll; her neck, delicate as wax, her head of silky curls,increased, I thought, the resemblance.Mrs. Bretton talked in littlefond phrases as she chafed the child'shands, arms, and feet; first she was considered with a wistful gaze,but soon a smile answered her. Mrs. Bretton was notgenerally acaressing woman: even with her deeply-cherished son, her manner wasrarely sentimental, often the reverse; but when the small strangersmiled ather, she kissed it, asking, \"What is my little one's name?\"\"Missy.\"\"But besides Missy?\"\"Polly, papa calls her.\"\"Will Polly be content to live with me?\"\"Not _always_;but till papa comes home. Papa is gone away.\" She shookher head expressively.\"He will return to Polly, or send for her.\"\"Will he, ma'am? Do you know he will?\"\"Ithink so.\"\"But Harriet thinks not: at least not for a long while. He is ill.\"Her eyes filled. She drew her hand from Mrs. Bretton's and made amovement to leave herlap; it was at first resisted, but shesaid--\"Please, I wish to go: I can sit on a stool.\"She was allowed to slip down from the knee, and taking a footstool, shecarriedit to a corner where the shade was deep, and there seatedherself. Mrs. Bretton, though a commanding, and in grave matters even aperemptory woman, wasoften passive in trifles: she allowed the childher way. She said to me, \"Take no notice at present.\" But I did takenotice: I watched Polly rest her small elbow onher small knee, herhead on her hand; I observed her draw a square inch or two ofpocket-handkerchief from the doll-pocket of her doll-skirt, and then Iheard herweep. Other children in grief or pain cry aloud, withoutshame or restraint; but this being wept: the tiniest occasional snifftestified to her emotion. Mrs. Bretton didnot hear it: which was quiteas well. Ere long, a voice, issuing from the corner, demanded--\"May thebell be rung for Harriet!\"I rang; the nurse was summoned andcame.\"Harriet, I must be put to bed,\" said her little mistress. \"You mustask where my bed is.\"Harriet signified that she had already made that inquiry.\"Ask if yousleep with me, Harriet.\"\"No, Missy,\" said the nurse: \"you are to share this young lady's room,\"designating me.Missy did not leave her seat, but I saw her eyes"}
{"doc_id":"doc_56","qid":"","text":"Project Gutenberg's Search the Sky, by Frederik Pohl and C. M. KornbluthThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostotherparts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project GutenbergLicense included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll haveto check the laws of the country whereyou are located before using this ebook.Title: Search the SkyAuthor: Frederik Pohl C. M. KornbluthRelease Date: June 3, 2016 [EBook #52228]Language:EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEARCH THE SKY *** By Frederik Pohl and C. M.Kornbluth _THE SPACE MERCHANTS_ _SEARCH THESKY_------------------------------------------------------------------------ SEARCHTHE SKY by Frederik Pohl and C. M.Kornbluth BALLANTINE BOOKS · NEW YORK------------------------------------------------------------------------ COPYRIGHT, 1954,BY FREDERIK POHL AND C. M. KORNBLUTH LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUE CARD NO. 54-6478 PRINTED IN THE UNITEDSTATES OF AMERICA BALLANTINE BOOKS, INC. 404 Fifth Avenue, New York 18, N.Y. ------------------------------------ TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE Extensive research did not uncover any evidencethat the U.S. copyright on this publication wasrenewed.------------------------------------------------------------------------ SEARCH THE SKY..... 1DECAY.Ross stoodon the tradersâ\u0000\u0000 ramp, overlooking the Yards, and the wordkept bobbing to the top of his mind.Decay.About all of Halseyâ\u0000\u0000s Planet there was theimperceptible reek of decay.The clean, big, bustling, efficient spaceport only made the sensationstronger. From where he stood on the height of the Ramp, hecould seethe Yards, the spires of Halsey City ten kilometers awayâ\u0000\u0000and thetumble-down gray acres of Ghost Town between.Ross wrinkled his nose. Hewasnâ\u0000\u0000t a man given to brooding, but the scentof decay had saturated his nostrils that morning. He had tossed andturned all the night, wrestling with adecision. And he had got upearly, so early that the only thing that made sense was to walk to work.And that meant walking through Ghost Town. He hadnâ\u0000\u0000tdone that in a longtime, not since childhood. Ghost Town was a wonderful place to play.â\u0000\u0000Tag,â\u0000\u0000 â\u0000\u0000Follow My Fuehrer,â\u0000\u0000 â\u0000\u0000Senators andPresidentâ\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000all the ancientgames took on new life when you could dodge and turn among crumblingruins, dart down unmarked lanes, gallop throughsagging shacks where youmight stir out a screeching, unexpected recluse.But it was clear thatâ\u0000\u0000in the fifteen years between childhood games and atroubledmanâ\u0000\u0000s walk to workâ\u0000\u0000Ghost Town had grown.Everybody knew that! Ask the right specialists, and theyâ\u0000\u0000d tell you howmuch and how fast. An acre ayear, a street a month, a block a week, thespecialists would twinkle at you, convinced that the acre, street, blockwas under control, since they could measureit.Ask the right specialists and they would tell you why it was happening.One answer per specialist, with an ironclad guarantee that there wouldbe no overlappingof replies. â\u0000\u0000A purely psychological phenomenon, Mr.Ross. A vibration of the pendulum toward greater municipal compactness,a huddling, a maturerecognition of the facts of interdependence,basically a step forward....â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000A purely biological phenomenon, Mr. Ross. Falling birth rate due tobiochemicaldeficiency of trace elements processed out of our planetarydiet. Fortunately the situation has been recognized in time and my billbefore the Chamber willprovide....â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000A purely technological problem, Mr. Ross. Maintenance of a sprawlingcity is inevitably less efficient than that of a compact unit.Inevitablythere has been a drift back to the central areas and theconvenience of air-conditioned walkways, winterized plazas....â\u0000\u0000Yes. It was a purelypsychological-biological-technological-educational-demographic problem, and it was basically a step forward.Ross wondered how many Ghost Towns laycorpselike on the surface ofHalseyâ\u0000\u0000s Planet. Decay, he thought. Decay.But it had nothing to do with his problem, the problem that had kept himawake all thenight, the problem that blighted the view before him now.The trading bell clanged. The dayâ\u0000\u0000s work began.For Ross it might be his last dayâ\u0000\u0000s work at theYards. * * * * *He walked slowly from the ramp to the offices of the Oldham TradingCorporation. â\u0000\u0000Morning, Ross boy,â\u0000\u0000 hisbreezy young boss greeted him.Charles Oldham IVâ\u0000\u0000s father had always taken a paternal attitude towardhis help, and Charles Oldham IV was not going tochange anything thatDaddy had done. He shook Rossâ\u0000\u0000s hand at the door of the suite andapologized because they hadnâ\u0000\u0000t been able to find a newsecretary for himyet. Theyâ\u0000\u0000d been looking for two weeks, but the three applicants theyhad been able to dredge up had all been hopeless. â\u0000\u0000Itâ\u0000\u0000s thedamnChamber,â\u0000\u0000 said Charles Oldham IV, winsomely gesturing with his hands toshow how helpless men of affairs were against the blunderinginterference ofGovernment. â\u0000\u0000Damn labor shortage is nothing but a damnartificial scarcity crisis. Daddy saw it; he knew it was coming.â\u0000\u0000Ross almost told him he wasquitting, but held back. Maybe it wasbecause he didnâ\u0000\u0000t want to spoil Oldhamâ\u0000\u0000s day with bad news, right on topof the opening bell. Or maybe it wasbecause, in spite of a sleeplessnight, he still wasnâ\u0000\u0000t quite sure.The morningâ\u0000\u0000s work helped him to become sure. It was the same monotonousgrind.Threefreighters had arrived at dawn from Halseyâ\u0000\u0000s third moon, but noneof them was any affair of his. There was an export shipment of jewelryand watches to beattended to, but the ship was not to take off foranother week. It scarcely classified as urgent. Ross worked on themanifests for a couple of hours, stared throughhis window for an hour,and then it was time for lunch.Little Marconi hailed him as he passed through the tradersâ\u0000\u0000 lounge.Of all the juniors on the Exchange,Marconi was the one Ross foundeasiest to take. He was lean and dark where Ross was solid and fair;worse, he stood four ranks above Ross in seniority. But, sinceRossworked for Oldham, and Marconi worked for Haarlandâ\u0000\u0000s, the differencecould be waived in social intercourse.Ross suspected that, to Marconi as to him,trading was only a jobâ\u0000\u0000a dullone, and not a crusade. And he knew that Marconiâ\u0000\u0000s reading was notconfined to bills of lading. â\u0000\u0000Lunch?â\u0000\u0000 askedMarconi. â\u0000\u0000Sure,â\u0000\u0000 Ross said.And he knew heâ\u0000\u0000d probably spill his secret to the little man fromHaarlandâ\u0000\u0000s.The skyroom wascrowdedâ\u0000\u0000comparatively. All eight of the usual tableswere taken; they pushed on into the roped-off area by the windows andfound a table overlooking theYards. Marconi blew dust off his chair.â\u0000\u0000Been a long time since this was used,â\u0000\u0000 he grumbled. â\u0000\u0000Drink?â\u0000\u0000 He raisedhis eyebrows when Ross nodded.It made a break; Marconi was the oneusually who had a drink with lunch, Ross never touched it.When the drinks came, each of them said to the other inperfectsynchronism: â\u0000\u0000Iâ\u0000\u0000ve got something to tell you.â\u0000\u0000They looked startledâ\u0000\u0000then laughed. â\u0000\u0000Go ahead,â\u0000\u0000 said Ross.The little man didnâ\u0000\u0000teven argue. Rapturously he drew a photo out of hispocket.God, thought Ross wearily, Lurline again! He studied the picture with ashow of interest. â\u0000\u0000Newsnap?â\u0000\u0000 he asked brightly. â\u0000\u0000Lovely girlâ\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000 Then henoticed the inscription: _To my fiance, with crates of love._ â\u0000\u0000Well!â\u0000\u0000 hesaid,â\u0000\u0000Fiance, is it? Congratulations, Marconi!â\u0000\u0000Marconi was almost drooling on the photo. â\u0000\u0000Next month,â\u0000\u0000 he said happily.â\u0000\u0000A big, big wedding. Forkeeps, Rossâ\u0000\u0000for keeps. With children!â\u0000\u0000Ross made an expression of polite surprise. â\u0000\u0000You donâ\u0000\u0000t say!â\u0000\u0000 he said.â\u0000\u0000Itâ\u0000\u0000s all down in blackand white! She agrees to have two children inthe first five yearsâ\u0000\u0000no permissive clause, a straight guarantee. Fifteenhundred annual allowance per child. And,Ross, do you know what? Herlawyer told her right in front of me that she ought to ask for threethousand, and she told him, â\u0000\u0000No, Mr. Turek. I happen to be inlove.â\u0000\u0000 Howdo you like that, Ross?â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000A girl in a million,â\u0000\u0000 Ross said feebly. His private thoughts were thatMarconi had been gaffed and netted like asugar perch. Lurline was ofthe Old Landowners, who didnâ\u0000\u0000t own anything much but land these days,and Marconi was an undersized nobody who happened tomake a very goodliving. Sure she happened to be in love. Smartest thing she could be. Ofcourse, promising to have children sounded pretty special; butthepapers were full of those things every day. Marconi could reliably becounted on to hang himself. Heâ\u0000\u0000d promise her breakfast in bed everythird week end,or the maid that he couldnâ\u0000\u0000t possibly find on the labormarket, and the courts would throw all the promises on both sides out ofthe contract as a matter ofsimple equity. But the marriage would stick,all right.Marconi had himself a final moist, fatuous sigh and returned the phototo his pocket. â\u0000\u0000And now,â\u0000\u0000 heasked brightly, craning his neck for thewaiter, â\u0000\u0000whatâ\u0000\u0000s your news?â\u0000\u0000Ross sipped his drink, staring out at the nuzzling freighters in theirhemisphericalslips. He said abruptly, â\u0000\u0000I might be on one of those nextweek. Fallonâ\u0000\u0000s got a purserâ\u0000\u0000s berth open.â\u0000\u0000Marconi forgot the waiter and gaped.â\u0000\u0000Quitting?â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000Iâ\u0000\u0000ve got to do something!â\u0000\u0000 Ross exploded. His own voice scared him;there was a knife blade of hysteria in the sound of it. Hegripped theedge of the table and forced himself to be calm and deliberate.Marconi said tardily, â\u0000\u0000Easy, Ross.â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000Easy! Youâ\u0000\u0000ve said it, Marconi:â\u0000\u0000Easy.â\u0000\u0000 Everythingâ\u0000\u0000s so damned easy andso damned boring that Iâ\u0000\u0000m just about ready to blow! Iâ\u0000\u0000ve got to dosomething,â\u0000\u0000 he repeated.â\u0000\u0000Iâ\u0000\u0000m getting nowhere! I push papers around andthen I push them back again. You know what happens next. You get softand paunchy. You find yourselfgoing by the book instead of by yourhead. Youâ\u0000\u0000re covered, if you go by the bookâ\u0000\u0000no matter what happens. Andyou might just as well bedead!â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000Now, Rossâ\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000Now, hell!â\u0000\u0000 Ross flared. â\u0000\u0000Marconi, I swear I think thereâ\u0000\u0000s somethingwrong with me! Look, take GhostTown for instance. Ever wonder whynobody lives there, except a couple of crazy old hermits?â\u0000\u0000â\u0000\u0000Why, itâ\u0000\u0000s Ghost Town,â\u0000\u0000 Marconi explained."}
{"doc_id":"doc_57","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Tale of Two Bad Mice, by Beatrix PotterThis 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 Tale of Two Bad MiceAuthor: Beatrix PotterRelease Date: March 31, 2014 [EBook #45264]Language: English*** START OF THISPROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF TWO BAD MICE ***Produced by David Edwards, Emmy and the Online DistributedProofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)THE TALE OF TWO BAD MICE FOR =W. M. L.W.= THE LITTLE GIRL WHO HAD THE DOLL'S HOUSE[Illustration] THE TALE OF TWO BAD MICE BY BEATRIX POTTER _Author of 'The Tale ofPeter Rabbit,' &c._ [Illustration] LONDON FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. AND NEW YORK 1904 [_All rights reserved_] COPYRIGHT1904 BY FREDERICK WARNE & CO. ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL.[Illustration]ONCE upon a time there was a very beautiful doll's-house; it was redbrickwith white windows, and it had real muslin curtains and a frontdoor and a chimney.IT belonged to two Dolls called Lucinda and Jane; at least it belongedtoLucinda, but she never ordered meals.Jane was the Cook; but she never did any cooking, because the dinnerhad been bought ready-made, in a box full ofshavings.[Illustration][Illustration]THERE were two red lobsters and a ham, a fish, a pudding, and somepears and oranges.They would not come off the plates,but they were extremely beautiful.ONE morning Lucinda and Jane had gone out for a drive in the doll'sperambulator. There was no one in the nursery, and it wasvery quiet.Presently there was a little scuffling, scratching noise in a cornernear the fire-place, where there was a hole under the skirting-board.Tom Thumb putout his head for a moment, and then popped it in again.Tom Thumb was a mouse.[Illustration][Illustration]A MINUTE afterwards, Hunca Munca, his wife, put herhead out, too; andwhen she saw that there was no one in the nursery, she ventured out onthe oilcloth under the coal-box.THE doll's-house stood at the other sideof the fire-place. Tom Thumband Hunca Munca went cautiously across the hearthrug. They pushed thefront door--it was not fast.[Illustration][Illustration]TOMTHUMB and Hunca Munca went upstairs and peeped into thedining-room. Then they squeaked with joy!Such a lovely dinner was laid out upon the table! Therewere tinspoons, and lead knives and forks, and two dolly-chairs--all _so_convenient!TOM THUMB set to work at once to carve the ham. It was a beautifulshinyyellow, streaked with red.The knife crumpled up and hurt him; he put his finger in his mouth.\"It is not boiled enough; it is hard. You have a try, HuncaMunca.\"[Illustration][Illustration]HUNCA MUNCA stood up in her chair, and chopped at the ham with anotherlead knife.\"It's as hard as the hams at thecheesemonger's,\" said Hunca Munca.THE ham broke off the plate with a jerk, and rolled under the table.\"Let it alone,\" said Tom Thumb; \"give me some fish,Hunca Munca!\"[Illustration][Illustration]HUNCA MUNCA tried every tin spoon in turn; the fish was glued to thedish.Then Tom Thumb lost his temper. He put theham in the middle of thefloor, and hit it with the tongs and with the shovel--bang, bang,smash, smash!The ham flew all into pieces, for underneath the shinypaint it wasmade of nothing but plaster!THEN there was no end to the rage and disappointment of Tom Thumb andHunca Munca. They broke up the pudding, thelobsters, the pears and theoranges.As the fish would not come off the plate, they put it into the red-hotcrinkly paper fire in the kitchen; but it would not burneither.[Illustration][Illustration]TOM THUMB went up the kitchen chimney and looked out at the top--therewas no soot.WHILE Tom Thumb was up the chimney,Hunca Munca had anotherdisappointment. She found some tiny canisters upon the dresser,labelled--Rice--Coffee--Sago--but when she turned them upsidedown,there was nothing inside except red and blue beads.[Illustration][Illustration]THEN those mice set to work to do all the mischief theycould--especially TomThumb! He took Jane's clothes out of the chest ofdrawers in her bedroom, and he threw them out of the top floor window.But Hunca Munca had a frugal mind.After pulling half the feathers outof Lucinda's bolster, she remembered that she herself was in want of afeather bed.WITH Tom Thumb's assistance she carried thebolster downstairs, andacross the hearth-rug. It was difficult to squeeze the bolster into themouse-hole; but they managed itsomehow.[Illustration][Illustration]THEN Hunca Munca went back and fetched a chair, a book-case, abird-cage, and several small odds and ends. The book-caseand thebird-cage refused to go into the mouse-hole.HUNCA MUNCA left them behind the coal-box, and went to fetch a cradle.[Illustration][Illustration]HUNCAMUNCA was just returning with another chair, when suddenly therewas a noise of talking outside upon the landing. The mice rushed backto their hole, and thedolls came into the nursery.WHAT a sight met the eyes of Jane and Lucinda!Lucinda sat upon the upset kitchen stove and stared; and Jane leantagainst thekitchen dresser and smiled--but neither of them made anyremark.[Illustration][Illustration]THE book-case and the bird-cage were rescued from underthecoal-box--but Hunca Munca has got the cradle, and some of Lucinda'sclothes.SHE also has some useful pots and pans, and several otherthings.[Illustration][Illustration]THE little girl that the doll's-house belonged to, said,--\"I will geta doll dressed like a policeman!\"BUT the nurse said,--\"I will set amouse-trap!\"[Illustration]SO that is the story of the two Bad Mice,--but they were not so veryvery naughty after all, because Tom Thumb paid for everything hebroke.He found a crooked sixpence under the hearthrug; and upon ChristmasEve, he and Hunca Munca stuffed it into one of the stockings of LucindaandJane.[Illustration][Illustration]AND very early every morning--before anybody is awake--Hunca Muncacomes with her dust-pan and her broom to sweep theDollies' house! THE END. PRINTED BY EDMUND EVANS, THE RACQUET COURT PRESS, LONDON, S.E.End of Project Gutenberg's The Tale of Two BadMice, by Beatrix Potter*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF TWO BAD MICE ******** This file should be named 45264.txt or 45264.zip*****This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/6/45264/Produced by David Edwards, Emmy and theOnline DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)Updatededitions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed.Creating the works from public domain print editions means that noone owns a UnitedStates copyright in these works, so the Foundation(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States withoutpermission and without paying copyrightroyalties. Special rules,set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply tocopying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works toprotectthe PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. ProjectGutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if youcharge for the eBooks, unless youreceive specific permission. If youdo not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with therules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly anypurposesuch as creation of derivative works, reports, performances andresearch. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may dopracticallyANYTHING with public domain eBooks. 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{"doc_id":"doc_58","qid":"","text":"Project Gutenberg's The Tale of Ginger and Pickles, by Beatrix PotterThis 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 Tale of Ginger and PicklesAuthor: Beatrix PotterRelease Date: February 2, 2005 [EBook #14877]Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF GINGER AND PICKLES ***Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG OnlineDistributedProofreading Team.THE TALE OF GINGER AND PICKLESDEDICATEDWITH VERY KIND REGARDS TO OLD MR. JOHN TAYLOR,WHO \"THINKS HE MIGHT PASS AS ADORMOUSE!\" (THREE YEARS IN BED AND NEVER A GRUMBLE!)[Illustration]THE TALE OF GINGER & PICKLESBY BEATRIX POTTER_Author of \"The Tale of PeterRabbit,\" &c._[Illustration]FREDERICK WARNE1909 by Frederick Warne & Co.Printed and bound in Great Britain byWilliam Clowes Limited, Beccles andLondon[Illustration]Once upon a time there was a village shop. The name over the window was\"Ginger and Pickles.\"It was a little small shop just the right size forDolls--Lucinda and JaneDoll-cook always bought their groceries at Ginger and Pickles.The counter inside was a convenient height for rabbits. Ginger andPicklessold red spotty pocket-handkerchiefs at a penny three farthings.They also sold sugar, and snuff and galoshes.In fact, although it was such a small shop it soldnearlyeverything--except a few things that you want in a hurry--like bootlaces,hair-pins and mutton chops.Ginger and Pickles were the people who kept the shop.Ginger was a yellowtom-cat, and Pickles was a terrier.The rabbits were always a little bit afraid of Pickles.[Illustration][Illustration]The shop was also patronizedby mice--only the mice were rather afraid ofGinger.Ginger usually requested Pickles to serve them, because he said it madehis mouth water.\"I cannot bear,\" saidhe, \"to see them going out at the door carryingtheir little parcels.\"\"I have the same feeling about rats,\" replied Pickles, \"but it wouldnever do to eat our owncustomers; they would leave us and go to TabithaTwitchit's.\"\"On the contrary, they would go nowhere,\" replied Ginger gloomily.(Tabitha Twitchit kept the onlyother shop in the village. She did notgive credit.)[Illustration][Illustration]Ginger and Pickles gave unlimited credit.Now the meaning of \"credit\" is this--when acustomer buys a bar of soap,instead of the customer pulling out a purse and paying for it--she saysshe will pay another time.And Pickles makes a low bow andsays, \"With pleasure, madam,\" and it iswritten down in a book.The customers come again and again, and buy quantities, in spite of beingafraid of Ginger andPickles.But there is no money in what is called the \"till.\"[Illustration][Illustration]The customers came in crowds every day and bought quantities, especiallythetoffee customers. But there was always no money; they never paid foras much as a pennyworth of peppermints.But the sales were enormous, ten times as largeas Tabitha Twitchit's.[Illustration]As there was always no money, Ginger and Pickles were obliged to eattheir own goods.Pickles ate biscuits and Ginger ate a driedhaddock.They ate them by candle-light after the shop was closed.[Illustration]When it came to Jan. 1st there was still no money, and Pickles was unableto buy adog licence.\"It is very unpleasant, I am afraid of the police,\" said Pickles.\"It is your own fault for being a terrier; _I_ do not require a licence,and neither doesKep, the Collie dog.\"\"It is very uncomfortable, I am afraid I shall be summoned. I have triedin vain to get a licence upon credit at the Post Office;\" saidPickles.\"The place is full of policemen. I met one as I was coming home.\"\"Let us send in the bill again to Samuel Whiskers, Ginger, he owes 22/9for bacon.\"\"I donot believe that he intends to pay at all,\" replied Ginger.[Illustration]\"And I feel sure that Anna Maria pockets things--Where are all the creamcrackers?\"\"You haveeaten them yourself,\" replied Ginger.[Illustration]Ginger and Pickles retired into the back parlour.They did accounts. They added up sums and sums, andsums.\"Samuel Whiskers has run up a bill as long as his tail; he has had anounce and three-quarters of snuff since October.\"\"What is seven pounds of butter at1/3, and a stick of sealing wax andfour matches?\"\"Send in all the bills again to everybody 'with comp'ts,'\" replied Ginger.[Illustration][Illustration]After a timethey heard a noise in the shop, as if something had beenpushed in at the door. They came out of the back parlour. There was anenvelope lying on the counter,and a policeman writing in a note-book!Pickles nearly had a fit, he barked and he barked and made little rushes.\"Bite him, Pickles! bite him!\" spluttered Gingerbehind a sugar-barrel,\"he's only a German doll!\"The policeman went on writing in his notebook; twice he put his pencil inhis mouth, and once he dipped it in thetreacle.Pickles barked till he was hoarse. But still the policeman took no notice.He had bead eyes, and his helmet was sewed on with stitches.[Illustration]Atlength on his last little rush--Pickles found that the shop was empty.The policeman had disappeared.But the envelope remained.[Illustration][Illustration]\"Do youthink that he has gone to fetch a real live policeman? I am afraidit is a summons,\" said Pickles.\"No,\" replied Ginger, who had opened the envelope, \"it is the ratesandtaxes, £3 19 11-3/4.\"\"This is the last straw,\" said Pickles, \"let us close the shop.\"They put up the shutters, and left. But they have not removed fromtheneighbourhood. In fact some people wish they had gone further.[Illustration]Ginger is living in the warren. I do not know what occupation he pursues;he looksstout and comfortable.[Illustration][Illustration]Pickles is at present a gamekeeper.[Illustration]The closing of the shop caused great inconvenience. TabithaTwitchitimmediately raised the price of everything a half-penny; and she continuedto refuse to give credit.Of course there are the trades-men's carts--thebutcher, the fish-man andTimothy Baker.But a person cannot live on \"seed wigs\" and sponge-cake andbutter-buns--not even when the sponge-cake is as good asTimothy's![Illustration]After a time Mr. John Dormouse and his daughter began to sell peppermintsand candles.But they did not keep \"self-fitting sixes\"; and ittakes five mice tocarry one seven inch candle.[Illustration][Illustration]Besides--the candles which they sell behave very strangely inwarmweather.[Illustration]And Miss Dormouse refused to take back the ends when they were broughtback to her with complaints.And when Mr. John Dormousewas complained to, he stayed in bed, and wouldsay nothing but \"very snug;\" which is not the way to carry on a retailbusiness.[Illustration][Illustration]Soeverybody was pleased when Sally Henny Penny sent out a printed posterto say that she was going to re-open the shop--\"Henny's Opening Sale!Grandco-operative Jumble! Penny's penny prices! Come buy, come try, comebuy!\"The poster really was most 'ticing.[Illustration]There was a rush upon the openingday. The shop was crammed withcustomers, and there were crowds of mice upon the biscuit canisters.Sally Henny Penny gets rather flustered when she tries tocount outchange, and she insists on being paid cash; but she is quite harmless.[Illustration]And she has laid in a remarkable assortment of bargains.There issomething to please everybody.End of Project Gutenberg's The Tale of Ginger and Pickles, by Beatrix Potter*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THETALE OF GINGER AND PICKLES ******** This file should be named 14877-8.txt or 14877-8.zip *****This and all associated files of various formats will be foundin: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/4/8/7/14877/Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team.Updatededitions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed.Creating the works from public domain print editions means that noone owns a UnitedStates copyright in these works, so the Foundation(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States withoutpermission and without paying copyrightroyalties. Special rules,set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply tocopying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works toprotectthe PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. ProjectGutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if youcharge for the eBooks, unless youreceive specific permission. If youdo not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with therules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly anypurposesuch as creation of derivative works, reports, performances andresearch. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may dopracticallyANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution issubject to the trademark license, especially commercialredistribution.*** START: FULL LICENSE ***THEFULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSEPLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORKTo protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promotingthe freedistribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase \"ProjectGutenberg\"), you agreeto comply with all the terms of the Full ProjectGutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online athttp://gutenberg.net/license).Section 1. General Terms ofUse and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tmelectronic works1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tmelectronic work, you indicate that youhave read, understand, agree toand accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abideby allthe terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroyall copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.If you paid afee for obtaining a copy of or access to a ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by theterms of this agreement, you may obtaina refund from the person orentity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.1.B. \"Project Gutenberg\" is a registered trademark. It may onlybeused on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people whoagree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a fewthings that you cando with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic workseven without complying with the full terms of this agreement. Seeparagraph 1.C below. There are a lot ofthings you can do with ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreementand help preserve free future access to ProjectGutenberg-tm electronicworks. See paragraph 1.E below.1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (\"the Foundation\"or PGLAF), owns acompilation copyright in the collection of ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in thecollection are in the public domain in theUnited States. If anindividual work is in the public domain in the United States and you arelocated in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent youfromcopying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivativeworks based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenbergare removed. Of"}
{"doc_id":"doc_59","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg eBook, Ruth, by Elizabeth Cleghorn GaskellThis 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: RuthAuthor: Elizabeth Cleghorn GaskellRelease Date: December 26, 2001 [eBook #4275]Most recently updated March 1,2008Language: English***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUTH***E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondoand revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein,M.D.RUTHbyELIZABETH GASKELLFirst published in book form by Chapman and Hall in 1853CONTENTS I. The Dressmaker's Apprentice at Work II. RuthGoes to the Shire-Hall III. Sunday at Mrs Mason's IV. Treading in Perilous Places V. In North Wales VI. Troubles Gather About Ruth VII. TheCrisis--Watching and Waiting VIII. Mrs Bellingham \"Does the Thing Handsomely\" IX. The Storm-Spirit Subdued X. A Note and the Answer XI.Thurstan and Faith Benson XII. Losing Sight of the Welsh Mountains XIII. The Dissenting Minister's Household XIV. Ruth's First Sunday atEccleston XV. Mother and Child XVI. Sally Tells of Her Sweethearts, and Discourses on the Duties of Life XVII. Leonard's Christening XVIII.Ruth Becomes a Governess in Mr Bradshaw's Family XIX. After Five Years XX. Jemima Refuses to Be Managed XXI. Mr Farquhar's AttentionsTransferred XXII. The Liberal Candidate and His Precursor XXIII. Recognition XXIV. The Meeting on the Sands XXV. Jemima Makes aDiscovery XXVI. Mr Bradshaw's Virtuous Indignation XXVII. Preparing to Stand on the Truth XXVIII. An Understanding Between Lovers XXIX. Sally TakesHer Money Out of the Bank XXX. The Forged Deed XXXI. An Accident to the Dover Coach XXXII. The Bradshaw Pew Again Occupied XXXIII. A Mother toBe Proud Of XXXIV. \"I Must Go and Nurse Mr Bellingham\" XXXV. Out of Darkness into Light XXXVI. The End Drop, drop, slow tears! And bathe thosebeauteous feet, Which brought from heaven The news and Prince of peace. Cease not, wet eyes, For mercy to entreat: To cry for vengeance Sin dothnever cease. In your deep floods Drown all my faults and fears; Nor let His eye See sin, but through my tears. _Phineas Fletcher_CHAPTER ITheDressmaker's Apprentice at WorkThere is an assize-town in one of the eastern counties which was muchdistinguished by the Tudor sovereigns, and, inconsequence of theirfavour and protection, attained a degree of importance that surprisesthe modern traveller.A hundred years ago its appearance was that ofpicturesque grandeur.The old houses, which were the temporary residences of such of thecounty-families as contented themselves with the gaieties of aprovincialtown, crowded the streets and gave them the irregular butnoble appearance yet to be seen in the cities of Belgium. The sidesof the streets had a quaint richness,from the effect of the gables,and the stacks of chimneys which cut against the blue sky above;while, if the eye fell lower down, the attention was arrested byallkinds of projections in the shape of balcony and oriel; and it wasamusing to see the infinite variety of windows that had been crammedinto the walls long beforeMr Pitt's days of taxation. The streetsbelow suffered from all these projections and advanced stories above;they were dark, and ill-paved with large, round, joltingpebbles, andwith no side-path protected by kerb-stones; there were no lamp-postsfor long winter nights; and no regard was paid to the wants of themiddle class,who neither drove about in coaches of their own, norwere carried by their own men in their own sedans into the veryhalls of their friends. The professional menand their wives, theshopkeepers and their spouses, and all such people, walked about atconsiderable peril both night and day. The broad unwieldycarriageshemmed them up against the houses in the narrow streets. Theinhospitable houses projected their flights of steps almost into thecarriage-way, forcingpedestrians again into the danger they hadavoided for twenty or thirty paces. Then, at night, the only lightwas derived from the glaring, flaring oil-lamps hungabove the doorsof the more aristocratic mansions; just allowing space for thepassers-by to become visible, before they again disappeared into thedarkness,where it was no uncommon thing for robbers to be in waitingfor their prey.The traditions of those bygone times, even to the smallest socialparticular, enable oneto understand more clearly the circumstanceswhich contributed to the formation of character. The daily lifeinto which people are born, and into which they areabsorbed beforethey are well aware, forms chains which only one in a hundred hasmoral strength enough to despise, and to break when the righttimecomes--when an inward necessity for independent individual actionarises, which is superior to all outward conventionalities. Thereforeit is well to know whatwere the chains of daily domestic habit whichwere the natural leading-strings of our forefathers before theylearnt to go alone.The picturesqueness of thoseancient streets has departed now.The Astleys, the Dunstans, the Waverhams--names of power in thatdistrict--go up duly to London in the season, and have soldtheirresidences in the county-town fifty years ago, or more. And when thecounty-town lost its attraction for the Astleys, the Dunstans, theWaverhams, how couldit be supposed that the Domvilles, the Bextons,and the Wildes would continue to go and winter there in theirsecond-rate houses, and with their increasedexpenditure? So thegrand old houses stood empty awhile; and then speculators venturedto purchase, and to turn the deserted mansions into manysmallerdwellings, fitted for professional men, or even (bend your ear lower,lest the shade of Marmaduke, first Baron Waverham, hear) into shops!Even that wasnot so very bad, compared with the next innovation onthe old glories. The shopkeepers found out that the once fashionablestreet was dark, and that the dingylight did not show off theirgoods to advantage; the surgeon could not see to draw his patient'steeth; the lawyer had to ring for candles an hour earlier than hewasaccustomed to do when living in a more plebeian street. In short, bymutual consent, the whole front of one side of the street was pulleddown, and rebuilt inthe flat, mean, unrelieved style of George theThird. The body of the houses was too solidly grand to submit toalteration; so people were occasionally surprised,after passingthrough a commonplace-looking shop, to find themselves at the foot ofa grand carved oaken staircase, lighted by a window of stained glass,storiedall over with armorial bearings.Up such a stair--past such a window (through which the moonlight fellon her with a glory of many colours)--Ruth Hilton passedwearily oneJanuary night, now many years ago. I call it night; but, strictlyspeaking, it was morning. Two o'clock in the morning chimed forththe old bells of StSaviour's. And yet more than a dozen girls stillsat in the room into which Ruth entered, stitching away as if forvery life, not daring to gape, or show any outwardmanifestation ofsleepiness. They only sighed a little when Ruth told Mrs Mason thehour of the night, as the result of her errand; for they knew that,stay up as lateas they might, the work-hours of the next day mustbegin at eight, and their young limbs were very weary.Mrs Mason worked away as hard as any of them; butshe was older andtougher; and, besides, the gains were hers. But even she perceivedthat some rest was needed. \"Young ladies! there will be an intervalallowedof half an hour. Ring the bell, Miss Sutton. Martha shallbring you up some bread and cheese and beer. You will be so good asto eat it standing--away from thedresses--and to have your handswashed ready for work when I return. In half an hour,\" said she oncemore, very distinctly; and then she left the room.It wascurious to watch the young girls as they instantaneouslyavailed themselves of Mrs Mason's absence. One fat, particularlyheavy-looking damsel laid her head onher folded arms and was asleepin a moment; refusing to be wakened for her share in the frugalsupper, but springing up with a frightened look at the sound ofMrsMason's returning footstep, even while it was still far off onthe echoing stairs. Two or three others huddled over the scantyfireplace, which, with every possibleeconomy of space, and noattempt whatever at anything of grace or ornament, was inserted inthe slight, flat-looking wall, that had been run up by thepresentowner of the property to portion off this division of the grand olddrawing-room of the mansion. Some employed the time in eating theirbread and cheese,with as measured and incessant a motion of the jaws(and almost as stupidly placid an expression of countenance), as youmay see in cows ruminating in the firstmeadow you happen to pass.Some held up admiringly the beautiful ball-dress in progress, whileothers examined the effect, backing from the object to becriticisedin the true artistic manner. Others stretched themselves into allsorts of postures to relieve the weary muscles; one or two gave ventto all the yawns,coughs, and sneezes that had been pent up so longin the presence of Mrs Mason. But Ruth Hilton sprang to the large oldwindow, and pressed against it as a birdpresses against the bars ofits cage. She put back the blind, and gazed into the quiet moonlightnight. It was doubly light--almost as much so as day--foreverythingwas covered with the deep snow which had been falling silently eversince the evening before. The window was in a square recess; the oldstrange littlepanes of glass had been replaced by those which gavemore light. A little distance off, the feathery branches of a larchwaved softly to and fro in the scarcelyperceptible night-breeze.Poor old larch! the time had been when it had stood in a pleasantlawn, with the tender grass creeping caressingly up to its verytrunk;but now the lawn was divided into yards and squalidback premises, and the larch was pent up and girded about withflag-stones. The snow lay thick on its boughs,and now and then fellnoiselessly down. The old stables had been added to, and altered intoa dismal street of mean-looking houses, back to back with theancientmansions. And over all these changes from grandeur to squalor, bentdown the purple heavens with their unchanging splendour!Ruth pressed her hotforehead against the cold glass, and strainedher aching eyes in gazing out on the lovely sky of a winter's night.The impulse was strong upon her to snatch up ashawl, and wrapping itround her head, to sally forth and enjoy the glory; and time was whenthat impulse would have been instantly followed; but now, Ruth'seyesfilled with tears, and she stood quite still, dreaming of the daysthat were gone. Some one touched her shoulder while her thoughts werefar away,remembering past January nights, which had resembled this,and were yet so different.\"Ruth, love,\" whispered a girl who had unwillingly distinguishedherself by along hard fit of coughing, \"come and have some supper.You don't know yet how it helps one through the night.\"\"One run--one blow of the fresh air would do me"}
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SAVE THELAST DANCE by Duane G. Adler revisions by Toni-Ann Johnson CurrentRevisions by Cheryl Edwards (6/11/99)REWRITE -- FIRST SET OF REVISIONSCort/Madden CompanyParamount Studios5555 MelroseAvenueChevalier Building, Ste. 203Los Angeles, CaliforniaJUNE 11, 1999 FADE IN:1 EXT. PENNSYLVANIA COUNTRYSIDE -LONG SHOT - DAY 1 of an empty stretch of land parted down the middle by railroad tracks. An Amtrak Commuter crests the horizon, headsTOWARD us. As it gets CLOSER, we GO IN TIGHTER to see --2 FACE OF SARA JOHNSON 2 17, pressed at one of itswindows.3 REVERSE ANGLE - REFLECTION IN TRAIN'S WINDOW - 3 SARA'S FACE distant and lovely and sad. SUPERIMPOSEDagainst an endless stream of sky and trees. The train speeds up and SARA's face flies by, disappearing FROM FRAME.4 INT. AMTRAK TRAIN - MOVING -DUSK 4 A zaftig BLACK WOMAN clumsily negotiates the aisle. Stops at the first of a few empty seats left in thecar. WOMAN This seat taken? ANGLE ON SARA looking up, around. She shakes her head, clearsher backpack and magazines from the seat beside her. The Woman drops down, settles in. A long silence. The Woman glances at the American Balletmagazine on Sara's lap. Tries to make conversation. WOMAN I love ballet. Never had the body for it. Do you"}
{"doc_id":"doc_61","qid":"","text":"Project Gutenberg's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James JoyceThis 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.netTitle: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young ManAuthor: James JoycePosting Date: July 2, 2009 [EBook #4217]Release Date: July, 2003FirstPosted: December 8, 2001[Last updated: March 30, 2014]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PORTRAIT--ARTIST AS YOUNGMAN ***Produced by Col Choat. HTML version by Al Haines.A Portrait of the Artist as a Young ManbyJames Joyce
_\"Et ignotas animum dimittit in artes.\"Ovid,Metamorphoses, VIII., 18._
Chapter 1Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow comingdown along the road and this moocow thatwas coming down along the roadmet a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo...His father told him that story: his father looked at him through aglass: he had ahairy face.He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrnelived: she sold lemon platt. O, the wild rose blossoms On the little greenplace.He sang that song. That was his song. O, the green wothe botheth.When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother puton the oilsheet.That had the queer smell.His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She played on the pianothe sailor's hornpipe for him to dance. He danced: Tralalalala, Tralala tralaladdy, Tralala lala, Tralala lala.Uncle Charles and Dante clapped. They were older than his father andmother but uncle Charles was olderthan Dante.Dante had two brushes in her press. The brush with the maroon velvetback was for Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet backwas forParnell. Dante gave him a cachou every time he brought her apiece of tissue paper.The Vances lived in number seven. They had a different father andmother.They were Eileen's father and mother. When they were grown uphe was going to marry Eileen. He hid under the table. His mother said:--O, Stephen willapologize.Dante said:--O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes.-- Pull out his eyes, Apologize, Apologize, Pull out his eyes. Apologize, Pullout his eyes, Pull out his eyes, Apologize.* * * * *The wide playgrounds were swarming with boys. All were shouting and theprefects urged them on withstrong cries. The evening air was pale andchilly and after every charge and thud of the footballers the greasyleather orb flew like a heavy bird through the greylight. He kept onthe fringe of his line, out of sight of his prefect, out of the reachof the rude feet, feigning to run now and then. He felt his body smalland weakamid the throng of the players and his eyes were weak andwatery. Rody Kickham was not like that: he would be captain of thethird line all the fellows said.RodyKickham was a decent fellow but Nasty Roche was a stink. RodyKickham had greaves in his number and a hamper in the refectory. NastyRoche had big hands. Hecalled the Friday pudding dog-in-the-blanket.And one day he had asked:--What is your name?Stephen had answered: Stephen Dedalus.Then Nasty Roche hadsaid:--What kind of a name is that?And when Stephen had not been able to answer Nasty Roche had asked:--What is your father?Stephen had answered:--Agentleman.Then Nasty Roche had asked:--Is he a magistrate?He crept about from point to point on the fringe of his line, makinglittle runs now and then. But hishands were bluish with cold. He kepthis hands in the side pockets of his belted grey suit. That was a beltround his pocket. And belt was also to give a fellow abelt. One day afellow said to Cantwell:--I'd give you such a belt in a second.Cantwell had answered:--Go and fight your match. Give Cecil Thunder a belt. I'd liketo seeyou. He'd give you a toe in the rump for yourself.That was not a nice expression. His mother had told him not to speakwith the rough boys in the college.Nice mother! The first day in thehall of the castle when she had said goodbye she had put up her veildouble to her nose to kiss him: and her nose and eyes werered. But hehad pretended not to see that she was going to cry. She was a nicemother but she was not so nice when she cried. And his father had givenhim twofive-shilling pieces for pocket money. And his father had toldhim if he wanted anything to write home to him and, whatever he did,never to peach on a fellow.Then at the door of the castle the rectorhad shaken hands with his father and mother, his soutane fluttering inthe breeze, and the car had driven off with hisfather and mother onit. They had cried to him from the car, waving their hands:--Goodbye, Stephen, goodbye!--Goodbye, Stephen, goodbye!He was caught inthe whirl of a scrimmage and, fearful of the flashingeyes and muddy boots, bent down to look through the legs. The fellowswere struggling and groaning and theirlegs were rubbing and kickingand stamping. Then Jack Lawton's yellow boots dodged out the ball andall the other boots and legs ran after. He ran after them alittle wayand then stopped. It was useless to run on. Soon they would be goinghome for the holidays. After supper in the study hall he would changethe numberpasted up inside his desk from seventy-seven to seventy-six.It would be better to be in the study hall than out there in the cold.The sky was pale and cold butthere were lights in the castle. Hewondered from which window Hamilton Rowan had thrown his hat on theha-ha and had there been flowerbeds at that timeunder the windows. Oneday when he had been called to the castle the butler had shown him themarks of the soldiers' slugs in the wood of the door and had givenhima piece of shortbread that the community ate. It was nice and warm tosee the lights in the castle. It was like something in a book. PerhapsLeicester Abbeywas like that. And there were nice sentences in DoctorCornwell's Spelling Book. They were like poetry but they were onlysentences to learn the spellingfrom. Wolsey died in Leicester Abbey Where the abbots buried him. Canker is a disease of plants, Cancer one of animals.It would be nice to lie on thehearthrug before the fire, leaning hishead upon his hands, and think on those sentences. He shivered as if hehad cold slimy water next his skin. That was mean ofWells to shoulderhim into the square ditch because he would not swop his little snuffbox for Wells's seasoned hacking chestnut, the conqueror of forty. Howcoldand slimy the water had been! A fellow had once seen a big ratjump into the scum. Mother was sitting at the fire with Dante waitingfor Brigid to bring in the tea.She had her feet on the fender and herjewelly slippers were so hot and they had such a lovely warm smell!Dante knew a lot of things. She had taught him wherethe MozambiqueChannel was and what was the longest river in America and what was thename of the highest mountain in the moon. Father Arnall knew morethanDante because he was a priest but both his father and uncle Charlessaid that Dante was a clever woman and a well-read woman. And whenDante made thatnoise after dinner and then put up her hand to hermouth: that was heartburn.A voice cried far out on the playground:--All in!Then other voices cried from thelower and third lines:--All in! All in!The players closed around, flushed and muddy, and he went among them,glad to go in. Rody Kickham held the ball by itsgreasy lace. A fellowasked him to give it one last: but he walked on without even answeringthe fellow. Simon Moonan told him not to because the prefectwaslooking. The fellow turned to Simon Moonan and said:--We all know why you speak. You are McGlade's suck.Suck was a queer word. The fellow called SimonMoonan that name becauseSimon Moonan used to tie the prefect's false sleeves behind his backand the prefect used to let on to be angry. But the sound wasugly.Once he had washed his hands in the lavatory of the Wicklow Hotel andhis father pulled the stopper up by the chain after and the dirty waterwent downthrough the hole in the basin. And when it had all gone downslowly the hole in the basin had made a sound like that: suck. Onlylouder.To remember that and thewhite look of the lavatory made him feel coldand then hot. There were two cocks that you turned and water came out:cold and hot. He felt cold and then a littlehot: and he could see thenames printed on the cocks. That was a very queer thing.And the air in the corridor chilled him too. It was queer and wettish.But soonthe gas would be lit and in burning it made a light noise likea little song. Always the same: and when the fellows stopped talking inthe playroom you could hearit.It was the hour for sums. Father Arnall wrote a hard sum on the boardand then said:--Now then, who will win? Go ahead, York! Go ahead, Lancaster!Stephentried his best, but the sum was too hard and he felt confused.The little silk badge with the white rose on it that was pinned on thebreast of his jacket began toflutter. He was no good at sums, but hetried his best so that York might not lose. Father Arnall's face lookedvery black, but he was not in a wax: he was laughing.Then Jack Lawtoncracked his fingers and Father Arnall looked at his copybook and said:--Right. Bravo Lancaster! The red rose wins. Come on now, York!Forgeahead!Jack Lawton looked over from his side. The little silk badge with thered rose on it looked very rich because he had a blue sailor top on.Stephen felt hisown face red too, thinking of all the bets about whowould get first place in elements, Jack Lawton or he. Some weeks JackLawton got the card for first and someweeks he got the card for first.His white silk badge fluttered and fluttered as he worked at the nextsum and heard Father Arnall's voice. Then all his eagernesspassed awayand he felt his face quite cool. He thought his face must be whitebecause it felt so cool. He could not get out the answer for the sumbut it did notmatter. White roses and red roses: those were beautifulcolours to think of. And the cards for first place and second place andthird place were beautiful colourstoo: pink and cream and lavender.Lavender and cream and pink roses were beautiful to think of. Perhaps awild rose might be like those colours and heremembered the song aboutthe wild rose blossoms on the little green place. But you could nothave a green rose. But perhaps somewhere in the world youcould.The bell rang and then the classes began to file out of the rooms andalong the corridors towards the refectory. He sat looking at the twoprints of butter onhis plate but could not eat the damp bread. Thetablecloth was damp and limp. But he drank off the hot weak tea whichthe clumsy scullion, girt with a whiteapron, poured into his cup. Hewondered whether the scullion's apron was damp too or whether all whitethings were cold and damp. Nasty Roche and Saurindrank cocoa thattheir people sent them in tins. They said they could not drink the tea;that it was hogwash. Their fathers were magistrates, the fellows said.All theboys seemed to him very strange. They had all fathers andmothers and different clothes and voices. He longed to be at home andlay his head on his mother's lap.But he could not: and so he longedfor the play and study and prayers to be over and to be in bed.He drank another cup of hot tea and Fleming said:--What's up?"}
{"doc_id":"doc_62","qid":"","text":"Manhunter Script at IMSDb.
\"RED DRAGON\" Screenplay By MichaelMann SECOND DRAFT July 20, 1984EXT. MARATHON, FLORIDA, BEACH - GRAHAM + CRAWFORD -DAYThe highlit aqua water burns out sections of the two menimposed in front of it. The beach is white sand. JACKCRAWFORD -- mid-forties, large -- camedown from Washington.His suitcoat over the driftwood log and his rolled-up whitesleeves says City, not Florida Keys. WILL GRAHAM -- latethirties -- in a fadedHawaiian number and sun-bleached vio-let shorts, belongs. Graham smokes. Crawford drinks froma glass of iced tea.Then: CRAWFORD I should have caught you at the boat yard when you got off work. You don't want to talk aboutit here... GRAHAM I don't want to talk about it anywhere. (beat) If you brought pictures, leavethem in the briefcase. Molly and Kevin will be back soon. CRAWFORD How much do youknow? GRAHAM What was in the 'Miami Herald' and the"}
{"doc_id":"doc_63","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tarzan of the Apes, by Edgar Rice BurroughsThis 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.netTitle: Tarzan of the ApesAuthor: Edgar Rice BurroughsRelease Date: June 23, 2008 [EBook #78]Last updated: May 5, 2012Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARZAN OF THE APES ***Produced by Judith Boss. HTML version by Al Haines.Tarzan of theApesByEdgar Rice Burroughs CONTENTS I Out to Sea II The Savage Home III Life and Death IV The Apes V The White Ape VI JungleBattles VII The Light of Knowledge VIII The Tree-top Hunter IX Man and Man X The Fear-Phantom XI \"King of the Apes\" XII Man'sReason XIII His Own Kind XIV At the Mercy of the Jungle XV The Forest God XVI \"Most Remarkable\" XVII Burials XVIII The Jungle Toll XIX TheCall of the Primitive XX Heredity XXI The Village of Torture XXII The Search Party XXIII Brother Men XXIV Lost Treasure XXV The Outpost of theWorld XXVI The Height of Civilization XXVII The Giant Again XXVIII ConclusionChapter IOut to SeaI had this story from one who had no business to tell it tome, or toany other. I may credit the seductive influence of an old vintage uponthe narrator for the beginning of it, and my own skeptical incredulityduring thedays that followed for the balance of the strange tale.When my convivial host discovered that he had told me so much, and thatI was prone to doubtfulness, hisfoolish pride assumed the task the oldvintage had commenced, and so he unearthed written evidence in the formof musty manuscript, and dry official records ofthe British ColonialOffice to support many of the salient features of his remarkablenarrative.I do not say the story is true, for I did not witness thehappeningswhich it portrays, but the fact that in the telling of it to you I havetaken fictitious names for the principal characters quite sufficientlyevidences thesincerity of my own belief that it MAY be true.The yellow, mildewed pages of the diary of a man long dead, and therecords of the Colonial Office dovetail perfectlywith the narrative ofmy convivial host, and so I give you the story as I painstakinglypieced it out from these several various agencies.If you do not find it credibleyou will at least be as one with me inacknowledging that it is unique, remarkable, and interesting.From the records of the Colonial Office and from the dead man'sdiarywe learn that a certain young English nobleman, whom we shall call JohnClayton, Lord Greystoke, was commissioned to make a peculiarlydelicateinvestigation of conditions in a British West Coast African Colony fromwhose simple native inhabitants another European power was known to berecruitingsoldiers for its native army, which it used solely for theforcible collection of rubber and ivory from the savage tribes alongthe Congo and the Aruwimi. The nativesof the British Colonycomplained that many of their young men were enticed away through themedium of fair and glowing promises, but that few if any everreturnedto their families.The Englishmen in Africa went even further, saying that these poorblacks were held in virtual slavery, since after their terms ofenlistmentexpired their ignorance was imposed upon by their whiteofficers, and they were told that they had yet several years to serve.And so the Colonial Office appointedJohn Clayton to a new post inBritish West Africa, but his confidential instructions centered on athorough investigation of the unfair treatment of blackBritishsubjects by the officers of a friendly European power. Why he wassent, is, however, of little moment to this story, for he never made aninvestigation, nor,in fact, did he ever reach his destination.Clayton was the type of Englishman that one likes best to associatewith the noblest monuments of historic achievementupon a thousandvictorious battlefields--a strong, virile man--mentally, morally, andphysically.In stature he was above the average height; his eyes were gray,hisfeatures regular and strong; his carriage that of perfect, robusthealth influenced by his years of army training.Political ambition had caused him to seektransference from the army tothe Colonial Office and so we find him, still young, entrusted with adelicate and important commission in the service of theQueen.When he received this appointment he was both elated and appalled. Thepreferment seemed to him in the nature of a well-merited reward forpainstakingand intelligent service, and as a stepping stone to postsof greater importance and responsibility; but, on the other hand, hehad been married to the Hon. AliceRutherford for scarce a threemonths, and it was the thought of taking this fair young girl into thedangers and isolation of tropical Africa that appalled him.For hersake he would have refused the appointment, but she would nothave it so. Instead she insisted that he accept, and, indeed, take herwith him.There weremothers and brothers and sisters, and aunts and cousins toexpress various opinions on the subject, but as to what they severallyadvised history is silent.We knowonly that on a bright May morning in 1888, John, LordGreystoke, and Lady Alice sailed from Dover on their way to Africa.A month later they arrived at Freetownwhere they chartered a smallsailing vessel, the Fuwalda, which was to bear them to their finaldestination.And here John, Lord Greystoke, and Lady Alice, his wife,vanished fromthe eyes and from the knowledge of men.Two months after they weighed anchor and cleared from the port ofFreetown a half dozen British warvessels were scouring the southAtlantic for trace of them or their little vessel, and it was almostimmediately that the wreckage was found upon the shores of St.Helenawhich convinced the world that the Fuwalda had gone down with all onboard, and hence the search was stopped ere it had scarce begun; thoughhopelingered in longing hearts for many years.The Fuwalda, a barkentine of about one hundred tons, was a vessel ofthe type often seen in coastwise trade in the farsouthern Atlantic,their crews composed of the offscourings of the sea--unhanged murderersand cutthroats of every race and every nation.The Fuwalda was noexception to the rule. Her officers were swarthybullies, hating and hated by their crew. The captain, while acompetent seaman, was a brute in his treatment ofhis men. He knew, orat least he used, but two arguments in his dealings with them--abelaying pin and a revolver--nor is it likely that the motleyaggregation hesigned would have understood aught else.So it was that from the second day out from Freetown John Clayton andhis young wife witnessed scenes upon the deckof the Fuwalda such asthey had believed were never enacted outside the covers of printedstories of the sea.It was on the morning of the second day that the firstlink was forgedin what was destined to form a chain of circumstances ending in a lifefor one then unborn such as has never been paralleled in the historyofman.Two sailors were washing down the decks of the Fuwalda, the first matewas on duty, and the captain had stopped to speak with John Clayton andLadyAlice.The men were working backwards toward the little party who were facingaway from the sailors. Closer and closer they came, until one of themwas directlybehind the captain. In another moment he would havepassed by and this strange narrative would never have been recorded.But just that instant the officerturned to leave Lord and LadyGreystoke, and, as he did so, tripped against the sailor and sprawledheadlong upon the deck, overturning the water-pail so that hewasdrenched in its dirty contents.For an instant the scene was ludicrous; but only for an instant. Witha volley of awful oaths, his face suffused with the scarletofmortification and rage, the captain regained his feet, and with aterrific blow felled the sailor to the deck.The man was small and rather old, so that the brutalityof the act wasthus accentuated. The other seaman, however, was neither old norsmall--a huge bear of a man, with fierce black mustachios, and a greatbull neckset between massive shoulders.As he saw his mate go down he crouched, and, with a low snarl, sprangupon the captain crushing him to his knees with a singlemighty blow.From scarlet the officer's face went white, for this was mutiny; andmutiny he had met and subdued before in his brutal career. Withoutwaiting torise he whipped a revolver from his pocket, firing pointblank at the great mountain of muscle towering before him; but, quickas he was, John Clayton was almostas quick, so that the bullet whichwas intended for the sailor's heart lodged in the sailor's leg instead,for Lord Greystoke had struck down the captain's arm as hehad seen theweapon flash in the sun.Words passed between Clayton and the captain, the former making itplain that he was disgusted with the brutality displayedtoward thecrew, nor would he countenance anything further of the kind while heand Lady Greystoke remained passengers.The captain was on the point of makingan angry reply, but, thinkingbetter of it, turned on his heel and black and scowling, strode aft.He did not care to antagonize an English official, for theQueen'smighty arm wielded a punitive instrument which he could appreciate, andwhich he feared--England's far-reaching navy.The two sailors picked themselvesup, the older man assisting hiswounded comrade to rise. The big fellow, who was known among his matesas Black Michael, tried his leg gingerly, and, findingthat it bore hisweight, turned to Clayton with a word of gruff thanks.Though the fellow's tone was surly, his words were evidently wellmeant. Ere he had scarcefinished his little speech he had turned andwas limping off toward the forecastle with the very apparent intentionof forestalling any further conversation.They didnot see him again for several days, nor did the captain accordthem more than the surliest of grunts when he was forced to speak tothem.They took their meals inhis cabin, as they had before the unfortunateoccurrence; but the captain was careful to see that his duties neverpermitted him to eat at the same time.The otherofficers were coarse, illiterate fellows, but little abovethe villainous crew they bullied, and were only too glad to avoidsocial intercourse with the polished Englishnoble and his lady, sothat the Claytons were left very much to themselves.This in itself accorded perfectly with their desires, but it alsorather isolated them fromthe life of the little ship so that they wereunable to keep in touch with the daily happenings which were toculminate so soon in bloody tragedy.There was in thewhole atmosphere of the craft that undefinablesomething which presages disaster. Outwardly, to the knowledge of theClaytons, all went on as before upon thelittle vessel; but that therewas an undertow leading them toward some unknown danger both felt,though they did not speak of it to each other.On the second dayafter the wounding of Black Michael, Clayton came ondeck just in time to see the limp body of one of the crew being carriedbelow by four of his fellows while thefirst mate, a heavy belaying pinin his hand, stood glowering at the little party of sullen sailors.Clayton asked no questions--he did not need to--and the following"}
{"doc_id":"doc_64","qid":"","text":"Project Gutenberg's The Tale of Mr. Jeremy Fisher, by Beatrix PotterThis 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 Tale of Mr. Jeremy FisherAuthor: Beatrix PotterRelease Date: February 16, 2005 [EBook #15077]Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF MR. JEREMY FISHER ***Produced by David Newman, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG OnlineDistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net[Transcriber's Note: This book is heavily illustrated; references to theillustrations have been removed from this textversion. Please look forthe fully illustrated html version at http://www.gutenberg.net.]THE TALE OFMR. JEREMY FISHERBYBEATRIX POTTER_Author of__\"The Taleof Peter Rabbit,\" &c._FREDERICK WARNE & CO., INC.NEW YORKCOPYRIGHT, 1906BYFREDERICK WARNE & COFORSTEPHANIEFROMCOUSIN B.Once upon a timethere was a frog called Mr. Jeremy Fisher; he lived in alittle damp house amongst the buttercups at the edge of a pond.The water was all slippy-sloppy in thelarder and in the back passage.But Mr. Jeremy liked getting his feet wet; nobody ever scolded him, and henever caught a cold!He was quite pleased when helooked out and saw large drops of rain,splashing in the pond--\"I will get some worms and go fishing and catch a dish of minnows for mydinner,\" said Mr. JeremyFisher. \"If I catch more than five fish, I willinvite my friends Mr. Alderman Ptolemy Tortoise and Sir Isaac Newton. TheAlderman, however, eats salad.\"Mr. Jeremyput on a macintosh, and a pair of shiny goloshes; he took hisrod and basket, and set off with enormous hops to the place where he kepthis boat.The boat wasround and green, and very like the other lily-leaves. It wastied to a water-plant in the middle of the pond.Mr. Jeremy took a reed pole, and pushed the boat outinto open water. \"Iknow a good place for minnows,\" said Mr. Jeremy Fisher.Mr. Jeremy stuck his pole into the mud and fastened the boat to it.Then he settledhimself cross-legged and arranged his fishing tackle. Hehad the dearest little red float. His rod was a tough stalk of grass, hisline was a fine long white horse-hair,and he tied a little wriggling wormat the end.The rain trickled down his back, and for nearly an hour he stared at thefloat.\"This is getting tiresome, I think I shouldlike some lunch,\" said Mr.Jeremy Fisher.He punted back again amongst the water-plants, and took some lunch out ofhis basket.\"I will eat a butterfly sandwich,and wait till the shower is over,\" saidMr. Jeremy Fisher.A great big water-beetle came up underneath the lily leaf and tweaked thetoe of one of his goloshes.Mr.Jeremy crossed his legs up shorter, out of reach, and went on eatinghis sandwich.Once or twice something moved about with a rustle and a splash amongsttherushes at the side of the pond.\"I trust that is not a rat,\" said Mr. Jeremy Fisher; \"I think I had betterget away from here.\"Mr. Jeremy shoved the boat out again alittle way, and dropped in thebait. There was a bite almost directly; the float gave a tremendousbobbit!\"A minnow! a minnow! I have him by the nose!\" cried Mr.Jeremy Fisher,jerking up his rod.But what a horrible surprise! Instead of a smooth fat minnow, Mr. Jeremylanded little Jack Sharp the stickleback, covered withspines!The stickleback floundered about the boat, pricking and snapping until hewas quite out of breath. Then he jumped back into the water.And a shoal of otherlittle fishes put their heads out, and laughed atMr. Jeremy Fisher.And while Mr. Jeremy sat disconsolately on the edge of his boat--suckinghis sore fingers andpeering down into the water--a _much_ worse thinghappened; a really _frightful_ thing it would have been, if Mr. Jeremy hadnot been wearing a macintosh!Agreat big enormous trout came up--ker-pflop-p-p-p! with a splash--andit seized Mr. Jeremy with a snap, \"Ow! Ow! Ow!\"--and then it turned anddived down to thebottom of the pond!But the trout was so displeased with the taste of the macintosh, that inless than half a minute it spat him out again; and the only thingitswallowed was Mr. Jeremy's goloshes.Mr. Jeremy bounced up to the surface of the water, like a cork and thebubbles out of a soda water bottle; and he swamwith all his might to theedge of the pond.He scrambled out on the first bank he came to, and he hopped home acrossthe meadow with his macintosh all intatters.\"What a mercy that was not a pike!\" said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. \"I have lostmy rod and basket; but it does not much matter, for I am sure I shouldnever havedared to go fishing again!\"He put some sticking plaster on his fingers, and his friends both came todinner. He could not offer them fish, but he had something elsein hislarder.Sir Isaac Newton wore his black and gold waistcoat,And Mr. Alderman Ptolemy Tortoise brought a salad with him in a stringbag.And instead of a nicedish of minnows--they had a roasted grasshopperwith lady-bird sauce; which frogs consider a beautiful treat; but _I_think it must have been nasty!THE ENDEndof Project Gutenberg's The Tale of Mr. Jeremy Fisher, by Beatrix Potter*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF MR. JEREMY FISHER******** This file should be named 15077.txt or 15077.zip *****This and all associated files of various formats will be foundin: http://www.gutenberg.net/1/5/0/7/15077/Produced by David Newman, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.netUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed.Creating the works from public domain print editions meansthat noone owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States withoutpermission andwithout paying copyright royalties. Special rules,set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply tocopying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tmelectronic works toprotect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. ProjectGutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if youchargefor the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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{"doc_id":"doc_65","qid":"","text":"JFK Script at IMSDb.
JFK By Oliver Stone & ZacharySklar Based on books by Jim Marrs & JimGarrison FADE IN Credits run in counterpoint through a 7 to 10 minutesequence of documentary images setting the tone of John F. Kennedy's Presidency and the atmosphere of those tense times,1960 through 1963. An omniscient narrator's voice marches us through in old time Pathe' newsreelfashion. VOICE January, 1961 - President Dwight D. Eisenhower's Farewell Address tothe Nation - EISENHOWER ADDRESS EISENHOWER The conjunction ofan immense military establishment and a large arms industry is new in the American experience. The totalinfluence - economic, political, even spiritual - is felt in every city, every statehouse, every office ofthe Federal Government... In the councils of government we must guard against the acquisition ofunwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military industrial complex. The potential for the"}
{"doc_id":"doc_66","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Duke's Children, by Anthony TrollopeThis 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: The Duke's ChildrenAuthor: Anthony TrollopeRelease Date: January, 2003 [eBook #3622]Most recently updated: August 20,2007Language: English***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DUKE'S CHILDREN***E-text prepared by Kenneth David Cooper and revised byJoseph E.Loewenstein, M.D.THE DUKE'S CHILDRENbyANTHONY TROLLOPEFirst published in serial form in _All the Year Round_in 1879 and 1880 and in book formin 1880CONTENTS I. When the Duchess Was Dead II. Lady Mary Palliser III. Francis Oliphant Tregear IV. Park Lane V. \"It IsImpossible\" VI. Major Tifto VII. Conservative Convictions VIII. \"He Is a Gentleman\" IX. \"In Medias Res\" X. \"Why Not Like Romeo If I FeelLike Romeo?\" XI. \"Cruel\" XII. At Richmond XIII. The Duke's Injustice XIV. The New Member for Silverbridge XV. The Duke Receives aLetter,--and Writes One XVI. \"Poor Boy\" XVII. The Derby XVIII. One of the Results of the Derby XIX. \"No; My Lord, I Do Not\" XX. \"Then HeWill Come Again\" XXI. Sir Timothy Beeswax XXII. The Duke in His Study XXIII. Frank Tregear Wants a Friend XXIV. \"She Must Be Made toObey\" XXV. A Family Breakfast-Table XXVI. Dinner at the Beargarden XXVII. Major Tifto and the Duke XXVIII. Mrs. Montacute Jones'sGarden-Party XXIX. The Lovers Meet XXX. What Came of the Meeting XXXI. Miss Boncassen's River-Party. No. 1 XXXII. Miss Boncassen'sRiver-Party. No. 2 XXXIII. The Langham Hotel XXXIV. Lord Popplecourt XXXV. \"Don't You Think--?\" XXXVI. Tally-Ho Lodge XXXVII. Grex XXXVIII.Crummie-Toddie XXXIX. Killancodlem XL. \"And Then!\" XLI. Ischl XLII. Again at Killancodlem XLIII. What Happened at Doncaster XLIV. HowIt Was Done XLV. \"There Shall Not Be Another Word About It\" XLVI. Lady Mary's Dream XLVII. Miss Boncassen's Idea of Heaven XLVIII. The Party atCustins Is Broken Up XLIX. The Major's Fate L. The Duke's Arguments LI. The Duke's Guests LII. Miss Boncassen Tells the Truth LIII. \"ThenI Am As Proud As a Queen\" LIV. \"I Don't Think She Is a Snake\" LV. Polpenno LVI. The News Is Sent to Matching LVII. The Meeting at \"TheBobtailed Fox\" LVIII. The Major Is Deposed LIX. No One Can Tell What May Come to Pass LX. Lord Gerald in Further Trouble LXI. \"Bone of MyBone\" LXII. The Brake Country LXIII. \"I've Seen 'Em Like That Before\" LXIV. \"I Believe Him to Be a Worthy Young Man\" LXV. \"Do You Ever ThinkWhat Money Is?\" LXVI. The Three Attacks LXVII. \"He Is Such a Beast\" LXVIII. Brook Street LXIX. \"Pert Poppet!\" LXX. \"Love May Be a GreatMisfortune\" LXXI. \"What Am I to Say, Sir?\" LXXII. Carlton Terrace LXXIII. \"I Have Never Loved You\" LXXIV. \"Let Us Drink a Glass of WineTogether\" LXXV. The Major's Story LXXVI. On Deportment LXXVII. \"Mabel, Good-Bye\" LXXVIII. The Duke Returns to Office LXXIX. The FirstWedding LXXX. The Second WeddingCHAPTER IWhen the Duchess Was DeadNo one, probably, ever felt himself to be more alone in the worldthan our oldfriend, the Duke of Omnium, when the Duchess died. Whenthis sad event happened he had ceased to be Prime Minister. Duringthe first nine months after he hadleft office he and the Duchessremained in England. Then they had gone abroad, taking with themtheir three children. The eldest, Lord Silverbridge, had beenatOxford, but had had his career there cut short by some more thanordinary youthful folly, which had induced his father to agree withthe college authorities thathis name had better be taken off thecollege books,--all which had been cause of very great sorrow tothe Duke. The other boy was to go to Cambridge; but hisfather hadthought it well to give him a twelvemonth's run on the Continent,under his own inspection. Lady Mary, the only daughter, was theyoungest of thefamily, and she also had been with them on theContinent. They remained the full year abroad, travelling with alarge accompaniment of tutors, lady's-maids,couriers, and sometimesfriends. I do not know that the Duchess or the Duke had enjoyed itmuch; but the young people had seen something of foreign courtsandmuch of foreign scenery, and had perhaps perfected their French. TheDuke had gone to work at his travels with a full determination tocreate for himselfoccupation out of a new kind of life. He hadstudied Dante, and had striven to arouse himself to ecstatic joyamidst the loveliness of the Italian lakes. But through itall hehad been aware that he had failed. The Duchess had made no suchresolution,--had hardly, perhaps, made any attempt; but, in truth,they had both sighedto be back among the war-trumpets. They had bothsuffered much among the trumpets, and yet they longed to return. Hetold himself from day to day, thatthough he had been banished fromthe House of Commons, still, as a peer, he had a seat in Parliament,and that, though he was no longer a minister, still hemight beuseful as a legislator. She, in her career as a leader of fashion,had no doubt met with some trouble,--with some trouble but with nodisgrace; and as shehad been carried about among the lakes andmountains, among the pictures and statues, among the counts andcountesses, she had often felt that there was nohappiness except inthat dominion which circumstances had enabled her to achieve once,and might enable her to achieve again--in the realms ofLondonsociety.Then, in the early spring of 187--, they came back to England, havingpersistently carried out their project, at any rate in regard totime. LordGerald, the younger son, was at once sent up to Trinity.For the eldest son a seat was to be found in the House of Commons,and the fact that a dissolution ofParliament was expected served toprevent any prolonged sojourn abroad. Lady Mary Palliser was at thattime nineteen, and her entrance into the world was to beher mother'sgreat care and great delight. In March they spent a few days inLondon, and then went down to Matching Priory. When she left town theDuchess wascomplaining of cold, sore throat, and debility. A weekafter their arrival at Matching she was dead.Had the heavens fallen and mixed themselves with the earth,had thepeople of London risen in rebellion with French ideas of equality,had the Queen persistently declined to comply with the constitutionaladvice of herministers, had a majority in the House of Commons lostits influence in the country,--the utter prostration of the berefthusband could not have been morecomplete. It was not only that hisheart was torn to pieces, but that he did not know how to look outinto the world. It was as though a man should be suddenlycalled uponto live without hands or even arms. He was helpless, and knew himselfto be helpless. Hitherto he had never specially acknowledged tohimself that hiswife was necessary to him as a component part of hislife. Though he had loved her dearly, and had in all things consultedher welfare and happiness, he had attimes been inclined to thinkthat in the exuberance of her spirits she had been a troublerather than a support to him. But now it was as though alloutsideappliances were taken away from him. There was no one of whom hecould ask a question.For it may be said of this man that, though throughout his lifehehad had many Honourable and Right Honourable friends, and that thoughhe had entertained guests by the score, and though he had achievedfor himself therespect of all good men and the thorough admirationof some few who knew him, he had hardly made for himself a singleintimate friend--except that one who hadnow passed away from him. Toher he had been able to say what he thought, even though she wouldoccasionally ridicule him while he was declaring his feelings.Butthere had been no other human soul to whom he could open himself.There were one or two whom he loved, and perhaps liked; but hisloving and his liking hadbeen exclusively political. He had sohabituated himself to devote his mind and his heart to the service ofhis country, that he had almost risen above or sunk belowhumanity.But she, who had been essentially human, had been a link between himand the world.There were his three children, the youngest of whom was nownearlynineteen, and they surely were links! At the first moment of hisbereavement they were felt to be hardly more than burdens. A moreloving father there wasnot in England, but nature had made him soundemonstrative that as yet they had hardly known his love. In alltheir joys and in all their troubles, in all theirdesires and alltheir disappointments, they had ever gone to their mother. She hadbeen conversant with everything about them, from the boys' billsand the girl'sgloves to the innermost turn in the heart and thedisposition of each. She had known with the utmost accuracy thenature of the scrapes into which LordSilverbridge had precipitatedhimself, and had known also how probable it was that Lord Geraldwould do the same. The results of such scrapes she, ofcourse,deplored; and therefore she would give good counsel, pointing out howimperative it was that such evil-doings should be avoided; but withthe spirit thatproduced the scrapes she fully sympathised. Thefather disliked the spirit almost worse than the results; and wastherefore often irritated and unhappy.And thedifficulties about the girl were almost worse to bear thanthose about the boys. She had done nothing wrong. She had given nosigns of extravagance or otherjuvenile misconduct. But she wasbeautiful and young. How was he to bring her out into the world? Howwas he to decide whom she should or whom she shouldnot marry? Howwas he to guide her through the shoals and rocks which lay in thepath of such a girl before she can achieve matrimony?It was the fate of thefamily that, with a world of acquaintance,they had not many friends. From all close connection with relativeson the side of the Duchess they had been disseveredby old feelingsat first, and afterwards by want of any similitude in the habitsof life. She had, when young, been repressed by male and femaleguardians with aniron hand. Such repression had been needed, and hadbeen perhaps salutary, but it had not left behind it much affection.And then her nearest relatives were notsympathetic with the Duke. Hecould obtain no assistance in the care of his girl from that source.Nor could he even do it from his own cousins' wives, who werehisnearest connections on the side of the Pallisers. They were womento whom he had ever been kind, but to whom he had never opened hisheart. When, in themidst of the stunning sorrow of the first week,he tried to think of all this, it seemed to him that there wasnobody.There had been one lady, a very dear ally,staying in the house withthem when the Duchess died. This was Mrs. Finn, the wife of PhineasFinn, who had been one of the Duke's colleagues when in office.How"}
{"doc_id":"doc_67","qid":"","text":"Nurse Betty Script at IMSDb.
\"NURSE BETTY\" -- by John C. Richards & JamesFlamberg
NURSE BETTYScreenplay by John C. Richards & JamesFlambergStory by John C. Richards
Shooting Script(FINAL) 3/9/99 FADE IN: 1 INT. OPERATINGROOM - DAY 1 A tense surgery in progress. Meters flicker, instruments flash in the bright overhead light. In the midstof it all stands DR. DAVID RAVELL, 35. The master of his domain. Ravell leans forward so a NURSE can mop the sweat from his brow as hecompletes a last, delicate procedure. His co workers sigh collectively with relief. DAVID (to Asst.Surgeon) Close her up, will you? 2 INT. HOSPITAL CORRIDOR - DAY 2 Dr. Ravell comes out of surgery,clearly exhausted. Without his surgical mask he is ruggedly handsome. TWO NURSES follow, attending him like a fighter fresh from thering: CHLOE, 25, Raven-haired and striking, and JASMINE, 24, an exotic mix of African-American and Asian. BLAKE DANIELS, 58, the"}
{"doc_id":"doc_68","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of Uncle Silas, by J. S. LeFanuThis 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: Uncle Silas A Tale of Bartram-HaughAuthor: J. S. LeFanuRelease Date: January 31, 2005 [EBook #14851]Language: English***START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNCLE SILAS ***Produced by Suzanne Shell, Bob McKillip and the Online DistributedProofreadingTeam.[Transcriber's note: The spelling inconsistencies of the original havebeen retained in this etext.]UNCLE SILASA Tale of Bartram-HaughBy J. S.LeFanu1899TOTHE RIGHT HON.THE COUNTESS OF GIFFORD,AS A TOKEN OFRESPECT, SYMPATHY, AND ADMIRATION_This Tale_IS INSCRIBED BYTHEAUTHOR_A PRELIMINARY WORD_The writer of this Tale ventures, in his own person, to address a very fewwords, chiefly of explanation, to his readers. A leadingsituation in this'Story of Bartram-Haugh' is repeated, with a slight variation, from a shortmagazine tale of some fifteen pages written by him, and published longagoin a periodical under the title of 'A Passage in the Secret History of anIrish Countess,' and afterwards, still anonymously, in a small volume underan alteredtitle. It is very unlikely that any of his readers should haveencountered, and still more so that they should remember, this trifle. Thebare possibility, however, hehas ventured to anticipate by this briefexplanation, lest he should be charged with plagiarism--always a disrespectto a reader.May he be permitted a few wordsalso of remonstrance against thepromiscuous application of the term 'sensation' to that large school offiction which transgresses no one of those canons ofconstruction andmorality which, in producing the unapproachable 'Waverley Novels,' theirgreat author imposed upon himself? No one, it is assumed, woulddescribeSir Walter Scott's romances as 'sensation novels;' yet in that marvellousseries there is not a single tale in which death, crime, and, in someform,mystery, have not a place.Passing by those grand romances of 'Ivanhoe,' 'Old Mortality,' and'Kenilworth,' with their terrible intricacies of crime andbloodshed,constructed with so fine a mastery of the art of exciting suspense andhorror, let the reader pick out those two exceptional novels in the serieswhichprofess to paint contemporary manners and the scenes of common life;and remembering in the 'Antiquary' the vision in the tapestried chamber,the duel, thehorrible secret, and the death of old Elspeth, the drownedfisherman, and above all the tremendous situation of the tide-bound partyunder the cliffs; and in 'St.Ronan's Well,' the long-drawn mystery, thesuspicion of insanity, and the catastrophe of suicide;--determine whetheran epithet which it would be a profanation toapply to the structure ofany, even the most exciting of Sir Walter Scott's stories, is fairlyapplicable to tales which, though illimitably inferior in execution,yetobserve the same limitations of incident, and the same moral aims.The author trusts that the Press, to whose masterly criticism and generousencouragementhe and other humble labourers in the art owe so much, willinsist upon the limitation of that degrading term to the peculiar type offiction which it was originallyintended to indicate, and prevent, as theymay, its being made to include the legitimate school of tragic Englishromance, which has been ennobled, and in greatmeasure founded, by thegenius of Sir Walter Scott.CONTENTSCHAPTERI. AUSTIN RUTHYN, OF KNOWL, AND HIS DAUGHTERII. UNCLE SILASIII. A NEW FACEIV.MADAME DE LA ROUGIERREV. SIGHTS AND NOISESVI. A WALK IN THE WOODVII. CHURCH SCARSDALEVIII. THE SMOKERIX. MONICA KNOLLYSX. LADY KNOLLYSREMOVES A COVERLETXI. LADY KNOLLYS SEES THE FEATURESXII. A CURIOUS CONVERSATIONXIII. BEFORE AND AFTER BREAKFASTXIV. ANGRY WORDSXV. AWARNINGXVI. DOCTOR BRYERLY LOOKS INXVII. AN ADVENTUREXVIII. A MIDNIGHT VISITORXIX. AU REVOIRXX. AUSTIN RUTHYN SETS OUT ON HISJOURNEYXXI. ARRIVALSXXII. SOMEBODY IN THE ROOM WITH THE COFFINXXIII. I TALK WITH DOCTOR BRYERLYXXIV. THE OPENING OF THE WILLXXV. I HEARFROM UNCLE SILASXXVI. THE STORY OF UNCLE SILASXXVII. MORE ABOUT TOM CHARKE'S SUICIDEXXVIII. I AM PERSUADEDXXIX. HOW THE AMBASSADORFAREDXXX. ON THE ROADXXXI. BARTRAM-HAUGHXXXII. UNCLE SILASXXXIII. THE WINDMILL WOODXXXIV. ZAMIELXXXV. WE VISIT A ROOM IN THE SECONDSTOREYXXXVI. AN ARRIVAL AT DEAD OF NIGHTXXXVII. DOCTOR BRYERLY EMERGESXXXVIII. A MIDNIGHT DEPARTUREXXXIX. COUSIN MONICA AND UNCLESILAS MEETXL. IN WHICH I MAKE ANOTHER COUSIN'S ACQUAINTANCEXLI. MY COUSIN DUDLEYXLII. ELVERSTON AND ITS PEOPLEXLIII. NEWS AT BARTRAMGATEXLIV. A FRIEND ARISESXLV. A CHAPTER-FULL OF LOVERSXLVI. THE RIVALSXLVII. DOCTOR BRYERLY REAPPEARSXLVIII. QUESTION AND ANSWERXLIX. ANAPPARITIONL. MILLY'S FAREWELLLI. SARAH MATILDA COMES TO LIGHTLII. THE PICTURE OF A WOLFLIII. AN ODD PROPOSALLIV. IN SEARCH OF MR. CHARKE'SSKELETONLV. THE FOOT OF HERCULESLVI. I CONSPIRELVII. THE LETTERLVIII. LADY KNOLLYS' CARRIAGELIX. A SUDDEN DEPARTURELX. THE JOURNEYLXI. OURBED-CHAMBERLXII. A WELL-KNOWN FACE LOOKS INLXIII. SPICED CLARETLXIV. THE HOUR OF DEATHLXV. IN THE OAK PARLOURCONCLUSIONUNCLE SILASATale of Bartram-HaughCHAPTER I_AUSTIN RUTHYN, OF KNOWL, AND HIS DAUGHTER_It was winter--that is, about the second week in November--and greatgustswere rattling at the windows, and wailing and thundering among our talltrees and ivied chimneys--a very dark night, and a very cheerful fireblazing, apleasant mixture of good round coal and spluttering dry wood, ina genuine old fireplace, in a sombre old room. Black wainscoting glimmeredup to the ceiling, insmall ebony panels; a cheerful clump of wax candleson the tea-table; many old portraits, some grim and pale, others pretty,and some very graceful andcharming, hanging from the walls. Few pictures,except portraits long and short, were there. On the whole, I think youwould have taken the room for our parlour.It was not like our modernnotion of a drawing-room. It was a long room too, and every way capacious,but irregularly shaped.A girl, of a little more thanseventeen, looking, I believe, younger still;slight and rather tall, with a great deal of golden hair, dark grey-eyed,and with a countenance rather sensitive andmelancholy, was sitting at thetea-table, in a reverie. I was that girl.The only other person in the room--the only person in the house related tome--was my father.He was Mr. Ruthyn, of Knowl, so called in his county,but he had many other places, was of a very ancient lineage, who hadrefused a baronetage often, and it wassaid even a viscounty, being of aproud and defiant spirit, and thinking themselves higher in station andpurer of blood than two-thirds of the nobility into whoseranks, it wassaid, they had been invited to enter. Of all this family lore I knew butlittle and vaguely; only what is to be gathered from the fireside talk ofoldretainers in the nursery.I am sure my father loved me, and I know I loved him. With the sureinstinct of childhood I apprehended his tenderness, although it wasneverexpressed in common ways. But my father was an oddity. He had been earlydisappointed in Parliament, where it was his ambition to succeed. Thoughaclever man, he failed there, where very inferior men did extremely well.Then he went abroad, and became a connoisseur and a collector; took a part,on hisreturn, in literary and scientific institutions, and also in thefoundation and direction of some charities. But he tired of this mimicgovernment, and gave himself upto a country life, not that of a sportsman,but rather of a student, staying sometimes at one of his places andsometimes at another, and living a secludedlife.Rather late in life he married, and his beautiful young wife died, leavingme, their only child, to his care. This bereavement, I have been told,changedhim--made him more odd and taciturn than ever, and his temper also,except to me, more severe. There was also some disgrace about his youngerbrother--myuncle Silas--which he felt bitterly.He was now walking up and down this spacious old room, which, extendinground an angle at the far end, was very dark in thatquarter. It was hiswont to walk up and down thus, without speaking--an exercise which used toremind me of Chateaubriand's father in the great chamber of theChâteaude Combourg. At the far end he nearly disappeared in the gloom, and thenreturning emerged for a few minutes, like a portrait with a backgroundofshadow, and then again in silence faded nearly out of view.This monotony and silence would have been terrifying to a person lessaccustomed to it than I. As itwas, it had its effect. I have known myfather a whole day without once speaking to me. Though I loved him verymuch, I was also much in awe of him.While myfather paced the floor, my thoughts were employed about the eventsof a month before. So few things happened at Knowl out of the accustomedroutine, that avery trifling occurrence was enough to set people wonderingand conjecturing in that serene household. My father lived in remarkableseclusion; except for a ride,he hardly ever left the grounds of Knowl; andI don't think it happened twice in the year that a visitor sojourned amongus.There was not even that mild religiousbustle which sometimes besets thewealthy and moral recluse. My father had left the Church of England forsome odd sect, I forget its name, and ultimatelybecame, I was told, aSwedenborgian. But he did not care to trouble me upon the subject. So theold carriage brought my governess, when I had one, the oldhousekeeper,Mrs. Rusk, and myself to the parish church every Sunday. And my father, inthe view of the honest rector who shook his head over him--'a cloudwithoutwater, carried about of winds, and a wandering star to whom is reserved theblackness of darkness'--corresponded with the 'minister' of his church,andwas provokingly contented with his own fertility and illumination; andMrs. Rusk, who was a sound and bitter churchwoman, said he fancied he sawvisions andtalked with angels like the rest of that 'rubbitch.'I don't know that she had any better foundation than analogy and conjecturefor charging my father withsupernatural pretensions; and in all pointswhen her orthodoxy was not concerned, she loved her master and was a loyalhousekeeper.I found her one morningsuperintending preparations for the reception ofa visitor, in the hunting-room it was called, from the pieces of tapestrythat covered its walls, representing scenes_à la Wouvermans_, of falconry,and the chase, dogs, hawks, ladies, gallants, and pages. In the midst ofwhom Mrs. Rusk, in black silk, was rummaging drawers,counting linen, andissuing orders.'Who is coming, Mrs. Rusk?'Well, she only knew his name. It was a Mr. Bryerly. My papa expected him todinner, and to stay forsome days.'I guess he's one of those creatures, dear, for I mentioned his name justto Dr. Clay (the rector), and he says there _is_ a Doctor Bryerly, a"}
{"doc_id":"doc_69","qid":"","text":"The Project Gutenberg EBook of Queen of the Black Coast, by Robert E. HowardThis 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: Queen of the Black CoastAuthor: Robert E. HowardRelease Date: February 24, 2013 [EBook #42183]Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUEEN OF THE BLACK COAST ***Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net QUEEN OF THE BLACK COAST By Robert E. Howard [Transcriber's Note: This etext was first published inWeird Tales May 1934. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]1 Conan Joins thePirates _Believe green buds awaken in the spring, That autumn paints the leaves with somber fire; Believe I held my heart inviolate To lavish on oneman my hot desire._ THE SONG OF BÃ\u0000LITHoofs drummed down the street that sloped to the wharfs. The folk thatyelled and scattered had only a fleetingglimpse of a mailed figure on ablack stallion, a wide scarlet cloak flowing out on the wind. Far up thestreet came the shout and clatter of pursuit, but thehorseman did notlook back. He swept out onto the wharfs and jerked the plunging stallionback on its haunches at the very lip of the pier. Seamen gaped upathim, as they stood to the sweep and striped sail of a high-prowed,broad-waisted galley. The master, sturdy and black-bearded, stood in thebows, easing heraway from the piles with a boat-hook. He yelled angrilyas the horseman sprang from the saddle and with a long leap landedsquarely on the mid-deck.'Who invitedyou aboard?''Get under way!' roared the intruder with a fierce gesture thatspattered red drops from his broadsword.'But we're bound for the coasts of Kush!'expostulated the master.'Then I'm for Kush! Push off, I tell you!' The other cast a quick glanceup the street, along which a squad of horsemen were galloping;farbehind them toiled a group of archers, crossbows on their shoulders.'Can you pay for your passage?' demanded the master.'I pay my way with steel!' roaredthe man in armor, brandishing thegreat sword that glittered bluely in the sun. 'By Crom, man, if youdon't get under way, I'll drench this galley in the blood of itscrew!'The shipmaster was a good judge of men. One glance at the dark scarredface of the swordsman, hardened with passion, and he shouted a quickorder,thrusting strongly against the piles. The galley wallowed outinto clear water, the oars began to clack rhythmically; then a puff ofwind filled the shimmering sail,the light ship heeled to the gust, thentook her course like a swan, gathering headway as she skimmed along.On the wharfs the riders were shaking their swordsand shouting threatsand commands that the ship put about, and yelling for the bowmen tohasten before the craft was out of arbalest range.'Let them rave,'grinned the swordsman hardily. 'Do you keep her on hercourse, master steersman.'The master descended from the small deck between the bows, made hiswaybetween the rows of oarsmen, and mounted the mid-deck. The strangerstood there with his back to the mast, eyes narrowed alertly, swordready. Theshipman eyed him steadily, careful not to make any movetoward the long knife in his belt. He saw a tall powerfully built figurein a black scale-mail hauberk,burnished greaves and a blue-steel helmetfrom which jutted bull's horns highly polished. From the mailedshoulders fell the scarlet cloak, blowing in the sea-wind.A broadshagreen belt with a golden buckle held the scabbard of the broadswordhe bore. Under the horned helmet a square-cut black mane contrastedwithsmoldering blue eyes.'If we must travel together,' said the master, 'we may as well be atpeace with each other. My name is Tito, licensed master-shipman oftheports of Argos. I am bound for Kush, to trade beads and silks and sugarand brass-hilted swords to the black kings for ivory, copra, copper ore,slaves andpearls.'The swordsman glanced back at the rapidly receding docks, where thefigures still gesticulated helplessly, evidently having trouble infinding a boat swiftenough to overhaul the fast-sailing galley.'I am Conan, a Cimmerian,' he answered. 'I came into Argos seekingemployment, but with no wars forward, there wasnothing to which I mightturn my hand.''Why do the guardsmen pursue you?' asked Tito. 'Not that it's any of mybusiness, but I thought perhaps----''I've nothingto conceal,' replied the Cimmerian. 'By Crom, though I'vespent considerable time among you civilized peoples, your ways are stillbeyond mycomprehension.'Well, last night in a tavern, a captain in the king's guard offeredviolence to the sweetheart of a young soldier, who naturally ran himthrough. Butit seems there is some cursed law against killingguardsmen, and the boy and his girl fled away. It was bruited about thatI was seen with them, and so today Iwas haled into court, and a judgeasked me where the lad had gone. I replied that since he was a friend ofmine, I could not betray him. Then the court waxedwrath, and the judgetalked a great deal about my duty to the state, and society, and otherthings I did not understand, and bade me tell where my friend hadflown.By this time I was becoming wrathful myself, for I had explained myposition.'But I choked my ire and held my peace, and the judge squalled that Ihadshown contempt for the court, and that I should be hurled into adungeon to rot until I betrayed my friend. So then, seeing they were allmad, I drew my swordand cleft the judge's skull; then I cut my way outof the court, and seeing the high constable's stallion tied near by, Irode for the wharfs, where I thought to find aship bound for foreignparts.''Well,' said Tito hardily, 'the courts have fleeced me too often insuits with rich merchants for me to owe them any love. I'llhavequestions to answer if I ever anchor in that port again, but I can proveI acted under compulsion. You may as well put up your sword. We'repeaceable sailors,and have nothing against you. Besides, it's as wellto have a fighting-man like yourself on board. Come up to the poop-deckand we'll have a tankard of ale.''Goodenough,' readily responded the Cimmerian, sheathing his sword.The _Argus_ was a small sturdy ship, typical of those trading-craftwhich ply between the ports ofZingara and Argos and the southerncoasts, hugging the shoreline and seldom venturing far into the openocean. It was high of stern, with a tall curving prow;broad in thewaist, sloping beautifully to stem and stern. It was guided by the longsweep from the poop, and propulsion was furnished mainly by the broadstripedsilk sail, aided by a jibsail. The oars were for use in tackingout of creeks and bays, and during calms. There were ten to the side,five fore and five aft of the smallmid-deck. The most precious part ofthe cargo was lashed under this deck, and under the fore-deck. The menslept on deck or between the rowers' benches,protected in bad weatherby canopies. With twenty men at the oars, three at the sweep, and theshipmaster, the crew was complete.So the _Argus_ pushedsteadily southward, with consistently fairweather. The sun beat down from day to day with fiercer heat, and thecanopies were run up--striped silken cloths thatmatched the shimmeringsail and the shining goldwork on the prow and along the gunwales.They sighted the coast of Shem--long rolling meadowlands with thewhitecrowns of the towers of cities in the distance, and horsemen withblue-black beards and hooked noses, who sat their steeds along the shoreand eyed thegalley with suspicion. She did not put in; there was scantprofit in trade with the sons of Shem.Nor did master Tito pull into the broad bay where the Styx riveremptiedits gigantic flood into the ocean, and the massive black castles ofKhemi loomed over the blue waters. Ships did not put unasked into thisport, wheredusky sorcerers wove awful spells in the murk of sacrificialsmoke mounting eternally from blood-stained altars where naked womenscreamed, and where Set, theOld Serpent, arch-demon of the Hyboriansbut god of the Stygians, was said to writhe his shining coils among hisworshippers.Master Tito gave that dreamyglass-floored bay a wide berth, even when aserpent-prowed gondola shot from behind a castellated point of land, andnaked dusky women, with great redblossoms in their hair, stood andcalled to his sailors, and posed and postured brazenly.Now no more shining towers rose inland. They had passed thesouthernborders of Stygia and were cruising along the coasts of Kush. The seaand the ways of the sea were never-ending mysteries to Conan, whosehomelandwas among the high hills of the northern uplands. The wandererwas no less of interest to the sturdy seamen, few of whom had ever seenone of his race.Theywere characteristic Argosean sailors, short and stockily built.Conan towered above them, and no two of them could match his strength.They were hardy androbust, but his was the endurance and vitality of awolf, his thews steeled and his nerves whetted by the hardness of hislife in the world's wastelands. He wasquick to laugh, quick andterrible in his wrath. He was a valiant trencherman, and strong drinkwas a passion and a weakness with him. Naïve as a child in manyways,unfamiliar with the sophistry of civilization, he was naturallyintelligent, jealous of his rights, and dangerous as a hungry tiger.Young in years, he washardened in warfare and wandering, and hissojourns in many lands were evident in his apparel. His horned helmetwas such as was worn by the golden-hairedÃ\u0000sir of Nordheim; his hauberkand greaves were of the finest workmanship of Koth; the fine ring-mailwhich sheathed his arms and legs was of Nemedia; theblade at his girdlewas a great Aquilonian broadsword; and his gorgeous scarlet cloak couldhave been spun nowhere but in Ophir.So they beat southward, andmaster Tito began to look for thehigh-walled villages of the black people. But they found only smokingruins on the shore of a bay, littered with naked blackbodies. Titoswore.'I had good trade here, aforetime. This is the work of pirates.''And if we meet them?' Conan loosened his great blade in its scabbard.'Mine is nowarship. We run, not fight. Yet if it came to a pinch, wehave beaten off reavers before, and might do it again; unless it wereBêlit's _Tigress_.''Who is Bêlit?''Thewildest she-devil unhanged. Unless I read the signs a-wrong, it washer butchers who destroyed that village on the bay. May I some day seeher dangling from theyard-arm! She is called the queen of the blackcoast. She is a Shemite woman, who leads black raiders. They harry theshipping and have sent many a goodtradesman to the bottom.'From under the poop-deck Tito brought out quilted jerkins, steel caps,bows and arrows.'Little use to resist if we're run down,' hegrunted. 'But it rasps thesoul to give up life without a struggle.' * * * * *It was just at sunrise when the lookout shouted a warning. Aroundthelong point of an island off the starboard bow glided a long lethalshape, a slender serpentine galley, with a raised deck that ran fromstem to stern. Forty oars"}
{"doc_id":"doc_70","qid":"","text":"Project Gutenberg's He Walked Around the Horses, by Henry Beam PiperThis 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: He Walked Around the HorsesAuthor: Henry Beam PiperIllustrator: CartierRelease Date: July 11, 2006 [EBook #18807]Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HE WALKED AROUND THE HORSES ***Produced by Greg Weeks, William Woods and theOnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.netTranscriber's note:This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction April 1948.Extensiveresearch did not uncover any evidence that the copyrighton this publication was renewed.[Illustration]HE WALKEDAROUND THE HORSESBY H. BEAMPIPERIllustrated by Cartier_This tale is based on an authenticated,documented fact. A man vanished--rightout of this world. And where he went--__In November1809, an Englishman named Benjamin Bathurst vanished,inexplicably and utterly.__He was en route to Hamburg from Vienna, where he had been servingas hisgovernment's envoy to the court of what Napoleon had leftof the Austrian Empire. At an inn in Perleburg, in Prussia, whileexamining a change of horses for hiscoach, he casually steppedout of sight of his secretary and his valet. He was not seen toleave the inn yard. He was not seen again, ever.__At least, not in thiscontinuum...._(From Baron Eugen von Krutz, Minister of Police, to His Excellencythe Count von Berchtenwald, Chancellor to His Majesty FriedrichWilhelm III ofPrussia.)25 November, 1809Your Excellency:A circumstance has come to the notice of this Ministry, thesignificance of which I am at a loss to define, but, sinceitappears to involve matters of State, both here and abroad, I amconvinced that it is of sufficient importance to be brought toyour personal attention. Frankly, Iam unwilling to take anyfurther action in the matter without your advice.Briefly, the situation is this: We are holding, here at theMinistry of Police, a person givinghis name as Benjamin Bathurst,who claims to be a British diplomat. This person was taken intocustody by the police at Perleburg yesterday, as a result ofadisturbance at an inn there; he is being detained on technicalcharges of causing disorder in a public place, and of being asuspicious person. When arrested, hehad in his possession adispatch case, containing a number of papers; these are of such anextraordinary nature that the local authorities declined to assumeanyresponsibility beyond having the man sent here to Berlin.After interviewing this person and examining his papers, I am,I must confess, in much the sameposition. This is not, I amconvinced, any ordinary police matter; there is something verystrange and disturbing here. The man's statements, taken alone,are soincredible as to justify the assumption that he is mad. Icannot, however, adopt this theory, in view of his demeanor,which is that of a man of perfect rationality,and because of theexistence of these papers. The whole thing is mad; incomprehensible!The papers in question accompany, along with copies of thevariousstatements taken at Perleburg, a personal letter to mefrom my nephew, Lieutenant Rudolf von Tarlburg. This last isdeserving of your particular attention;Lieutenant von Tarlburgis a very level-headed young officer, not at all inclined to befanciful or imaginative. It would take a good deal to affect himas hedescribes.The man calling himself Benjamin Bathurst is now lodged in anapartment here at the Ministry; he is being treated with everyconsideration, and, exceptfor freedom of movement, accordedevery privilege.I am, most anxiously awaiting your advice, et cetera, et cetera,Krutz(Report of Traugott Zeller,_Oberwachtmeister_, _Staatspolizei_,made at Perleburg, 25 November, 1809.)At about ten minutes past two of the afternoon of Saturday, 25November, while Iwas at the police station, there entered a manknown to me as Franz Bauer, an inn servant employed by ChristianHauck, at the sign of the Sword & Scepter, herein Perleburg.This man Franz Bauer made complaint to _Staatspolizeikapitan_Ernst Hartenstein, saying that there was a madman making troubleat the inn wherehe, Franz Bauer, worked. I was, therefore,directed, by _Staatspolizeikapitan_ Hartenstein, to go to theSword & Scepter Inn, there to act at discretion to maintainthepeace.Arriving at the inn in company with the said Franz Bauer, I founda considerable crowd of people in the common room, and, in themidst of them, theinnkeeper, Christian Hauck, in altercation witha stranger. This stranger was a gentlemanly-appearing person,dressed in traveling clothes, who had under his arma smallleather dispatch case. As I entered, I could hear him, speaking inGerman with a strong English accent, abusing the innkeeper, thesaid Christian Hauck,and accusing him of having drugged his, thestranger's, wine, and of having stolen his, the stranger's,coach-and-four, and of having abducted his, thestranger's,secretary and servants. This the said Christian Hauck was loudlydenying, and the other people in the inn were taking theinnkeeper's part, and mockingthe stranger for a madman.On entering, I commanded everyone to be silent, in the king's name,and then, as he appeared to be the complaining party of thedispute,I required the foreign gentleman to state to me what was thetrouble. He then repeated his accusations against the innkeeper,Hauck, saying that Hauck,or, rather, another man who resembledHauck and who had claimed to be the innkeeper, had drugged his wineand stolen his coach and made off with hissecretary and hisservants. At this point, the innkeeper and the bystanders all beganshouting denials and contradictions, so that I had to pound on atable with mytruncheon to command silence.I then required the innkeeper, Christian Hauck, to answer thecharges which the stranger had made; this he did with acompletedenial of all of them, saying that the stranger had had no winein his inn, and that he had not been inside the inn until a fewminutes before, when he hadburst in shouting accusations, andthat there had been no secretary, and no valet, and no coachman,and no coach-and-four, at the inn, and that the gentlemanwasraving mad. To all this, he called the people who were in thecommon room to witness.I then required the stranger to account for himself. He saidthat hisname was Benjamin Bathurst, and that he was a Britishdiplomat, returning to England from Vienna. To prove this, heproduced from his dispatch case sundrypapers. One of these wasa letter of safe-conduct, issued by the Prussian Chancellery, inwhich he was named and described as Benjamin Bathurst. Theotherpapers were English, all bearing seals, and appearing to beofficial documents.Accordingly, I requested him to accompany me to the police station,and alsothe innkeeper, and three men whom the innkeeper wanted tobring as witnesses.Traugott Zeller_Oberwachtmeister_Report approved,ErnstHartenstein_Staatspolizeikapitan_(Statement of the self-so-called Benjamin Bathurst, taken at thepolice station at Perleburg, 25 November, 1809.)My name isBenjamin Bathurst, and I am Envoy Extraordinary andMinister Plenipotentiary of the government of His Britannic Majestyto the court of His Majesty Franz I,Emperor of Austria, or, atleast, I was until the events following the Austrian surrendermade necessary my return to London. I left Vienna on the morningofMonday, the 20th, to go to Hamburg to take ship home; I wastraveling in my own coach-and-four, with my secretary, Mr. BertramJardine, and my valet, WilliamSmall, both British subjects, anda coachman, Josef Bidek, an Austrian subject, whom I had hiredfor the trip. Because of the presence of French troops, whomIwas anxious to avoid, I was forced to make a detour west as faras Salzburg before turning north toward Magdeburg, where Icrossed the Elbe. I was unable toget a change of horses for mycoach after leaving Gera, until I reached Perleburg, where Istopped at the Sword & Scepter Inn.Arriving there, I left my coach in theinn yard, and I and mysecretary, Mr. Jardine, went into the inn. A man, not this fellowhere, but another rogue, with more beard and less paunch, andmoreshabbily dressed, but as like him as though he were hisbrother, represented himself as the innkeeper, and I dealt withhim for a change of horses, and ordered abottle of wine formyself and my secretary, and also a pot of beer apiece for myvalet and the coachman, to be taken outside to them. Then Jardineand I sat downto our wine, at a table in the common room, untilthe man who claimed to be the innkeeper came back and told usthat the fresh horses were harnessed to thecoach and ready togo. Then we went outside again.I looked at the two horses on the off side, and then walked aroundin front of the team to look at the twonigh-side horses, and as Idid I felt giddy, as though I were about to fall, and everythingwent black before my eyes. I thought I was having a faintingspell,something I am not at all subject to, and I put out my handto grasp the hitching bar, but could not find it. I am sure, now,that I was unconscious for some time,because when my headcleared, the coach and horses were gone, and in their place was abig farm wagon, jacked up in front, with the right front wheeloff, andtwo peasants were greasing the detached wheel.I looked at them for a moment, unable to credit my eyes, andthen I spoke to them in German, saying, \"Wherethe devil's mycoach-and-four?\"They both straightened, startled: the one who was holding the wheelalmost dropped it.\"Pardon, excellency,\" he said, \"there's beenno coach-and-four here,all the time we've been here.\"\"Yes,\" said his mate, \"and we've been here since just after noon.\"I did not attempt to argue with them. Itoccurred to me--andit is still my opinion--that I was the victim of some plot; thatmy wine had been drugged, that I had been unconscious for sometime, duringwhich my coach had been removed and this wagonsubstituted for it, and that these peasants had been put to workon it and instructed what to say if questioned.If my arrival atthe inn had been anticipated, and everything put in readiness,the whole business would not have taken ten minutes.I therefore entered the inn,determined to have it out withthis rascally innkeeper, but when I returned to the common room,he was nowhere to be seen, and this other fellow, who hasgivenhis name as Christian Hauck, claimed to be the innkeeper anddenied knowledge of any of the things I have just stated.Furthermore, there were fourcavalrymen, Uhlans, drinking beerand playing cards at the table where Jardine and I had had ourwine, and they claimed to have been there for several hours.Ihave no idea why such an elaborate prank, involving theparticipation of many people, should be played on me, except atthe instigation of the French. In thatcase, I cannot understandwhy Prussian soldiers should lend themselves to it.Benjamin Bathurst(Statement of Christian Hauck, innkeeper, taken at thepolicestation at Perleburg, 25 November, 1809.)May it please your honor, my name is Christian Hauck, and I keepan inn at the sign of the Sword & Scepter, and"}
{"doc_id":"doc_71","qid":"","text":"Jurassic Park: The Lost World Script at IMSDb.
THE LOST WORLD JURASSIC PARK Screenplay by David Koepp based on the novel byMichael Crichton EXT. TROPICAL LAGOON - DAY A 135-foot-luxury yacht is anchored just offshore in a tropical lagoon. The beach is a stunning crescentof white sand at the jungle fringe, utterly deserted. ISLA SORNA 87 miles southeast of Nublar Two SHIP HANDS, dressed in white uniforms, have set upa picnic table with three chairs on the sand and are carefully laying out luncheon service -- fine china, silver, crystal decanters with red and white wine. PAULBOWMAN, fortyish, sits in a chair off to the side, reading. MRS. BOWMAN, painfully thin, with the perpetually surprised look of a woman who's had her eyes donemore than once, supervises the settings of the table. She looks up and sees a little girl, CATHY, seven or eight years old, wandering off down the beach. MRS.BOWMAN Cathy! Don't wander off! Cathy keeps wandering. MRS. BOWMAN (cont'd) Cathy, come back! You can look for shells right here! Cathy gestures,pretending she can't hear. BOWMAN (eyes still in his book) Leave her alone. MRS. BOWMAN What about snakes? BOWMAN There'sno snakes on a beach. Let her have fun, for once. FURTHER DOWN THE BEACH, Cathy keeps wandering away, MUTTERING to herself as her parents'"}
{"doc_id":"doc_72","qid":"","text":"Broadcast News Script at IMSDb.
FADE IN EXT. CITY STREET - DAY Arestaurant supply truck is curbside, near a small restaurant. GERALD GRUNICK, forty-one, is closing the back door of his truck, feeling good about the world, acommon state for him. He moves towards the cab of the truck and gets inside as we SUPER: KANSAS CITY, MO. - 1963 INT. TRUCK - DAY Ashe sits down beaming over his recent good fortune... now we REVEAL his twelve-year-old son, TOM, seated quietly beside him. He seems a bit down. Geraldglances at his son. GERALD I don't know a recent Saturday I've sold more. You didn't think I'd sell that health restaurant, did you? TOMNo. Not even you. GERALD Why so glum? TOM I don't know. GERALD (a beat) Go ahead. TOM No, nothing. I've got aproblem, I guess. GERALD Were you bothering by those waitresses making a fuss? TOM No. But, honest. What are you supposed to saywhen they keep talking about your looks? I don't even know what they mean -- \"Beat them off with a stick.\" Gerald stiffs a grin. GERALD You know,"}
{"doc_id":"doc_73","qid":"","text":"Spartan Script at IMSDb.
SPARTAN a screenplay by David Mametcopyright (c) 2002by DavidMametFADE IN:EXT. WOODED HILLSIDE. DAY.We see the drawn face of a young woman. Camera tracks withher as she runsthrough the thick woods. She is exertingherself heavily as she moves up a steep hillside. She looksbehind her quickly, and continues.ANGLE, we see a youngman, and then another, running throughthe woods, out of breath. They are dressed in filthy BDU's,and show several days growth of beard. The leader stops foramoment, and looks around. The two men separate.ANGLE, the young woman, who has come to a small ledge, overa ravine. She stops, panting, and bends over,to attempt tocatch her breath. She looks around, and looks back, her backto a steep wall, a steep drop before her.ANGLE, the first young man, having come upto the spotvacated by the young woman. In the BG we see his colleague.He looks down, and sees movement in the brush below him, inthe ravine. He starts todescend, and then looks up.ANGLE, the young woman, pulling herself up the steeprockface. The young man regains the ledge and looks up.Camera takes himaround a bend in the ledge.Standing here we discover ROBERT SCOTT. He is somewhat olderthan the two men, he is very fit, also dressed in filthyBDU's. He ismaking a note in a small notebook, which hecloses. Now, the two men look across the ravine at the youngwoman, seen disappearing over aridge. SCOTT (quietly) ...you better catch her...The man looks around, and begins climbing up the rockfacebehind"}
{"doc_id":"doc_74","qid":"","text":"When a Stranger Calls Script at IMSDb.
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