ï»¿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


ï»¿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


<title>Zerophilia Script at IMSDb.</title><meta name="description" content="Zerophilia script at the Internet Movie Script Database."><metaname="keywords" content="Zerophilia script, Zerophilia movie script, Zerophilia film script"><meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width,initial-scale=1" /><meta name="HandheldFriendly" content="true"><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"><metahttp-equiv="Content-Language" content="EN"><meta name=objecttype CONTENT=Document><meta name=ROBOTS CONTENT="INDEX, FOLLOW"><metaname=Subject CONTENT="Movie scripts, Film scripts"><meta name=rating CONTENT=General><meta name=distribution content=Global><metaname=revisit-after CONTENT="2 days"><link href="/style.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css">

     <ahref="https://www.imsdb.com" title="The Internet Movie Script Database">	    <tdbgcolor="#FF0000">
The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb)

     <tdbackground="/images/reel.gif" height="13" colspan="2"><imgsrc="/images/logo_middle.gif" border="0">

 The web'slargest
movie script resource!

           Search IMSDb
<form method="post" action="/search.php">             <divalign="center">                <input type="text" name="search_query" maxlength="255" size="15">                <input type="submit" value="Go!"name="submit">
	</form>

Alphabetical
        #         A        <ahref="/alphabetical/B">B        C        D        <ahref="/alphabetical/E">E        F        G        <ahref="/alphabetical/H">H
         I        J        <ahref="/alphabetical/K">K        L        M        <ahref="/alphabetical/N">N        O        P        <ahref="/alphabetical/Q">Q
         R        S        <ahref="/alphabetical/T">T        U        V        <ahref="/alphabetical/W">W        X        Y        <ahref="/alphabetical/Z">Z

Genre
 Action Adventure <ahref="/genre/Animation">Animation
 Comedy Crime <ahref="/genre/Drama">Drama
 Family Fantasy <ahref="/genre/Film-Noir">Film-Noir
 Horror Musical <ahref="/genre/Mystery">Mystery
 Romance Sci-Fi <ahref="/genre/Short">Short
 Thriller War <ahref="/genre/Western">Western

  Sponsor

<tablewidth="100%" border=0 cellpadding=2 cellspacing=0 class=body>
TV Transcripts
 <ahref="/TV/Futurama.html">Futurama
 Seinfeld
 SouthPark
 Stargate SG-1
 Lost
 The 4400

International
 <ahref="/language/French">French scripts

<tdclass=heading>Movie Software

Rip from DVD
 Rip Blu-Ray

Latest Comments
Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10
Star Wars: TheForce Awakens10/10
Batman Begins9/10
Collateral10/10
Jackie Brown8/10

Movie Chat
 <form class="yellbox"action="https://www.yellbox.com/addmessage.php" method="post" target="ybframe" name="yellform">  <input type="hidden" name="sub_username"value="imsdb"> <input class="yellbox" name="sub_name" value="Name" size=21 maxlength=10 onFocus="if(this.value == 'Name')this.value = '';return;">
 <textarea class="yellbox" cols=15 rows=4 name="sub_message" wrap onFocus="if(this.value == 'Message')this.value = '';return;">Message</textarea>

 <button onClick="javascript:makeNewWindow(); return false;"><imgsrc="https://www.yellbox.com/images/smiley.gif" width=16 height=16></button> <button type="submit" value="Post" onClick="returnclearMessageBox();">Yell !</button>
</form>

      ALLSCRIPTS

<tdclass="scrtext">
                                       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,


ï»¿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


<title>Saving Private Ryan Script at IMSDb.</title><meta name="description" content="Saving Private Ryan script at the Internet Movie ScriptDatabase."><meta name="keywords" content="Saving Private Ryan script, Saving Private Ryan movie script, Saving Private Ryan film script"><metaname="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1" /><meta name="HandheldFriendly" content="true"><meta http-equiv="content-type"content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"><meta http-equiv="Content-Language" content="EN"><meta name=objecttype CONTENT=Document><metaname=ROBOTS CONTENT="INDEX, FOLLOW"><meta name=Subject CONTENT="Movie scripts, Film scripts"><meta name=rating CONTENT=General><metaname=distribution content=Global><meta name=revisit-after CONTENT="2 days"><link href="/style.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"><bodytopmargin="0" bottommargin="0" id="mainbody">

     <tdvalign="bottom" bgcolor="#FF0000">
The Internet Movie Script Database(IMSDb)

      <ahref="https://www.imsdb.com" title="The Internet Movie Script Database">
The web's largest
movie script resource!

           Search IMSDb
<form method="post" action="/search.php">             <divalign="center">                <input type="text" name="search_query" maxlength="255" size="15">                <input type="submit" value="Go!"name="submit">
	</form>

Alphabetical
        #         A        <ahref="/alphabetical/B">B        C        D        <ahref="/alphabetical/E">E        F        G        <ahref="/alphabetical/H">H
         I        J        <ahref="/alphabetical/K">K        L        M        <ahref="/alphabetical/N">N        O        P        <ahref="/alphabetical/Q">Q
         R        S        <ahref="/alphabetical/T">T        U        V        <ahref="/alphabetical/W">W        X        Y        <ahref="/alphabetical/Z">Z

Genre
 Action Adventure <ahref="/genre/Animation">Animation
 Comedy Crime <ahref="/genre/Drama">Drama
 Family Fantasy <ahref="/genre/Film-Noir">Film-Noir
 Horror Musical <ahref="/genre/Mystery">Mystery
 Romance Sci-Fi <ahref="/genre/Short">Short
 Thriller War <ahref="/genre/Western">Western

  Sponsor

<tablewidth="100%" border=0 cellpadding=2 cellspacing=0 class=body>
TV Transcripts
 <ahref="/TV/Futurama.html">Futurama
 Seinfeld
 SouthPark
 Stargate SG-1
 Lost
 The 4400

International
 <ahref="/language/French">French scripts

<tdclass=heading>Movie Software

Rip from DVD
 Rip Blu-Ray

Latest Comments
Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10
Star Wars: TheForce Awakens10/10
Batman Begins9/10
Collateral10/10
Jackie Brown8/10

Movie Chat
 <form class="yellbox"action="https://www.yellbox.com/addmessage.php" method="post" target="ybframe" name="yellform">  <input type="hidden" name="sub_username"value="imsdb"> <input class="yellbox" name="sub_name" value="Name" size=21 maxlength=10 onFocus="if(this.value == 'Name')this.value = '';return;">
 <textarea class="yellbox" cols=15 rows=4 name="sub_message" wrap onFocus="if(this.value == 'Message')this.value = '';return;">Message</textarea>

 <button onClick="javascript:makeNewWindow(); return false;"><imgsrc="https://www.yellbox.com/images/smiley.gif" width=16 height=16></button> <button type="submit" value="Post" onClick="returnclearMessageBox();">Yell !</button>
</form>

      ALLSCRIPTS

<tdclass="scrtext">
<title>S A V I N G   P R IV A T E   R Y A N</title>
               S A V I N G   P R I V A T E   R Y A N               by Robert Roday               (EarlyDraft)               Typed for the Internet by:               David Pritchettscreenwryter@hotmail.com               --------------------------------------------------------------               FADE IN:               CREDITS:  Whitelettering over a back background.  The               THUNDEROUS SOUNDS OF A MASSIVE NAVAL BARRAGE are heard.  The               power is astonishing.  It roarsthrough the body, blows back               the hair and rattles the ears.               FADE IN:               EXT. OMAHA BEACH - NORMANDY -DAWN               The ROAR OF NAVAL GUNS continues but now WE SEE THEM FIRING.               Huge fifteen inch guns.               SWARM OF LANDINGCRAFT               Heads directly into a nightmare.  MASSIVE EXPLOSIONS from               German artillery shells and mined obstacles tear apartthe               beach.  Hundreds of German machine guns, loaded with tracers,               pour out a red snowstorm ofbullets.                                     OFFSHORE                         SUPERIMPOSITION:                                     OMAHA BEACH,NORMANDY                         June 6, 1944                                     0600 HOURS                         HUNDREDS OF LANDING CRAFT Each


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sea Fairies, by L. Frank BaumThis 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 Sea FairiesAuthor: L. Frank BaumPosting Date: July 26, 2009 [EBook #4358]Release Date: August, 2003First Posted: January 14,2002Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEA FAIRIES ***Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.TOJUDITH OF RANDOLPH MASSACHUSETTSTHE SEA FAIRIESBY L. FRANK BAUMAUTHOR OF THE EMERALD CITY OF OZ, DOROTHY AND THEWIZARD IN OZ, OZMAOF OZ, THE ROAD TO OZ,THE LAND OF OZ, ETC.ILLUSTRATED BYJOHN R. NEILLTHE oceans are big and broad. I believe two-thirds of theearth's surface iscovered with water. What people inhabitthis water has always been a subject of curiosity to theinhabitants of the land. Strange creatures come from the seasattimes, and perhaps in the ocean depths are many, more strangethan mortal eye has ever gazed upon.This story is fanciful. In it the sea people talk and actmuchas we do, and the mermaids especially are not unlike thefairies with whom we have learned to be familiar. Yet theyare real sea people, for all that, and with theexception of Zogthe Magician they are all supposed to exist in the ocean's depths.I am told that some very learned people deny that mermaidsor sea-serpentshave ever inhabited the oceans, but it would bevery difficult for them to prove such an assertion unless they hadlived under the water as Trot and Cap'n Bill did inthis story.I hope my readers who have so long followed Dorothy'sadventures in the Land of Oz will be interested in Trot's equallystrange experiences. The oceanhas always appealed to me asa veritable wonderland, and this story has been suggested to memany times by my young correspondents in their letters. Indeed,agood many children have implored me to "write somethingabout the mermaids," and I have willingly granted the request.Hollywood, 1911.L. FRANK BAUM.LISTOF CHAPTERSCHAPTER   1  TROT AND CAP'N BILL   2  THE MERMAIDS   3  THE DEPTHS OF THE DEEP BLUE SEA   4  THE PALACE OF QUEEN AQUAREINE   5  THESEA-SERPENT   6  EXPLORING THE OCEAN   7  THE ARISTOCRATIC CODFISH   8  A BANQUET UNDER WATER   9  THE BASHFUL OCTOPUS  10  THEUNDISCOVERED ISLAND  11  ZOG THE TERRIBLE AND HIS SEA DEVILS  12  THE ENCHANTED ISLAND  13  PRISONERS OF THE SEA MONSTER  14  CAP'N JOEAND CAP'N BILL  15  THE MAGIC OF THE MERMAIDS  16  THE TOP OF THE GREAT DOME  17  THE QUEEN'S GOLDEN SWORD  18  A DASH FORLIBERTY  19  KING ANKO TO THE RESCUE  20  THE HOME OF THE OCEAN MONARCH  21  KING JOE  22  TROT LIVES TO TELL THE TALECHAPTER 1TROT ANDCAP'N BILL"Nobody," said Cap'n Bill solemnly, "ever sawr a mermaid an' livedto tell the tale.""Why not?" asked Trot, looking earnestly up into the oldsailor'sface.They were seated on a bench built around a giant acacia tree thatgrew just at the edge of the bluff. Below them rolled the blue wavesof the greatPacific. A little way behind them was the house, a neatframe cottage painted white and surrounded by huge eucalyptus andpepper trees. Still farther behindthat--a quarter of a mile distantbut built upon a bend of the coast--was the village, overlooking apretty bay.Cap'n Bill and Trot came often to this tree to sit andwatch theocean below them. The sailor man had one "meat leg" and one "hickoryleg," and he often said the wooden one was the best of the two. OnceCap'n Billhad commanded and owned the "Anemone," a trading schoonerthat plied along the coast; and in those days Charlie Griffiths, whowas Trot's father, had been theCaptain's mate. But ever since Cap'nBill's accident, when he lost his leg, Charlie Griffiths had beenthe captain of the little schooner while his old masterlivedpeacefully ashore with the Griffiths family.This was about the time Trot was born, and the old sailor becamevery fond of the baby girl. Her real name wasMayre, but when shegrew big enough to walk, she took so many busy little steps everyday that both her mother and Cap'n Bill nicknamed her "Trot," and soshewas thereafter mostly called.It was the old sailor who taught the child to love the sea, to loveit almost as much as he and her father did, and these two,whorepresented the "beginning and the end of life," became firm friendsand constant companions."Why hasn't anybody seen a mermaid and lived?" asked Trotagain."'Cause mermaids is fairies, an' ain't meant to be seen by us mortalfolk," replied Cap'n Bill."But if anyone happens to see 'em, what then, Cap'n?""Then," heanswered, slowly wagging his head, "the mermaids give 'ema smile an' a wink, an' they dive into the water an' gets drownded.""S'pose they knew how to swim,Cap'n Bill?""That don't make any diff'rence, Trot. The mermaids live deep down,an' the poor mortals never come up again."The little girl was thoughtful for amoment. "But why do folks divein the water when the mermaids smile an' wink?" she asked."Mermaids," he said gravely, "is the most beautiful creatures intheworld--or the water, either. You know what they're like, Trot,they's got a lovely lady's form down to the waist, an' then theother half of 'em's a fish, with greenan' purple an' pink scalesall down it.""Have they got arms, Cap'n Bill?""'Course, Trot; arms like any other lady. An' pretty faces thatsmile an' look mighty sweetan' fetchin'. Their hair is long an'soft an' silky, an' floats all around 'em in the water. When theycomes up atop the waves, they wring the water out'n their hairandsing songs that go right to your heart. If anybody is unlucky enoughto be 'round jes' then, the beauty o' them mermaids an' their sweetsongs charm 'em likemagic; so's they plunge into the waves to getto the mermaids. But the mermaids haven't any hearts, Trot, nomore'n a fish has; so they laughs when the poorpeople drown an'don't care a fig. That's why I says, an' I says it true, that nobodynever sawr a mermaid an' lived to tell the tale.""Nobody?" asked Trot."Nobody atall.""Then how do you know, Cap'n Bill?" asked the little girl, lookingup into his face with big, round eyes.Cap'n Bill coughed. Then he tried to sneeze, to gaintime. Then hetook out his red cotton handkerchief and wiped his bald head withit, rubbing hard so as to make him think clearer. "Look, Trot; ain'tthat a brig outthere?" he inquired, pointing to a sail far out inthe sea."How does anybody know about mermaids if those who have seen themnever lived to tell about them?"she asked again."Know what about 'em, Trot?""About their green and pink scales and pretty songs and wet hair.""They don't know, I guess. But mermaids jes'natcherly has to belike that, or they wouldn't be mermaids."She thought this over. "Somebody MUST have lived, Cap'n Bill," shedeclared positively. "Other fairieshave been seen by mortals; whynot mermaids?""P'raps they have, Trot, p'raps they have," he answered musingly."I'm tellin' you as it was told to me, but I neverstopped toinquire into the matter so close before. Seems like folks wouldn'tknow so much about mermaids if they hadn't seen 'em; an' yetaccordin' to all accountsthe victim is bound to get drownded.""P'raps," suggested Trot softly, "someone found a fotygraph of oneof 'em.""That might o' been, Trot, that might o' been,"answered Cap'n Bill.A nice man was Cap'n Bill, and Trot knew he always liked to explaineverything so she could fully understand it. The aged sailor was nota verytall man, and some people might have called him chubby, oreven fat. He wore a blue sailor shirt with white anchors worked onthe corners of the broad, squarecollar, and his blue trousers werevery wide at the bottom. He always wore one trouser leg over hiswooden limb and sometimes it would flutter in the wind like aflagbecause it was so wide and the wooden leg so slender. His roughkersey coat was a pea-jacket and came down to his waistline. In thebig pockets of his jackethe kept a wonderful jackknife, and hispipe and tobacco, and many bits of string, and matches and keys andlots of other things. Whenever Cap'n Bill thrust achubby hand intoone of his pockets, Trot watched him with breathless interest, forshe never knew what he was going to pull out.The old sailor's face was brownas a berry. He had a fringe of hairaround the back of his head and a fringe of whisker around the edgeof his face, running from ear to ear and underneath hischin. Hiseyes were light blue and kind in expression. His nose was big andbroad, and his few teeth were not strong enough to crack nuts with.Trot liked Cap'n Billand had a great deal of confidence in hiswisdom, and a great admiration for his ability to make tops andwhistles and toys with that marvelous jackknife of his. Inthevillage were many boys and girls of her own age, but she never hadas much fun playing with them as she had wandering by the seaaccompanied by the oldsailor and listening to his fascinatingstories.She knew all about the Flying Dutchman, and Davy Jones' Locker, andCaptain Kidd, and how to harpoon a whale ordodge an iceberg orlasso a seal. Cap'n Bill had been everywhere in the world, almost,on his many voyages. He had been wrecked on desert islands likeRobinsonCrusoe and been attacked by cannibals, and had a host ofother exciting adventures. So he was a delightful comrade for thelittle girl, and whatever Cap'n Bill knewTrot was sure to know intime."How do the mermaids live?" she asked. "Are they in caves, or justin the water like fishes, or how?""Can't say, Trot," he replied."I've asked divers about that, butnone of 'em ever run acrost a mermaid's nest yet, as I've heard of.""If they're fairies," she said, "their homes must be verypretty.""Mebbe so, Trot, but damp. They are sure to be damp, you know.""I'd like to see a mermaid, Cap'n Bill," said the child earnestly."What, an' gitdrownded?" he exclaimed."No, and live to tell the tale. If they're beautiful, and laughing,and sweet, there can't be much harm in them, I'm sure.""Mermaids ismermaids," remarked Cap'n Bill in his most solemnvoice. "It wouldn't do us any good to mix up with 'em, Trot.""May-re! May-re!" called a voice from thehouse."Yes, Mamma!""You an' Cap'n Bill come in to supper."CHAPTER 2THE MERMAIDSThe next morning, as soon as Trot had helped wipe the breakfastdishesand put them away in the cupboard, the little girl and Cap'nBill started out toward the bluff. The air was soft and warm and thesun turned the edges of the wavesinto sparkling diamonds. Acrossthe bay the last of the fisherboats was speeding away out to sea,for well the fishermen knew this was an ideal day to catchrockbass,barracuda and yellowtail.The old man and the young girl stood on the bluff and watched allthis with interest. Here was their world. "It isn't a bit roughthismorning. Let's have a boat ride, Cap'n Bill," said the child."Suits me to a T," declared the sailor. So they found the windingpath that led down the face of thecliff to the narrow beach belowand cautiously began the descent. Trot never minded the steep pathor the loose rocks at all, but Cap'n Bill's wooden leg was notsouseful on a downgrade as on a level, and he had to be careful not toslip and take a tumble.But by and by they reached the sands and walked to a spot


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Metal Monster, by A. MerrittThis 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 Metal MonsterAuthor: A. MerrittRelease Date: September, 2002  [Etext #3479]Posting Date: October 12, 2009Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE METAL MONSTER ***Produced by Judy BossTHE METAL MONSTERBy A. MerrittPROLOGUEBeforethe narrative which follows was placed in my hands, I had neverseen Dr. Walter T. Goodwin, its author.When the manuscript revealing his adventures among thepre-historicruins of the Nan-Matal in the Carolines (The Moon Pool) had been givenme by the International Association of Science for editing and revisionto meetthe requirements of a popular presentation, Dr. Goodwin had leftAmerica. He had explained that he was still too shaken, too depressed,to be able to recallexperiences that must inevitably carry with themfreshened memories of those whom he loved so well and from whom, hefelt, he was separated in all probabilityforever.I had understood that he had gone to some remote part of Asia to pursuecertain botanical studies, and it was therefore with the liveliestsurprise andinterest that I received a summons from the President ofthe Association to meet Dr. Goodwin at a designated place and hour.Through my close study of the MoonPool papers I had formed a mentalimage of their writer. I had read, too, those volumes of botanicalresearch which have set him high above all other Americanscientists inthis field, gleaning from their curious mingling of extremelytechnical observations and minutely accurate but extraordinarily poeticdescriptions, hintsto amplify my picture of him. It gratified me tofind I had drawn a pretty good one.The man to whom the President of the Association introduced me wassturdy,well-knit, a little under average height. He had a broad butrather low forehead that reminded me somewhat of the late electricalwizard Steinmetz. Under levelblack brows shone eyes of clear hazel,kindly, shrewd, a little wistful, lightly humorous; the eyes both of adoer and a dreamer.Not more than forty I judged him tobe. A close-trimmed, pointed bearddid not hide the firm chin and the clean-cut mouth. His hair was thickand black and oddly sprinkled with white; small streaksand dots ofgleaming silver that shone with a curiously metallic luster.His right arm was closely bound to his breast. His manner as he greetedme was tinged withshyness. He extended his left hand in greeting, andas I clasped the fingers I was struck by their peculiar, pronounced, yetpleasant warmth; a sensation, indeed,curiously electric.The Association's President forced him gently back into his chair."Dr. Goodwin," he said, turning to me, "is not entirely recovered asyet fromcertain consequences of his adventures. He will explain to youlater what these are. In the meantime, Mr. Merritt, will you read this?"I took the sheets he handedme, and as I read them felt the gaze of Dr.Goodwin full upon me, searching, weighing, estimating. When I raised myeyes from the letter I found in his a newexpression. The shyness wasgone; they were filled with complete friendliness. Evidently I hadpassed muster."You will accept, sir?" It was the president's gravelycourteous tone."Accept!" I exclaimed. "Why, of course, I accept. It is not only one ofthe greatest honors, but to me one of the greatest delights to act asacollaborator with Dr. Goodwin."The president smiled."In that case, sir, there is no need for me to remain longer," he said."Dr. Goodwin has with him hismanuscript as far as he has progressedwith it. I will leave you two alone for your discussion."He bowed to us and, picking up his old-fashioned bell-crowned silkhatand his quaint, heavy cane of ebony, withdrew. Dr. Goodwin turned to me."I will start," he said, after a little pause, "from when I met RichardDrake on thefield of blue poppies that are like a great prayer-rug atthe gray feet of the nameless mountain."The sun sank, the shadows fell, the lights of the city sparkled out,forhours New York roared about me unheeded while I listened to the taleof that utterly weird, stupendous drama of an unknown life, of unknowncreatures,unknown forces, and of unconquerable human heroism playedamong the hidden gorges of unknown Asia.It was dawn when I left him for my own home. Nor wasit for manyhours after that I laid his then incomplete manuscript down and soughtsleep--and found a troubled sleep.A. MERRITTCHAPTER I. VALLEY OF THE BLUEPOPPIESIn this great crucible of life we call the world--in the vaster one wecall the universe--the mysteries lie close packed, uncountable as grainsof sand onocean's shores. They thread gigantic, the star-flung spaces;they creep, atomic, beneath the microscope's peering eye. They walkbeside us, unseen and unheard,calling out to us, asking why we are deafto their crying, blind to their wonder.Sometimes the veils drop from a man's eyes, and he sees--and speaks ofhis vision.Then those who have not seen pass him by with the liftedbrows of disbelief, or they mock him, or if his vision has been greatenough they fall upon and destroyhim.For the greater the mystery, the more bitterly is its verity assailed;upon what seem the lesser a man may give testimony and at least gain forhimself ahearing.There is reason for this. Life is a ferment, and upon and about it,shifting and changing, adding to or taking away, beat over legions offorces, seen andunseen, known and unknown. And man, an atom in theferment, clings desperately to what to him seems stable; nor greets withjoy him who hazards that what hegrips may be but a broken staff, and,so saying, fails to hold forth a sturdier one.Earth is a ship, plowing her way through uncharted oceans of spacewherein arestrange currents, hidden shoals and reefs, and where blowthe unknown winds of Cosmos.If to the voyagers, painfully plotting their course, comes one whocriesthat their charts must be remade, nor can tell WHY they must be--thatman is not welcome--no!Therefore it is that men have grown chary of giving testimonyuponmysteries. Yet knowing each in his own heart the truth of that vision hehas himself beheld, lo, it is that in whose reality he most believes.The spot where Ihad encamped was of a singular beauty; so beautifulthat it caught the throat and set an ache within the breast--until fromit a tranquillity distilled that was likehealing mist.Since early March I had been wandering. It was now mid-July. And for thefirst time since my pilgrimage had begun I drank--not of forgetfulness,forthat could never be--but of anodyne for a sorrow which had held fastupon me since my return from the Carolines a year before.No need to dwell here uponthat--it has been written. Nor shall I recitethe reasons for my restlessness--for these are known to those who haveread that history of mine. Nor is there cause toset forth at length thesteps by which I had arrived at this vale of peace.Sufficient is to tell that in New York one night, reading over what isperhaps the mostsensational of my books--"The Poppies and Primulas ofSouthern Tibet," the result of my travels of 1910-1911, I determined toreturn to that quiet, forbidden land.There, if anywhere, might I findsomething akin to forgetting.There was a certain flower which I long had wished to study in itsmutations from the singular formsappearing on the southern slopes ofthe Elburz--Persia's mountainous chain that extends from Azerbaijanin the west to Khorasan in the east; from thence I wouldfollow itsmodified types in the Hindu-Kush ranges and its migrations along thesouthern scarps of the Trans-Himalayas--the unexplored upheaval, higherthan theHimalayas themselves, more deeply cut with precipice and gorge,which Sven Hedin had touched and named on his journey to Lhasa.Having accomplished this, Iplanned to push across the passes to theManasarowar Lakes, where, legend has it, the strange, luminous purplelotuses grow.An ambitious project, undeniablyfraught with danger; but it iswritten that desperate diseases require desperate remedies, and untilinspiration or message how to rejoin those whom I had lovedso dearlycame to me, nothing less, I felt, could dull my heartache.And, frankly, feeling that no such inspiration or message could come, Idid not much care as tothe end.In Teheran I had picked up a most unusual servant; yes, more than this,a companion and counselor and interpreter as well.He was a Chinese; his nameChiu-Ming. His first thirty years had beenspent at the great Lamasery of Palkhor-Choinde at Gyantse, west ofLhasa. Why he had gone from there, how he hadcome to Teheran, I neverasked. It was most fortunate that he had gone, and that I had found him.He recommended himself to me as the best cook within tenthousand milesof Pekin.For almost three months we had journeyed; Chiu-Ming and I and the twoponies that carried my impedimenta.We had traversed mountainroads which had echoed to the marching feet ofthe hosts of Darius, to the hordes of the Satraps. The highways of theAchaemenids--yes, and which before themhad trembled to the tramplingsof the myriads of the godlike Dravidian conquerors.We had slipped over ancient Iranian trails; over paths which thewarriors ofconquering Alexander had traversed; dust of bones ofMacedons, of Greeks, of Romans, beat about us; ashes of the flamingambitions of the Sassanidaewhimpered beneath our feet--the feet of anAmerican botanist, a Chinaman, two Tibetan ponies. We had crept throughclefts whose walls had sent back thehowlings of the Ephthalites, theWhite Huns who had sapped the strength of these same proud Sassanidsuntil at last both fell before the Turks.Over the highwaysand byways of Persia's glory, Persia's shame andPersia's death we four--two men, two beasts--had passed. For a fortnightwe had met no human soul, seen nosign of human habitation.Game had been plentiful--green things Chiu-Ming might lack for hiscooking, but meat never. About us was a welter of mighty summits.Wewere, I knew, somewhere within the blending of the Hindu-Kush with theTrans-Himalayas.That morning we had come out of a ragged defile into this valleyofenchantment, and here, though it had been so early, I had pitched mytent, determining to go no farther till the morrow.It was a Phocean vale; a gigantic cupfilled with tranquillity. A spiritbrooded over it, serene, majestic, immutable--like the untroubled calmwhich rests, the Burmese believe, over every place which hasguarded theBuddha, sleeping.At its eastern end towered the colossal scarp of the unnamed peakthrough one of whose gorges we had crept. On his head was acap ofsilver set with pale emeralds--the snow fields and glaciers that crownedhim. Far to the west another gray and ochreous giant reared its bulk,closing thevale. North and south, the horizon was a chaotic sky land ofpinnacles, spired and minareted, steepled and turreted and domed, eachdiademed with its green andargent of eternal ice and snow.And all the valley was carpeted with the blue poppies in wide, unbrokenfields, luminous as the morning skies of mid-June; theyrippled mileafter mile over the path we had followed, over the still untrodden pathwhich we must take. They nodded, they leaned toward each other, theyseemed


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Pilot and his Wife, by Jonas LieThis 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 Pilot and his WifeAuthor: Jonas LieRelease Date: April 8, 2005 [EBook #15588]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK THE PILOT AND HIS WIFE ***Produced by Clare Boothby, Jim Wiborg and the Online DistributedProofreading Team.THE PILOT AND HISWIFE_TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN OF_JONAS LIEBYG.L. TOTTENHAMWILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONSEDINBURGH AND LONDONMDCCCLXXVIITHEPILOT AND HIS WIFE.CHAPTER I.On the stern, pine-clad southern coast of Norway, off thepicturesquely-situated town of Arendal, stand planted far out intothesea the white walls of the Great and Little Torungen Lighthouses, eachon its bare rock-island of corresponding name, the lesser of whichseems, as you sailpast, to have only just room for the lighthouse andthe attendant's residence by the side. It is a wild and lonelysituation,--the spray, in stormy weather, driving insheets against thewalls, and eagles and sea-birds not unfrequently dashing themselves todeath against the thick glass panes at night; while in winterallcommunication with the land is very often cut off, either by drift orpatchy ice, which is impassable either on foot or by boat.These, however, and others of thenow numerous lights along thatdangerous coast, are of comparatively recent erection. Many persons nowliving can remember the time when for long reaches theonly lighting wasthe gleam of the white breakers themselves. And the captain who hadpassed the OxÃ¶ light off Christiansand might think himself lucky ifhesighted the distant Jomfruland up by KragerÃ¶.About a score of years before the lighthouse was placed on LittleTorungen there was, however, already a housethere, if it could bedignified by that name, with its back and one side almost up to the eaveof the roof stuck into a heap of stones, so that it had the appearanceofbending forward to let the storm sweep over it. The low entrance-dooropened to the land, and two small windows looked out upon the sea, andupon the boat,which was usually drawn up in a cleft above the sea-weedoutside.When you entered, or, more properly speaking, descended into it, therewas more room thanmight have been expected; and it contained sundryarticles of furniture, such as a handsome press and sideboard, which noone would have dreamt of findingunder such a roof. In one corner therestood an old spinning-wheel covered with dust, and with a smoke-blackenedtuft of wool still hanging from its reel; fromwhich, and from othersmall indications, it might be surmised that there had once been a womanin the house, and that tuft of wool had probably been her lastspin.There sat now on the bench by the hearth a lonely old man, of aflint-hard and somewhat gloomy countenance, with a mass of white hairfalling over his earsand neck, who was generally occupied with somecobbling work, and who from time to time, as he drew out the thread,would make some remark aloud, as if hethought he still had the partnerof his life for audience. The look askance over his brass spectacleswith which he greeted any casual stranger who might come intothe househad very little welcome in it, and an expression about his sunken mouthand sharp chin said plainly enough that the other might state hisbusiness atonce and be gone. He sought no company; and the only time hehad ever been seen at church was when he came rowing over to TromÃ¶ withhis wife's body inher coffin. When the pastor sprinkled earth upon it,it was observed that the tears streamed down his cheeks, and it was longafter dark before he quitted thechurchyard to return. He had become aproverb for obstinacy for miles beyond his own residence; and people whodealt with him for fish in the harbour, if theyonce began to bargain,were as likely as not to see him without a word just quietly row away.All that was known further about "Old Jacob," as he was called, wasthathe had once been a pilot, and that he had had a son who had taken todrinking, through whose fault it had been eventually that the father hadlost hiscertificate; and it was thought that on the occasion inquestion the father had taken the son's blame upon himself. Since thenhe had shunned society, and hadretired with his wife to his presenthabitation, whither, after their son was drowned, they had brought theirlittle orphan granddaughter, who now was his solecompanion. His onlyostensible means of living were by shoemaking, and by fishing, theproduce of which he generally disposed of to passing ships, and, duringtheearlier period of his sojourn there, by shooting occasionally. Butit was understood that he received a small regular contribution fromseveral of the pilots,certificated or otherwise, of the district, forkeeping a fire alight on his hearth during the dark autumn nights, andso giving them, by the light from his twowindows, something to steer bywhen they arrived off the coast after nightfall. Whether the light wasshown for their benefit particularly, or whether it was notratherintended for the guidance of smuggling vessels standing in under coverof the night to land their cargoes, it was not their business toinquire. Its friendlyassistance was, at all events, not unacknowledgedby these latter, and very acceptable presents, in the shape of kegs ofspirits, bags of coffee, tobacco, meal, andso forth, would, from timeto time, come rolling into the old man's room, so that upon the whole,he was well-to-do enough out there upon his rock.Of late yearshe had fallen into feeble health, and found it not so easyto row the long distance over to land. Even in his best days he had,owing to an old injury to one of hislegs, found some difficulty ingetting down to the boat; and now, therefore, he sat during the greaterpart of the day over the hearth, in his woolen jacket andleatherbreeches, with his indoor work. Now and then, when his granddaughter--achild with a thick crop of hair falling about her ears, and a rough dogconstantlyat her heels--would burst into the house with all thefreshness of the outside air blowing round her, as it were, and deliverherself of her intelligence, he might bedrawn, perhaps, to the windowto look out over the sea, and afterwards, like a growling bear disturbedfrom its lair, even follow her with some difficulty out of thedoor withthe spyglass. There he would station himself, so as to use her shoulderas a rest for his shaking hand, and with his never-ceasing directionsand growlinggoing on behind her neck, she would do her best to fix theglass on the desired object. His crossness would then disappear, littleby little, in their joint speculationas to what ship it could be, or inwhatever remarks it might suggest; and after giving his decision, theold man would generally hobble in again.He was really veryproud of his granddaughter's cleverness. She coulddistinguish with her naked eye as clearly as he could through the glass.She never made a mistake about thecraft, large or small, that belongedto that part of the coast, and could, besides, say to a nicety, whatsort of master each had. Her superiority of sight sheasserted, too,with a tyranny to which he made no resistance, although it might havetried a temper many degrees more patient than his was.One day, however,she was at a loss. They made out a crescent on theflag, and this caused even the old man a moment's astonishment. But hedeclared then, for her information,shortly and decisively, that it wasa "barbarian."This satisfied her for a moment. But then she asked--"What is a barbarian, grandfather?""It is a Turk.""Yes, but aTurk?""Oh! it's--it's--a Mohammedan--""A what!--a Moham--""A Mohammedan--a robber on board ship.""On board ship!"He was not going to give up hisascendancy in the matter, hard as shepushed him; so he bethought him of a pack of old tales there-anent, andwent on to explain drily--"They go to the Baltic--toRussia--to salt human flesh.""Human flesh!""Yes, and sometimes, too, they seize vessels in the open sea and dotheir salting there."She fixed a pair of large,terrified eyes on him, which made the old mancontinue--"And it is especially for little girls they look. That meat is thefinest, and goes by tons down to the GrandTurk."Having played this last trump, he was going in again, but was stopped byher eager question--"Do they use a glass there on board?" And when he said theydid, sheslipped quickly by him through the door, and kept cautiously within aslong as the vessel was to be seen through the window-pane on thehorizon.Themoods of the two were for once reversed. The old man looked very slyover his work, whilst she was quiet and cowed. Once only she broke outangrily--"But whydoesn't the king get rid of them? If I was captain of aman-of-war, I'd--""Yes, Elizabeth, if you were captain of a man-of-war!--what then?"The child's conceptionsapparently reached no further than such mattersas these as yet. She had seen few human beings as she grew up, and inrecent years, after her grandmother'sdeath, she and her grandfather hadbeen the only regular inhabitants of the island. Every now and thenthere might perhaps come a boat on one errand oranother, and a coupleof times she had paid a visit to her maternal aunt on land, at Arendal.Her grandfather had taught her to read and write, and with whatshefound in the Bible and psalm-book, and in 'Exploits of Danish andNorwegian Naval Heroes,' a book in their possession, she had in a mannerlived pretty muchupon the anecdotes which in leisure moments she couldextract from that grandfather, so chary of his speech, about his sailorlife in his youth.They had besides, inthe little inner room, a small print, without aframe, of the action near the Heather Islands, in which he had takenpart. It represented the frigate Naiad, with thebrigs Samso, Kiel, andLolland, in furious conflict with the English ship of the line Dictator,which lay across the narrow harbour with the brig Calypso, andwaspounding the Naiad to pieces. The names of the ships were printedunderneath.On the print there was little to be seen but mast-heads andcannon-mouths,and a confusion of smoke, but in this had the child livedwhole years of her life; and many a time in fancy had she stood thereand fought the Englishman.Men-of-war and their officers had become thehighest conception of her fancy, and the dearest wish of her heart wasthat a man-of-war might some day pass sonear to Torungen that she wouldbe able to see distinctly everything on board.CHAPTER II.After old Jacob had fallen into ill health, lighterman Kristiansen usedtocome out oftener to Torungen with provisions and other necessaries;and his visits now became periodical.He was accompanied one autumn by his son SalvÃ©, ablack-haired,dark-eyed, handsome lad, with a sharp, clever face, who had worked inthe fishing-boats along the coast from his childhood almost, and had, infact,been brought up amongst its sunken rocks and reefs and breakers.He was something small in stature, perhaps; but what he wanted inrobustness he made up inreadiness and activity--qualities which stoodhim in good stead in the many quarrels into which his too ready tonguewas wont to bring him. He was eighteen years


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Sea-Wolf, by Jack LondonThis 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 Sea-WolfAuthor: Jack LondonRelease Date: December 24, 2010  [eBook #1074]First released: October 15, 1997Language:EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEA-WOLF***Transcribed from the 1917 William Heinemann editionby David Price, emailccx074@pglaf.org                               THE SEA-WOLF                                    BY                               JACKLONDON                                AUTHOR OF               âTHE CALL OF THE WILD,â âTHE FAITH OFMEN,â                                   ETC.                                * * * * *                            _POPULAR EDITION_.                                * * * **                                  LONDON                            WILLIAM HEINEMANN                                   1917                                * * * * *_First published_,_November_ 1904._New Impression_, _December_ 1904, _April_ 1908._Popular Edition_, _July_ 1910; _New Impressions_, _March_ 1912,_September_ 1912,_November_ 1913, _May_ 1915, _May_ 1916, _July_ 1917.                                * * * * *             _Copyright_, _London_, _William Heinemann_,1904CHAPTER II scarcely know where to begin, though I sometimes facetiously place thecause of it all to Charley Furusethâs credit.  He kept a summercottagein Mill Valley, under the shadow of Mount Tamalpais, and never occupiedit except when he loafed through the winter months and read NietzscheandSchopenhauer to rest his brain.  When summer came on, he elected to sweatout a hot and dusty existence in the city and to toil incessantly.  Hadit not beenmy custom to run up to see him every Saturday afternoon andto stop over till Monday morning, this particular January Monday morningwould not have found meafloat on San Francisco Bay.Not but that I was afloat in a safe craft, for the _Martinez_ was a newferry-steamer, making her fourth or fifth trip on the runbetweenSausalito and San Francisco.  The danger lay in the heavy fog whichblanketed the bay, and of which, as a landsman, I had littleapprehension.  In fact, Iremember the placid exaltation with which Itook up my position on the forward upper deck, directly beneath thepilot-house, and allowed the mystery of the fog tolay hold of myimagination.  A fresh breeze was blowing, and for a time I was alone inthe moist obscurityâyet not alone, for I was dimly conscious ofthepresence of the pilot, and of what I took to be the captain, in the glasshouse above my head.I remember thinking how comfortable it was, this division oflabour whichmade it unnecessary for me to study fogs, winds, tides, and navigation,in order to visit my friend who lived across an arm of the sea.  It wasgoodthat men should be specialists, I mused.  The peculiar knowledge ofthe pilot and captain sufficed for many thousands of people who knew nomore of the sea andnavigation than I knew.  On the other hand, insteadof having to devote my energy to the learning of a multitude of things, Iconcentrated it upon a few particularthings, such as, for instance, theanalysis of Poeâs place in American literatureâan essay of mine, by theway, in the current _Atlantic_.  Coming aboard, asI passed through thecabin, I had noticed with greedy eyes a stout gentleman reading the_Atlantic_, which was open at my very essay.  And there it was again,thedivision of labour, the special knowledge of the pilot and captain whichpermitted the stout gentleman to read my special knowledge on Poe whilethey carriedhim safely from Sausalito to San Francisco.A red-faced man, slamming the cabin door behind him and stumping out onthe deck, interrupted my reflections,though I made a mental note of thetopic for use in a projected essay which I had thought of calling âTheNecessity for Freedom: A Plea for theArtist.â  The red-faced man shot aglance up at the pilot-house, gazed around at the fog, stumped across thedeck and back (he evidently had artificial legs),and stood still by myside, legs wide apart, and with an expression of keen enjoyment on hisface.  I was not wrong when I decided that his days had been spenton thesea.âItâs nasty weather like this here that turns heads grey before theirtime,â he said, with a nod toward the pilot-house.âI had notthought there was any particular strain,â I answered.  âItseems as simple as A, B, C.  They know the direction by compass, thedistance, and the speed.  Ishould not call it anything more thanmathematical certainty.ââStrain!â he snorted.  âSimple as A, B, C!  Mathematical certainty!âHe seemedto brace himself up and lean backward against the air as hestared at me.  âHow about this here tide thatâs rushinâ out through theGolden Gate?âhe demanded, or bellowed, rather.  âHow fast is she ebbinâ?Whatâs the drift, eh?  Listen to that, will you?  A bell-buoy, and weârea-top ofit!  See âem alterinâ the course!âFrom out of the fog came the mournful tolling of a bell, and I could seethe pilot turning the wheel with greatrapidity.  The bell, which hadseemed straight ahead, was now sounding from the side.  Our own whistlewas blowing hoarsely, and from time to time the sound ofother whistlescame to us from out of the fog.âThatâs a ferry-boat of some sort,â the new-comer said, indicating awhistle off to the right.  âAndthere!  Dâye hear that?  Blown by mouth.Some scow schooner, most likely.  Better watch out, Mr. Schooner-man.Ah, I thought so.  Now hellâs apoppinâ for somebody!âThe unseen ferry-boat was blowing blast after blast, and the mouth-blownhorn was tooting in terror-stricken fashion.âAndnow theyâre payinâ their respects to each other and tryinâ to getclear,â the red-faced man went on, as the hurried whistling ceased.His face wasshining, his eyes flashing with excitement as he translatedinto articulate language the speech of the horns and sirens.  âThatâs asteam-siren a-goinâit over there to the left.  And you hear that fellowwith a frog in his throatâa steam schooner as near as I can judge,crawlinâ in from the Heads against thetide.âA shrill little whistle, piping as if gone mad, came from directly aheadand from very near at hand.  Gongs sounded on the_Martinez_.  Ourpaddle-wheels stopped, their pulsing beat died away, and then theystarted again.  The shrill little whistle, like the chirping of a cricketamid thecries of great beasts, shot through the fog from more to theside and swiftly grew faint and fainter.  I looked to my companion forenlightenment.âOne of themdare-devil launches,â he said.  âI almost wish weâd sunkhim, the little rip!  Theyâre the cause of more trouble.  And what goodare they?  Anyjackass gets aboard one and runs it from hell tobreakfast, blowinâ his whistle to beat the band and tellinâ the rest ofthe world to look out for him, becauseheâs cominâ and canât look out forhimself!  Because heâs cominâ!  And youâve got to look out, too!  Rightof way!  Commondecency!  They donât know the meaninâ of it!âI felt quite amused at his unwarranted choler, and while he stumpedindignantly up and down I fell todwelling upon the romance of the fog.And romantic it certainly wasâthe fog, like the grey shadow of infinitemystery, brooding over the whirling speck ofearth; and men, mere motesof light and sparkle, cursed with an insane relish for work, riding theirsteeds of wood and steel through the heart of the mystery,groping theirway blindly through the Unseen, and clamouring and clanging in confidentspeech the while their hearts are heavy with incertitude and fear.The voiceof my companion brought me back to myself with a laugh.  I toohad been groping and floundering, the while I thought I rode clear-eyedthrough themystery.âHello! somebody cominâ our way,â he was saying.  âAnd dâye hear that?Heâs cominâ fast.  Walking right along.  Guess hedonât hear us yet.Windâs in wrong direction.âThe fresh breeze was blowing right down upon us, and I could hear thewhistle plainly, off to one sideand a little ahead.âFerry-boat?â I asked.He nodded, then added, âOr he wouldnât be keepinâ up such a clip.â  Hegave a shortchuckle.  âTheyâre gettinâ anxious up there.âI glanced up.  The captain had thrust his head and shoulders out of thepilot-house, and was staringintently into the fog as though by sheerforce of will he could penetrate it.  His face was anxious, as was theface of my companion, who had stumped over to therail and was gazingwith a like intentness in the direction of the invisible danger.Then everything happened, and with inconceivable rapidity.  The fogseemed tobreak away as though split by a wedge, and the bow of asteamboat emerged, trailing fog-wreaths on either side like seaweed onthe snout of Leviathan.  I couldsee the pilot-house and a white-beardedman leaning partly out of it, on his elbows.  He was clad in a blueuniform, and I remember noting how trim and quiet hewas.  His quietness,under the circumstances, was terrible.  He accepted Destiny, marched handin hand with it, and coolly measured the stroke.  As he leanedthere, heran a calm and speculative eye over us, as though to determine theprecise point of the collision, and took no notice whatever when ourpilot, white withrage, shouted, âNow youâve done it!âOn looking back, I realize that the remark was too obvious to makerejoinder necessary.âGrab hold ofsomething and hang on,â the red-faced man said to me.  Allhis bluster had gone, and he seemed to have caught the contagion ofpreternaturalcalm.  âAnd listen to the women scream,â he saidgrimlyâalmost bitterly, I thought, as though he had been through theexperience before.The vesselscame together before I could follow his advice.  We must havebeen struck squarely amidships, for I saw nothing, the strange steamboathaving passed beyond myline of vision.  The _Martinez_ heeled over,sharply, and there was a crashing and rending of timber.  I was thrownflat on the wet deck, and before I couldscramble to my feet I heard thescream of the women.  This it was, I am certain,âthe most indescribableof blood-curdling sounds,âthat threw me into apanic.  I remembered thelife-preservers stored in the cabin, but was met at the door and sweptbackward by a wild rush of men and women.  What happened inthe next fewminutes I do not recollect, though I have a clear remembrance of pullingdown life-preservers from the overhead racks, while the red-facedmanfastened them about the bodies of an hysterical group of women.  Thismemory is as distinct and sharp as that of any picture I have seen.  Itis a picture, andI can see it now,âthe jagged edges of the hole in theside of the cabin, through which the grey fog swirled and eddied; theempty upholstered seats, littered


<title>Buried Script at IMSDb.</title><meta name="description" content="Buried script at the Internet Movie Script Database."><metaname="keywords" content="Buried script, Buried movie script, Buried film script"><meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"/><meta name="HandheldFriendly" content="true"><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"><metahttp-equiv="Content-Language" content="EN"><meta name=objecttype CONTENT=Document><meta name=ROBOTS CONTENT="INDEX, FOLLOW"><metaname=Subject CONTENT="Movie scripts, Film scripts"><meta name=rating CONTENT=General><meta name=distribution content=Global><metaname=revisit-after CONTENT="2 days"><link href="/style.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css">

     <ahref="https://www.imsdb.com" title="The Internet Movie Script Database">	    <tdbgcolor="#FF0000">
The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb)

     <tdbackground="/images/reel.gif" height="13" colspan="2"><imgsrc="/images/logo_middle.gif" border="0">

 The web'slargest
movie script resource!

           Search IMSDb
<form method="post" action="/search.php">             <divalign="center">                <input type="text" name="search_query" maxlength="255" size="15">                <input type="submit" value="Go!"name="submit">
	</form>

Alphabetical
        #         A        <ahref="/alphabetical/B">B        C        D        <ahref="/alphabetical/E">E        F        G        <ahref="/alphabetical/H">H
         I        J        <ahref="/alphabetical/K">K        L        M        <ahref="/alphabetical/N">N        O        P        <ahref="/alphabetical/Q">Q
         R        S        <ahref="/alphabetical/T">T        U        V        <ahref="/alphabetical/W">W        X        Y        <ahref="/alphabetical/Z">Z

Genre
 Action Adventure <ahref="/genre/Animation">Animation
 Comedy Crime <ahref="/genre/Drama">Drama
 Family Fantasy <ahref="/genre/Film-Noir">Film-Noir
 Horror Musical <ahref="/genre/Mystery">Mystery
 Romance Sci-Fi <ahref="/genre/Short">Short
 Thriller War <ahref="/genre/Western">Western

  Sponsor

<tablewidth="100%" border=0 cellpadding=2 cellspacing=0 class=body>
TV Transcripts
 <ahref="/TV/Futurama.html">Futurama
 Seinfeld
 SouthPark
 Stargate SG-1
 Lost
 The 4400

International
 <ahref="/language/French">French scripts

<tdclass=heading>Movie Software

Rip from DVD
 Rip Blu-Ray

Latest Comments
Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10
Star Wars: TheForce Awakens10/10
Batman Begins9/10
Collateral10/10
Jackie Brown8/10

Movie Chat
 <form class="yellbox"action="https://www.yellbox.com/addmessage.php" method="post" target="ybframe" name="yellform">  <input type="hidden" name="sub_username"value="imsdb"> <input class="yellbox" name="sub_name" value="Name" size=21 maxlength=10 onFocus="if(this.value == 'Name')this.value = '';return;">
 <textarea class="yellbox" cols=15 rows=4 name="sub_message" wrap onFocus="if(this.value == 'Message')this.value = '';return;">Message</textarea>

 <button onClick="javascript:makeNewWindow(); return false;"><imgsrc="https://www.yellbox.com/images/smiley.gif" width=16 height=16></button> <button type="submit" value="Post" onClick="returnclearMessageBox();">Yell !</button>
</form>

      ALLSCRIPTS

                                    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