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 “Maybe.”

“I’d rather do that than to have this one. Have you learned my face good?” She moved again, quickly, returning to her former position. She turned her face up. “Learn it good.” ''Now, this Halim was an old man, so old that he had forgotten much. He had held this king on his first pony, walking patiently beside him through the streets and paths; he had stood between the young prince and all those forms of sudden and complete annihilation which the young prince had engendered after the ingenuous fashion of boys; he had got himself between the young prince and the inevitable parental admonishment which these entailed. And he sat with his gray hands on his thin knees and his gray head bent above his hands while dusk came across the simple immaculate domes of the city and into the court, stilling the sound of birds so that the lilac silence of the court was teased only by the plashing of water, and on among the grave restlessness of the palms. After a while Halim spoke.—Ah, Lord, in the Georgian hills I loved this maid myself, when I was a lad. But that was long ago, and she is dead.''

She lay still against his breast while sunset died like brass horns across the water. She said, without moving:

“You’re a funny man I wonder if I could sculp? Suppose I learn your face? Well, don’t, then. I’d just as soon lie still. You’re a lot more comfortable to lie on than you look. Only I’d think you’d be getting tired now—I’m no humming bird. Aren’t you tired of holding me?” she persisted. He moved his head at last and looked at her again with his caverned uncomfortable eyes, and she tried to do something with her eyes, assuming at the same time an attitude, a kind of leering invitation, so palpably theatrical and false that it but served to emphasize that grave, hard sexlessness of hers.

“What are you trying to do?” he asked quietly, “vamp me?”

title: Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/279


text:
Page:The Net of Faith.pdf/627

Says Saint Paul about the servants:

(:The pagan ruler, says Paul, is the rod of God's anger, and therefore His servant.:) It would be little virtue, akin to pagan virtue, if the Christians were doing good only because of fearing the sword. Before thia (passage) Paul wrote them about fear saying:

He who does good because of the fear of the sword May Save his physical life, (from the threat of the sword). Therefore I have said that Saint Paul, considering the inclination of this people to do good works by the grace of God, spoke about the sword on account of an especial carefulness and goodwill toward the lords to whom they were sub- Rom. 13:4,.

Rom. 8: 15–17,.

209*

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: Page:The Net of Faith.pdf/627


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Page:Papuan Campaign; The Buna-Sanananda Operation - Armed Forces in Action (1944).djvu/49

 battalion was to move west along the New Strip to deal with the opposition along its northern edge, and only one battalion was to advance north along the coast through the Plantation. The battalion in reserve would be ready to support either attack. Bren-gun carriers which had been counted on to spearhead the attack failed to arrive because of a shortage in shipping.

The infantry, attacking at dawn, made almost no progress. Leading the push north through the Plantation, A Company, 128th Infantry, ran into a log barricade on its right, while its left platoon was held up by automatic fire. It tried to knock out the barricade by mortar fire, but failed. Then a 37-mm gun was brought up for direct fire on the obstacle, but still the company could not advance. By noon the men were digging in where they were, and at nightfall B Company relieved them squad by squad.

Two companies of the 1st Battalion, 126th Infantry, pushed toward the eastern end of the New Strip but fared little better. C Company, advancing west on the south edge, was stopped when it was halfway along the strip by heavy fire coming from the north across the open field. It was apparent that Japanese defenses, concealed where the Duropa Plantation surrounds the spur which juts off northeast from the strip, commanded all the neighboring cleared ground. B Company reached the southeastern tip of the New Strip but got no farther.

At the conclusion of the attack on 30 November, the Warren Force had not penetrated the main line of enemy defensive positions, which was not to be cracked until tanks were employed on 18 December. Through the Duropa Plantation, from the sea to the north end of the little spur off the New Strip, the Japanese had a strong line of bunkers, each surrounded by individual emplacements linked with the main bunker by trenches. The western end of this line, just northwest of the spur, formed an almost impregnable strongpoint with fields of fire to the east across the spur, to the south across the New Strip, and to the west across the open ground north of the New Strip.

In many ways this strongpoint was the key defensive position in the Plantation area. As long as the enemy held it, the line to the coast could not be turned on its western extremity; frontal assault by infantry supported only by mortar and artillery fire proved unsuccessful time and time again. When the enemy defenses at the bridge on the Simemi-Buna trail over Simemi Creek were explored in the 34


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35


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 while he moved his hand over her face, slowly and firmly, but lightly. ''It is like a thing heard, not as a music of brass and plucked strings is heard and a pallid voluption of dancing girls among the strings; nay, Halim, it is no pale virgin from Tal with painted fingernails and honey and myrrh cunningly beneath her tongue. Nor is it a scent as of myrrh and roses to soften and make to flow like water the pith in a man’s bones, nor yet—Stay, Halim: Once I was once I was? Is not this a true thing? It is dawn, in the high cold hills, dawn ts like a wind in the clean hills, and on the wind comes the thin piping of shepherds, and the smell of dawn and of almond trees on the wind. Is not that a true thing?—Ay, Lord. I told thee that. I was there.''

“Are you a petter, as well as a he-man?” she asked, becoming taut again and rolling upward her exposed eye. His hand moved slowly along her cheekbone and jaw, pausing, tracing a muscle, moving on. ''Then hark thee, Halim: I desire a thing that, had I not been at all, becoming aware of it I would awake; that, dead, remembering it I would cling to this world though it be as a beggar in a tattered robe; yea, rather that would I than a king among kings amid the soft and scented sounds of paradise. Find me this, O Halim.'' “Say,” she said curiously, no longer alarmed, “what are you doing that for?”

“Learning your face.”

“Learning my face? Are you going to make me in marble?” she asked quickly, raising herself. “Can you do a marble of my head?”

“Yes.”

“Can I have it?” she thrust herself away, watching his face. “Make two of them, then,” she suggested. And then: “If you won’t do that, give me the other one, the one you’ve got, and I’ll pose for this one without charging you anything. How about that?”

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text:
Page:The Net of Faith.pdf/629

210* ordinated. But had this people been living in the Promised Lami, like the sons of Israels in their days of freedom, when they head no secular lord with authority over them, Saint Paul would never have written that they ought to do good and to eschew evil in the fear of the sword. ror they had too good a rule given them by the apostles, amd had no need to be prodded to goodness by the authority of the sword. (:Paul certainly did not act contrary to the feelings of Samuel who regretted that the Jews preferred a king to freedom under God. He simply urged them to show Christian submission to their rulers, and to suffer their injustice with CHristlikeChristlike [sic] patience.:) The non-Christians, fearing the retribution ot the sword, do not transgress the laws of their king. :(In this way the kings are serving God:) for they preserve from annihilation the fallen generation (:keeping it for God's own time.:) God alone knows why he wants to have this generation saved and maintained by paganism.

Rom. 13:4,.

Rom. 8: 15–17,.

1-Sam. 8; cf. chaps XXVII, pp.132*ff.

1-Sam. 8; cf. chaps XXVII, pp.132*ff.

title: Page:The Net of Faith.pdf/629


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 next few days, it was discovered that another strongpoint had been constructed there. The cross fire between the bunkers at the bridge and the bunkers at the east end of the New Strip was to make attack north across the open ground of the strip so costly as to be impractical. Finally, Allied naval support was not available to carry out an amphibious landing farther up in the Plantation.

Meanwhile, a new commander for the forces attacking Buna was on the way. Lt. Gen. Robert L. Eichelberger, Commander of the U. S. I Corps, and staff officers landed at Dobodura on the morning of 1 December, after conferring with General MacArthur in Port Moresby the previous evening. At 1300 on the same day he assumed command of the Allied forces operating east of the Girua River.

The following morning General Eichelberger and his staff came to the front and watched another attack all along the line. The Urbana Force again attacked Buna Village and again failed, although G Company, 126th Infantry, under Lt. Cladie A. Bailey, mopped up a Japanese command post and supporting bunkers and then advanced our right flank to Entrance Creek. On the Warren front, the two main enemy positions, one at the bridge over Simemi Creek and the other in Duropa Plantation, stood as firmly as ever. B Company, 126th Infantry, got men within 25 yards of enemy positions in the Plantation. They could not penetrate the final protective lines, where they ran into well-coordinated machine-gun fire, and were forced to withdraw to the southeastern tip of the strip. At the Simemi bridge, A Company, 128th Infantry, tried grenades, 60-mm mortar fire, and infiltration, but could not reduce the bunkers or get men through the murderous cross fire of enemy light machine guns so sited that they swept the level terrain. At the close of the day the Japanese positions in the key areas were as strong as they had been when first assaulted on 19 November.

Even before the attack on 2 December, our troops were tired and dispirited, and this last repulse reduced their confidence to a low ebb, probably the lowest of the entire campaign. Two weeks of fighting had not even dented the Japanese line. Rations had been so short that troops sometimes received only one-sixth of a "C" ration per day. Torrential rain alternated with jungle heat. The insects seemed as determined as the enemy. Casualties from disease and wounds had reduced all battalions to approximately half strength. 36


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 Bet you came on this party to save food. I’ll give you twenty dollars, seventeen in cash.” He continued to gaze at her as though he had not heard. —and the king spoke to a slave crouching at his feet—Halim—Lord?—I possess all things, do I not?—Thou art the Son of Morning, Lord—Then listen, Halim: I have a desire— “Twenty-five,” she said, shaking his arm.

“No.”

“No, no, no, no!” she hammered both brown fists on the rail. “You make me so damn mad! Can’t you say anything except No? You—you—” she glared at him with her angry tanned face and her grave opaque eyes, and used that phrase Jenny had traded her.

He took her by the elbows, and she became taut, still watching his face: he could feel the small hard muscles in her arms. “What are you going to do?” she asked. He raised her from the floor, and she began to struggle. But he carried her implacably across the deck and sat on a deckchair and turned her face downward across his knees. She clawed and kicked in a silent fury, but he held her, and she ceased to struggle, and set her teeth into his leg through the gritty cloth of his trousers, and clung like a raging puppy while he drew her skirt tight across her thighs and spanked her, good.

“I meant it!” she cried, raging and tearless, when he had dragged her teeth loose and set her upright on his lap. There was a small wet oval on his trouserleg. “I meant it!” she repeated, taut and raging.

“I know you meant it. That’s why I spanked you. Not because you said it: what you said doesn’t mean anything because you’ve got the genders backward. I spanked you because you meant it, whether you knew what to say or not.”

Suddenly she became lax, and wept, and he held her against his breast. But she ceased crying as abruptly, and lay quiet

title: Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/277


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Cartographic Section, Diss Unit by J.R. Hogan

Reorganization of the Allied forces in the Buna area and regrouping of units which had become badly intermixed during the fighting of the past 14 days followed promptly on General Eichelberger's assumption of command. Col. (now Brig. Gen.) Clarence A. Martin became commander of the Warren Force. The 1st Battalion, 126th Infantry, took over the lines on the Simemi-Buna trail south of the bridge; the 1st Battalion, 128th Infantry, occupied the Plantation positions; and the 3d Battalion, 128th Infantry, went into reserve on the coast behind the right flank. Minor reshuffling on the Urbana front was accompanied by the assignment of Col. John E. Grose as commander there. General Harding, Divisional Commander, was relieved by General Waldron. Elements of Headquarters, I Corps, were merged with Headquarters, 32d Division, and henceforth called Buna Force Headquarters, located near Simemi village. Headquarters of the Advanced New Guinea Force, under General Herring, who commanded all troops north of the Owen Stanley Mountains, was now at Soputa. Late in December it was moved to the neighborhood of Dobodura.

Reorganization of the supply system accompanied the front-line changes and began to show results in increased shipment of supplies 37


text:
Page:Kalevala (Kirby 1907) v2.djvu/193

Runo XLII]

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen

Felt the very greatest sadness,

And he spoke the words which follow:

“Woe to me, this day unhappy,

That upon the lake I travel,

On this wide expanse of water,

That I tread on wood that’s rolling,

And on planks that shake beneath me.

Now my hair has seen the tempest,

And my hair begins to shudder,

And my beard ill days has witnessed,

Which it saw upon the water,

Yet have we but seldom witnessed,

Such a storm as rages round us,

Witnessed such tremendous breakers,

Or have seen such foam-capped billows.

Let the wind be now my refuge,

And the waves have mercy on me.”

Väinämöinen, old and steadfast,

Heard his words, and thus responded:

“In the boat’s no place for weeping,

Room is none for lamentation,

Weeping helps not in misfortune,

Howling, not when days are evil.”

Then he spoke the words which follow,

And he sang and thus expressed him:

“Water, now restrain thy children,

And, O wave, do thou restrain them.

Ahto, do thou calm the billows,

Vellamo, o’ercome the waters,

That they splash not on our timbers,

Nor may overwhelm my boat-ribs.

“Rise, O wind, aloft to heaven,

And among the clouds disport thee,

To thy race, where thou wast nurtured,

To thy family and kindred.

Do not harm this wooden vessel,

Sink thou not this boat of pinewood.

Rather fell burnt trees in clearings,

On the slopes o’erthrow the pine-trees.”

title: Page:Kalevala (Kirby 1907) v2.djvu/193


text:
Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/276

 “She couldn’t? What’d he done to her? Locked her up?”

“Maybe she didn’t want to,” he suggested.

“Huh.” And then: “She was an awful goof, then. Was he fool enough to believe she didn’t want to?”

“He didn’t take any chances. He had her locked up. In a book.”

“In a book?” she repeated. Then she comprehended. “Oh That’s what you’ve done, isn’t it? With that marble girl without any arms and legs you made? Hadn’t you rather have a live one? Say, you haven’t got any sweetheart or anything, have you?”

“No,” he answered. “How did you know?”

“You look so bad. Shabby. But that’s the reason: no woman is going to waste time on a man that’s satisfied with a piece of wood or something. You ought to get out of yourself. You'll either bust all of a sudden some day, or just dry up How old are you?”

“Thirty-six,” he told her. She said:

“Gabriel’s pants. Thirty-six years old, and living in a hole with a piece of rock, like a dog with a dry bone. Gabriel’s pants. Why don’t you get rid of it?” But he only stared down at her. “Give it to me, won’t you?”

“No.”

“I’ll buy it from you, then.”

“No.”

“Give you—” she looked at him with sober detachment. “Give you seventeen dollars for it. Cash.”

“No.”

She looked at him with a sort of patient exasperation. “Well, what are you going to do with it? Have you got any reason for keeping it? You didn’t steal it, did you? Don’t tell me you haven’t got any use for seventeen dollars, living like you do. I bet you haven’t got five dollars to your name, right now.

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text:
Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/275

 “Not again?” she said with foreboding.

“I’m afraid so,” the other answered unhappily.

Mr. Talliaferro hearkened also. “Perhaps I’d better ” Mrs. Maurier fixed him with her eye, and Mrs. Wiseman said:

“Poor fellows. They have had to stand a great deal in the last few days.”

“Boys will be boys,” Mr. Talliaferro added with docile regret, listening with yearning to that vaguely convivial sound. Mrs. Maurier listened to it, coldly detached and speculative. She said:

“But we are moving again, anyway.”

The sun was setting across the scudding water: the water was shot goldenly with it, as was the gleaming mahogany-and-brass elegance of the yacht, and the silver wings in his heart were touched with pink and gold while he stood and looked downward upon the coarse crown of her head and at her body’s grave and sexless replica of his own attitude against the rail—an unconscious aping both comical and heart-shaking.

“Do you know,” he asked, “what Cyrano said once?” ''Once there was a king who possessed all things. All things were his: power, and glory, and wealth, and splendor and ease. And so he sat at dusk in his marble court filled with the sound of water and of birds and surrounded by the fixed gesturing of palms, looking out across the hushed fading domes of his city and beyond, to the dreaming lilac barriers of his world.''

“No: what?” she asked. But he only looked down upon her with his cavernous uncomfortable eyes. “What did he say?” she repeated. And then: “Was he in love with her?”

“I think so Yes, he was in love with her. She couldn’t leave him, either. Couldn’t go away from him at all.”

title: Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/275


text:
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 golden bell hung in my heart). “The man who brought me back was the same one who brought them back yesterday.”

“He was?” said Fairchild. “He’s doing a landoffice business with deserters, ain’t he?”

“Yes,” Gordon answered. And he went on down the passage with a singing lightness in his heart, a bright silver joy like wings.

The deck was deserted, as on that other afternoon. But he waited patiently in the hushed happiness of his dream and his arrogant bitter heart was young as any yet, as forgetful of yesterday and to-morrow; and soon, as though in answer to it, she came barelegged and molded by the wind of motion, and her grave surprise ebbed and she thrust him a hard tanned hand.

“So you ran away,” she said.

“And so did you,” he answered after an interval filled with a thing all silver and clean and fine.

“That’s right. We’re sure the herrings on this boat, aren’t we?”

“Herrings?”

“Guts, you know,” she explained. She looked at him gravely from beneath the coarse dark bang of her hair. “But you came back,” she accused.

“And so did you,” he reminded her from amid his soundless silver wings.

“But were moving again, at last,” Mrs. Maurier repeated at intervals, with a detached air, listening to a sound somehow vaguely convivial that welled at intervals up the companionway. Presently Mrs. Wiseman remarked the hostess’ preoccupied air and she too ceased, hearkening.

title: Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/274


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Page:Kalevala (Kirby 1907) v2.djvu/194

182

Then the lively Lemminkainen,

He the handsome Kaukomieli,

Spoke aloud the words which follow:

“Come, O eagle, thou from Turja,

Do thou bring three feathers with thee,

Three, O eagle, two, O raven,

To protect this little vessel,

To protect this bad boat’s timbers.”

He himself enlarged the bulwarks,

Fixed the timbers in their places,

And to these fresh boards he added,

And to fathom-height he raised them,

Higher than the waves were leaping,

Nor upon his beard they splashed him.

All his work was now completed,

And the bulwarks raised protecting,

Though the winds might blow most fiercely,

And the waves might beat in fury,

And the foam be wildly seething,

And like hillocks be uprising.

, Pohjola’s old Mistress,

Called together all her forces,

title: Page:Kalevala (Kirby 1907) v2.djvu/194


text:
Page:Annals of Augusta County.djvu/45

 that he contributed in an equal degree with Sumpter and Marion to the liberation of the Southern States. After the war he served in the Legislature of South Carolina and the United States Congress. "This great and good military chieftain," as General Lee styles him, died August 11, 1817, at his seat in Pendleton District, South Carolina, which had been the scene of one of his earliest Indian battles. "He was," says Lee, "a sincere believer in the Christian religion, and a devout observer of the Presbyterian form of worship."

The first will presented in the County Court of Augusta was that of Robert Wilson. It was executed November 3, 1745, and was proved and admitted to record February 11, 1746, not 1745, as the record is made to say by a blundering copyist.

The first deed recorded, dated December 9, 1745, was from Andrew Pickens to William McPheeters, and conveyed twelve and one-half acres of land in consideration of five shillings. Deed Books, 1, 2 and 3, are occupied almost exclusively by the conveyances of William Beverley to various persons.

Beverley no doubt made many deeds previous to 1745, which were recorded in Orange; and from 1745 to 1755, no less than one hundred and sixty six of his deeds were recorded in Augusta. He never conveyed the two acres promised to the justices in 1745; but in 1749 he donated much more land to the county, as we shall see.

From the papers in an early suit we have ascertained the prices in the county of several articles in the year 1745. Money was then, and for a long time afterward, counted in pounds, shillings, and pence, one pound, Virginia currency, being $3.33⅓. We state the prices here in the present currency. The price of sugar was 16⅔ cents per pound, two nutmegs 22 cents, half a pound of powder 33⅓ cents, one

title: Page:Annals of Augusta County.djvu/45


text: Kalevala (Kirby 1907)/Runo 42

title: Kalevala (Kirby 1907)/Runo 42


text: Page:Madagascar, with other poems - Davenant (1638).djvu/143


text: Page:Madagascar, with other poems - Davenant (1638).djvu/144


text:
Volksmährchen der Deutschen

 * Volume 1 (1782)
 * "Die Bücher der Chronika der drey Schwestern" ('The Books of the Chronicles of the Three Sisters')
 * "Richilde" ('Richilda')
 * "Rolands Knappen" ('Roland's Squires')
 * Volume 2 (1783)
 * "Legenden von Rübezahl" ('Legends of Rübezahl')
 * "Die Nymphe des Brunnens" ('The Nymph of the Spring')
 * Volume 3 (1784)
 * "Libussa" ('Libussa')
 * "Der geraubte Schleier" ('The Stolen Veil')
 * "Liebestreue" ('Love-Loyalty')
 * Volume 4 (1786)
 * "Stumme Liebe" ('Mute Love')
 * "Ulrich mit dem Bühel" ('Ulrich with the Hump')
 * "Dämon Amor" ('Demon Cupid')
 * Volume 5 (1787)
 * "Melechsala" ('Melechsala')
 * "Der Schazgräber" ('The Treasure Seeker')
 * "Die Entführung" ('The Elopement')

title: Volksmährchen der Deutschen


text: Page:Madagascar, with other poems - Davenant (1638).djvu/145


text:
Page:Papuan Campaign; The Buna-Sanananda Operation - Armed Forces in Action (1944).djvu/53

 by air and water and quicker distribution to front-line units. The Bren-gun carriers, with Australian crews, arrived, and orders were prepared for an advance on the morning of 5 December. On the Warren front all three battalions were to take part. While two followed the Brens north through the Plantation, the third was to take the bridge over Simemi Creek (Sketch No. 2, page 37).

Early on the morning of the 5th, six A-20’s made a bombing run from the Old Strip to Cape Endaiadere, and all the artillery in the Buna area concentrated its fire 500 yards ahead of our troops in the Plantation. At 0842 L Company, 128th Infantry, moved forward with the Brens on a 200-yard front while our machine guns strafed the trees to comb out the snipers. The presence of the Bren-gun carriers proved a complete surprise to the enemy, but he quickly rallied. As the Brens swung to the west to rake the enemy front lines, snipers in the trees picked off the crews from above; Japanese soldiers on the ground tossed hand grenades over the sides of the carriers. Within 30 minutes the Brens were immobilized. Fire from the front and from the strongpoint to the left pinned down the infantry, and by 1000 our men had withdrawn to their original lines. The Brens

38


text:
Legenden von Rübezahl: Die Erste

 * "Legends Concerning Number-Nip: Legend I", translated by Thomas Beddoes in Popular Tales of the Germans (1791)
 * "The History of the Lord of the Giant Mountains", translated anonymously in The Diverting History of Number Nip (1804)
 * "The King of the Hartz", translated anonymously in The Pocket Magazine (1827)
 * "Legends of Rübezahl: I. The Princess’s Flight", translated by Adolf Zytogorski in Select Popular Tales from the German of Musaeus (1845)
 * "Legends of Rubezahl: The First Legend", translated by William Hazlitt in Legends of Rubezahl, and Other Tales (1845)
 * "Legend of the Turnip-Counter", translated by P. F. Johnson in Hutchings’ California Magazine (1859)
 * "The Origin and Nomenclature of Playing Cards", translated by William Bell in The Art-Journal (1861)
 * "The Gnome King and the Princess of Silesia", translated by Thomas Beddoes and Mark Lemon in Legends of Number Nip (1863)
 * "Rübezahl", translated by Leonora Blanche Lang in The Brown Fairy Book (1904)

title: Legenden von Rübezahl: Die Erste


text:
Legenden von Rübezahl: Zwote Legende

 * "Legends Concerning Number-Nip: Legend II", translated by Thomas Beddoes in Popular Tales of the Germans (1791)
 * "The History of the Lord of the Giant Mountains", translated anonymously in The Diverting History of Number Nip (1804)
 * "The Gnome of the Hartz Mountains", translated anonymously in Endless Entertainment (1825)
 * "The King of the Hartz and the Tailor of Liebenau", translated anonymously in The Pocket Magazine (1827)
 * "Rubezahl; or, The Mountain Spirit", translated by William Henry Fox Talbot in Legendary Tales, in Verse and Prose (1830)
 * "Legends of Rübezahl: II. The Rescued Lover", translated by Adolf Zytogorski in Select Popular Tales from the German of Musaeus (1845)
 * "Legends of Rubezahl: Legend the Second", translated by William Hazlitt in Legends of Rubezahl, and Other Tales (1845)
 * "The Turnip-Counter: Second Legend", translated by P. F. Johnson in Hutchings’ California Magazine (1859–1860)
 * "The Gnome and the Tailor", translated by Thomas Beddoes and Mark Lemon in Legends of Number Nip (1863)

title: Legenden von Rübezahl: Zwote Legende


text:
Legenden von Rübezahl: Dritte Legende

 * "Legends Concerning Number-Nip: Legend III", translated by Thomas Beddoes in Popular Tales of the Germans (1791)
 * "The Interesting Pranks of Number Nip", translated anonymously in The Story of the Doctor of Smiedberg (1804)
 * "Rubezahl", translated by S. in Ladies Companion and Literary Expositor (1837)
 * "Honest Guy", translated anonymously in The Annualette (1841)
 * "A Legend of Ruebezahl, the Spirit of the Silesian Mountains", translated by Caroline Mehitable Sawyer in Universalist Union (1845)
 * "Legends of Rübezahl: III. The Countryman and his Family", translated by Adolf Zytogorski in Select Popular Tales from the German of Musaeus (1845)
 * "Legends of Rubezahl: Legend the Third", translated by William Hazlitt in Legends of Rubezahl, and Other Tales (1845)
 * "The Turnip-Counter: Third Legend", translated by P. F. Johnson in Hutchings’ California Magazine (1860)
 * "The Gnome and his Debtor", translated by Thomas Beddoes and Mark Lemon in Legends of Number Nip (1863)

title: Legenden von Rübezahl: Dritte Legende


text:
Legenden von Rübezahl: Vierte Legende

 * "Legends Concerning Number-Nip: Legend IV", translated by Thomas Beddoes in Popular Tales of the Germans (1791)
 * "The Interesting Pranks of Number Nip", translated anonymously in The Story of the Doctor of Smiedberg (1804)
 * "Legends of Rubezahl: Legend the Fourth", translated by William Hazlitt in Legends of Rubezahl, and Other Tales (1845)
 * "Number Nip and the Glassman", translated by Thomas Beddoes and Mark Lemon in Legends of Number Nip (1863)

title: Legenden von Rübezahl: Vierte Legende


text:
Legenden von Rübezahl: Fünfte Legende

 * "Legends Concerning Number-Nip: Legend V", translated by Thomas Beddoes in Popular Tales of the Germans (1791)
 * The Journey to Carlsbad, translated anonymously (1805)
 * "The Adventures of the Countess Cecilia and the Mountain Spirit Numbernips", translated anonymously in The Annualette (1841)
 * "Legends of Rubezahl: Legend the Fifth", translated by William Hazlitt in Legends of Rubezahl, and Other Tales (1845)
 * "The Headless Rogue and the Countess", translated by Thomas Beddoes and Mark Lemon in Legends of Number Nip (1863)

title: Legenden von Rübezahl: Fünfte Legende


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 lay deserted out in front and were stripped of their weapons by the Japanese before nightfall.

The 1st Battalion, 128th Infantry, moved up to the left of the 3d Battalion and attacked north across the eastern end of the New Strip toward the Japanese strongpoint. Under Lt. Samuel J. Scott, A Company made its way across the strip by noon and pushed on toward the spur. B Company under Lt. Milan J. Bloecher then went in on the left to cross the strip just west of the spur. At 1400 it had reached the south edge of the strip and set up its light machine guns on the left to protect the crossing. The soldiers crawled out in the fairly high grass, only to meet very heavy sniper fire when they reached a bare spot in the middle of the New Strip. The heat of the sun in the tall grass was terrific; the crack of a sniper's shot or a short burst from an enemy light machine gun followed any incautious movement. By 1700 the men of both A and B Companies were exhausted. At nightfall B Company reassembled on the south edge of the New Strip. The Antitank Platoon of the 1st Battalion, now constituted as a rifle unit, crawled up to relieve A Company in the Plantation just south of the spur.

The 1st Battalion, 126th Infantry, was meanwhile attacking the bunker area at the bridge over Simemi Creek. Fire from mortars and 37-mm guns forced the Japanese out of some of their positions east of the bridge. Then A Company and elements of C Company closed for an assault, but machine-gun fire on their left flank forced their withdrawal to a line about 200 yards south of the bridge. When artillery fire failed to reduce the enemy defenses, frontal attack was given up and B Company, relieving A on the line in the afternoon, tried to bypass the strongpoint by infiltrating across the creek south-west of the bridge. The attempt was frustrated by deep water and impassable swamp. No further gains were made during the day on that sector.

On the Urbana front, the 2d Battalion, 126th Infantry, was given the task of pushing through to the sea, thus cutting off Buna Village from the Mission (Sketch No. 3, page 40). The 2d Battalion, 128th Infantry, was to protect both flanks of the 126th. The infantry attacked at 1030 after an artillery and mortar concentration. For the first 30 minutes it met little opposition as it advanced cautiously through the jungle. Then the Cannon Company, 128th Infantry, 39


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 Sketch No. 3

Cartographic Section, Diss Unit by J.R. Hogan

pushing ahead on the left along the Girua River, ran into mortar fire as it came out in the open. It stopped and sent a patrol toward the Village, but machine-gun fire almost at once pinned the patrol to the ground. Until late afternoon there was no further advance in this zone.

In the middle of the line, E Company, 126th Infantry, skirted the Village in such close contact with the enemy that little supporting fire was possible. G Company advanced on the right flank of E Company, and one platoon of G had driven to the sea by 1330. The platoon established itself on the beach between the maze of Japanese tunnel and pillbox positions at Buna Mission and another maze at Buna Village. Several enemy counterattacks were repulsed. By occupying this point, the platoon cut the Village from the Mission area, where the Japanese had a pool of troops and supplies to reinforce the Village. The platoon leader was German-born S/Sgt. Herman J. Bottcher, who had served in the Loyalist International Brigade in the 40


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 Spanish Civil War; for his outstanding accomplishment in this action he was made a captain.

General Eichelberger spent the entire day at the front; both his aide and General Waldron were wounded during the course of the attack. He sent two platoons of F Company to help E Company hold the line toward the Village. By nightfall the wedge to the sea was firmly established. For the first time since the campaign began, the Japanese line had been broken.

41


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 party and said Dawson Fairchild, he agreed. Dawson and Gordon—you see? And so I thought—”

Fairchild began to laugh again. He laughed steadily, trying to say something. “And so—and so he comes back and sp-spends—” Again that hysterical note came into his laughter and his hands trembled, clinking the bottle against the glass and sloshing a spoonful of the liquor onto the floor “and spends He comes back, you know, and spends half a day looking—looking for his own bububod—”

The Semitic man rose and took the bottle and glass from him and half led, half thrust him into his bunk. “You sit down and drink this.” Fairchild drank the whisky obediently. The Semitic man turned to Gordon again. “What made you come back? Not just because you heard Dawson was drowned, was it?”

Gordon stood against the wall, mudstained and silent. He raised his head and stared at them, and through them, with his harsh, uncomfortable stare. Fairchild touched the Semitic man’s knee warningly.

“That’s neither here nor there,” he said. “The question is, Shall we or shall we not get drunk? I kind of think we’ve got to, myself.”

“Yes,” the other agreed. “It looks like it’s up to us. Gordon ought to celebrate his resurrection, anyway.”

“No,” Gordon answered, “I don’t want any.” The Semitic man protested, but again Fairchild gripped him silent, and when Gordon turned toward the door, he rose and followed him into the passage.

“She came back too, you know,” he said.

Gordon looked down at the shorter man with his lean bearded face, his lonely hawk’s face arrogant with shyness and pride. “I know it,” he answered (your name is like a little

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 polite disgust, breaking the spell, “or do you want to row around some more?”

Fairchild went immoderately into hysterical laughter.

The malarial man had attached his skiff to the fat man’s motor boat and they had puttered away in a morose dejection, rewardless; the tug had whistled a final derisive blast, showed them her squat, unpretty stern, where the negro leaned eating again of his grayish object, and as dirty a pair of heels as it would ever be their luck to see, and sailed away. The Nausikaa was free once more and she sped quickly onward, gaining offing, and the final sharp concussion of flesh and flesh died away beneath the afternoon.

Mrs. Maurier had gazed at him, raised her hands in a fluttering cringing gesture, and cut him dead.

“But I saw you on the boat right after we came back,” Fairchild repeated with a sort of stubborn wonder. He opened a fresh bottle.

“You couldn’t have,” Gordon answered shortly. “I got out of the boat in the middle of Talliaferro’s excitement.” He waved away the proffered glass. The Semitic man said triumphantly, “I told you so,” and Fairchild essayed again, stubbornly:

“But I saw—”

“If you say that again,” the Semitic man told him, “I’ll kill you.” He addressed Gordon. “And you thought Dawson was drowned?”

“Yes. The man who brought me back—I stumbled on his house this morning—he had already heard of it, some way. It must have spread all up and down the lake. He didn’t remember the name, exactly, and when I named over the

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 places, and under Fairchild’s direction the two tenders retraced the course of yesterday. The first two boats were some distance ahead, moving slowly, and the tenders separated also and the searchers poled along, prodding with their oars at the lake floor. And such is the influence of action on the mind that soon even Fairchild’s burly optimism became hushed and uncertain before the imminence of the unknown, and he too was accepting the possible for the probable, unaware.

The sun was hazed, as though wearied of its own implacable heat, and the water—that water which might hold, soon to be revealed, the mute evidence of ultimate flouting of all man’s strife—lapped and plopped at the mechanical fragilities that supported them: a small sound, monotonous and without rancor—it could well wait! They poled slowly on.

Soon the four boats, fanwise, had traversed the course, and they turned and quartered back and forth again, slowly and in silence. Afternoon drew on, drowsing and somnolent. Yacht and tug lay motionless in a blinding shimmer of water and sun

Again the course of yesterday was covered foot by foot, patiently and silently and in vain; and the four boats as without volition drew nearer each other, drifting closer together as sheep huddle, while water lapped and plopped beneath their hulls, sinister and untroubled by waiting soon the motor boat drifted up and scraped lightly along the hull in which Fairchild sat, and he raised his head, blinking against the glare. After a while he said:

“Are you a ghost, or am I?”

“I was about to ask you that,” Gordon, sitting in the motor boat, replied. They sat and stared at each other. The other boats came up, and presently the one called Walter spoke.

“Is this all you wanted out here,” he asked in a tone of

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 now. That first infatuation, I mean; that sheer infatuation with and marveling over the beauty and power of words. That has gone out of me. Used up, I guess. So I can’t write poetry any more. It takes me too long to say things, now.” “We all wrote poetry, when we were young,” the Semitic man said. “Some of us even put it down on paper. But all of us wrote it.”

“Yes,” repeated Fairchild, turning slowly onward through the volume. “Listen:

“‘O spring O wanton O cruel

baring to the curved and hungry hand

of march your white unsubtle thighs ”

And listen.” He turned onward. Mrs. Wiseman was gazing aft where Jenny and Mr. Talliaferro had come into view and now leaned together upon the rail. The Semitic man listened with weary courtesy.

“‘above unsapped convolvul of hills

april a bee sipping perplexed with pleasure’

“It’s a kind of childlike faith in the efficacy of words, you see, a kind of belief that circumstance somehow will invest the veriest platitude with magic. And, darn it, it does happen at times, let it be historically or grammatically incorrect or physically impossible; let it even be trite: there comes a time when it will be invested with a something not of this life, this world, at all. It’s a kind of fire, you know” He fumbled himself among words, staring at them, at the Semitic man’s sad quizzical eyes and Mrs. Wiseman’s averted face.

“Somebody, some drug clerk or something, has shredded the tender—and do you know what I believe? I believe that he’s

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text:
Author:Takuboku Ishikawa

Works

 * "A hundred times / I traced in the sand" in Fifteen Poets of Modern Japan (1928)

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 always writing it for some woman, that he fondly believes he’s stealing a march on some brute bigger or richer or handsomer than he is; I believe that every word a writing man writes is put down with the ultimate intention of impressing some woman that probably don’t care anything at all for literature, as is the nature of women. Well, maybe she ain’t always a flesh and blood creature. She may be only the symbol of a desire. But she is feminine. Fame is only a by-product Do you remember, the old boys never even bothered to sign their things But, I don’t know. I suppose nobody ever knows a man’s reasons for what he does: you can only generalize from results.”

“He very seldom knows his reasons, himself,” the other said. “And by the time he has recovered from his astonishment at the unforeseen result he got, he has forgotten what reason he once believed he had But how can you generalize from a poem? What result does a poem have? You say that substance doesn’t matter, has no proper place in a poem. You have,” the Semitic man continued with curious speculation, “the strangest habit of contradicting yourself, of fumbling around and then turning tail and beating your listener to the refutation But God knows, there is plenty of room for speculation in modern verse. Fumbling, too, though the poets themselves do most of this. Don’t you agree, Eva?”

His sister answered “What?” turning upon him her dark, preoccupied gaze. He repeated the question. Fairchild interrupted in full career:

“The trouble with modern verse is, that to comprehend it you must have recently passed through an emotional experience identical with that through which the poet himself has recently passed. The poetry of modern poets is like a pair of shoes that only those whose feet are shaped like the cobbler’s

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Der geraubte Schleier

 * "The Stealing of the Veil; or, the Tale À La Montgolfier", translated by Thomas Beddoes in Popular Tales of the Germans (1791)
 * "The Lost Veil; or, the Lake of the Swans", translated anonymously in Tales (1805)
 * The Stolen Veil; or, the Tale à la Montgolfier, translated by W. S. M. E. (1850)

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 feet, can wear; while the old boys turned out shoes that anybody who can walk at all can wear—”

“Like overshoes,” the other suggested.

“Like overshoes,” Fairchild agreed. “But, then, I ain’t disparaging. Perhaps the few that the shoes fit can go a lot further than a whole herd of people shod alike could go.”

“Interesting, anyway,” the Semitic man said, “to reduce the spiritual progress of the race to terms of an emotional migration; esthetic Israelites crossing unwetted a pink sea of dullness and security. What about it, Eva?”

Mrs. Wiseman, thinking of Jenny’s soft body, came out of her dream. “I think you are both not only silly, but dull.” She rose. “I want to burn another cigarette, Dawson.”

He gave her one, and a match, and she left them. Fairchild turned a few pages. “It’s kind of difficult for me to reconcile her with this book,” he said slowly. “Does it strike you that way?”

“Not so much that she wrote this,” the other answered, “but that she wrote anything at all. That anybody should. But there’s no puzzle about the book itself. Not to me, that is. But you, straying trustfully about this park of dark and rootless trees which Dr. Ellis and your Germans have recently thrown open to the public You'll always be a babe in that wood, you know. Bewildered, and slightly annoyed; restive, like Ashur-bani-pal’s stallion when his master mounted him.”

“Emotional bisexuality,” Fairchild said.

“Yes. But you are trying to reconcile the book and the author. A book is the writer’s secret life, the dark twin of a man: you can’t reconcile them. And with you, when the inevitable clash comes, the author’s actual self is the one that goes down, for you are of those for whom fact and fallacy gain verisimilitude by being in cold print.”

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Author:Kawaki Makoto

Works

 * A Chair in Fifteen Poets of Modern Japan (1928)
 * Dusk in Fifteen Poets of Modern Japan (1928)

title: Author:Kawaki Makoto


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 “Perhaps so,” Fairchild said, with detachment, brooding again on a page. “Listen:

“‘Lips that of thy weary all seem weariest,

Seem wearier for the curled and pallid sly

Still riddle of thy secret face, and thy

Sick despair of its own ill obsessed;

Lay not to heart thy boy’s hand, to protest

That smiling leaves thy tired mouth reconciled,

For swearing so keeps thee but ill beguiled

With secret joy of thine own woman’s breast.

“‘Weary thy mouth with smiling; canst thou bride

Thyself with thee and thine own kissing slake?

Thy virgin’s waking doth itself deride

With sleep’s sharp absence, coming so awake,

And near thy mouth thy twinned heart’s grief doth hide

For there’s no breast between: it cannot break.’

“‘Hermaphroditus,’” he read. “That’s what it’s about. It’s a kind of dark perversion. Like a fire that don’t need any fuel, that lives on its own heat. I mean, all modern verse is a kind of perversion. Like the day for healthy poetry is over and done with, that modern people were not born to write poetry any more. Other things, I grant. But not poetry. Kind of like men nowadays are not masculine and lusty enough to tamper with something that borders so close to the unnatural. A kind of sterile race: women too masculine to conceive, men too feminine to beget”

He closed the book and removed his spectacles slowly. “You and me sitting here, right now, this is one of the most insidious things poetry has to combat. General education has made it too easy for everybody to have an opinion on it. On

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 everything else, too. The only people who should be allowed an opinion on poetry should be poets. But as it isBut then, all artists have to suffer it, though: oblivion and scorn and indignation and, what is worse, the adulation of fools.”

“And,” added the Semitic man, “what is still worse: talk.”

“You must get rather tired of bothering about it,” Fairchild suggested as they descended toward lunch. (There was an offshore breeze and the saloon was screened. And besides, it was near the galley.) “Why don’t you leave it in your state-room? Major Ayers is pretty trustworthy, I guess.”

“It’ll be all right,” Pete replied. “I’ve got used to it. I’d miss it, see?”

“Yes,” the other agreed. “New one, eh?”

“I’ve had it a while.” Pete removed it and Fairchild remarked its wanton gay band and the heavy plaiting of the straw.

“I like a panama, myself,” he murmured. “A soft hat This must have cost five or six dollars, didn’t it?”

“Yeh,” Pete agreed, “but I guess I can look out for it.”

“It’s a nice hat,” the Semitic man said. “Not everybody can wear a stiff straw hat. But it rather suits the shape of Pete’s face, don’t you think?”

“Yes, that’s so,” Fairchild agreed. “Pete has a kind of humorless reckless face that a stiff hat just suits. A man with a humorous face should never wear a stiff straw hat. But then, only a humorless man would dare buy one.”

Pete preceded them into the saloon. The man’s intent was kindly, anyway. Funny old bird. Easy. Easy. Somebody’s gutting. Anybody’s. Fairchild spoke to him again with a kind of tactful persistence:

“Look here, here’s a good place to leave it while you eat.

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 You hadn’t seen this place, I reckon. Slip it under here, see? It'll be safe as a church under here until you want it again. Look, Julius, this place was made for a stiff straw hat, wasn’t it?” This place was a collapsible serving table of two shelves that let shallowly into the bulkhead: it operated by a spring and anything placed on the lower shelf would be inviolate until some one came along and lowered the shelves again.

“It don’t bother me any,” Pete said.

“All right,” the other answered. “But you might as well leave it here: it’s such a grand place to leave a hat. Lots better than the places in theaters. I kind of wish I had a hat to leave there, don’t you, Julius?”

“I can hold it all right,” Pete said again.

“Sure,” agreed Fairchild readily, “but just try it a moment.” Pete did so, and the other two watched with interest. “It just fits, don’t it? Why not leave it there, just for a trial?”

“I guess not. I guess I’ll hold onto it,” Pete decided. He took his hat again and when he had taken his seat he slid it into its usual place between the chairback and himself.

Mrs. Maurier was chanting: “Sit down, people,” in an apologetic, hopeless tone. “You must excuse things. I had hoped to have lunch on deck, but with the wind blowing from the shore”

“They’ve found where we are and that we are good to eat, so it doesn’t make any difference where the wind blows from,” Mrs. Wiseman said, businesslike with her tray.

“And with the steward gone, and things so unsettled,” the hostess resumed in antistrophe, roving her unhappy gaze. “And Mr. Gordon—”

“Oh, he’s all right,” Fairchild said heavily helpful, taking his seat. “He'll show up all right.”

“Don’t be a fool, Aunt Pat,” the niece added. “What would he want to get drowned for?”

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 “I’m so unlucky,” Mrs. Maurier moaned, “things—things happen to me, you see,” she explained, haunted with that vision of a pale implacability of water, and sodden pants, and a red beard straying amid the slanting green regions of the sea in a dreadful simulation of life.

“Aw, shucks,” the niece protested, “ugly like he is, and so full of himself He’s got too many good reasons for getting drowned. It’s the ones that don’t have any excuse for it that get drowned and run down by taxis and things.”

“But you never can tell what people will do,” Mrs. Maurier rejoined, becoming profound through the sheer disintegration of comfortable things. “People will do anything.”

“Well, if he’s drowned, I guess he wanted to be,” the niece said bloodlessly. “He certainly can’t expect us to fool around here waiting for him, anyway. I never heard of anybody fading out without leaving a note of some kind. Did you, Jenny?”

Jenny sat in a soft anticipatory dread. “Did he get drownded?” she asked. “One day at Mandeville, I saw Into Jenny’s heavenly eyes there welled momentarily a selfless emotion, temporarily pure and clean. Mrs. Wiseman looked at her, compelling her with her eyes. She said:

“Oh, forget about Gordon for a while. If he’s drowned (which I don’t believe) he’s drowned; if he isn’t, he’ll show up again, just as Dawson says.”

“That’s what I say,” the niece supported her quickly. “Only he’d better show up soon, if he wants to go back with us. We’ve got to get back home.”

“You have?” her aunt said with heavy astonished irony, “How are you going, pray?”

“Perhaps her brother will make us a boat with his saw,” Mark Frost suggested.

“That’s an idea,” Fairchild agreed. “Say, Josh, haven’t you

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 got a tool of some sort that'll get us off again?” The nephew regarded Fairchild solemnly.

“Whittle it off,” he said. “Lend you my knife if you bring it back right away.” He resumed his meal.

“Well, we’ve got to get back,” his sister repeated. “You folks can stay around here if you want to, but me and Josh have got to get back to New Orleans.”

“Going by Mandeville?” Mark Frost asked.

“But the tug should be here at any time,” Mrs. Maurier insisted, reverting again to her hopeless amaze. The niece gave Mark Frost a grave speculative stare.

“You're smart, aren’t you?”

“I’ve got to be,” Mark Frost answered equably, “or I’d—”

“—have to work, huh? It takes a smart man to sponge off of Aunt Pat, don’t it?”

“Patricia!” her aunt exclaimed.

“Well, we have got to get back. We've got to get ready to go up to New Haven next month.”

Her brother came again out of his dream. “We have?” he repeated heavily.

“I’m going, too,” she answered quickly. “Hank said I could.”

“Look here,” her brother said, “are you going to follow me around all your life?”

“I’m going to Yale,” she repeated stubbornly. “Hank said I could go.”

“Hank?” Fairchild repeated, watching the niece with interest.

“It’s what she calls her father,” her aunt explained. “Patricia—”

“Well, you can’t go,” her brother answered violently. “Dam’f I’m going to have you tagging around behind me forever. I can’t move, for you. You ought to be a bill collector.”

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 “I don’t care: I’m going,” she repeated stubbornly. Her aunt said vainly:

“Theodore!”

“Well, I can’t do anything, for her,” he complained bitterly. “I can’t move, for her. And now she’s talking about going—She worried Hank until he had to say she could go. God knows, I’d ’a’ said that too: I wouldn’t want her around me all the time.”

“Shut your goddam mouth,” his sister told him. Mrs. Maurier chanted “Patricia, Patricia.” “I’m going, I’m going, I’m going!”

“What’ll you do up there?” Fairchild asked. The niece whirled, viciously belligerent. Then she said:

“What’d you say?”

“I mean, what'll you do to pass the time while he’s at classes and things? Are you going to take some work, too?”

“Oh, I’ll just go around with balloon pants. To night clubs and things. I won’t bother him: I won’t hardly see him, he’s such a damn crum.”

“Like hell you will,” her brother interrupted, “you’re not going, I tell you.”

“Yes, I am. Hank said I could go. He said I could. I—”

“Well, you won’t ever see me: I’m not going to have you tagging around after me up there.”

“Are you the only one in the world that’s going up there next year? Are you the only one that'll be there? I’m not going up there to waste my time hanging around the entrance to Dwight or Osborne hall just to see you. You won’t catch me sitting on the rail of the Green with freshmen. I’ll be going to places that maybe you'll get into in three years, if you don’t bust out or something. Don’t you worry about me. Who was it,” she rushed on, “got invited up for Prom Week last year, only Hank wouldn’t let me go? Who was it saw the game last

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 fall, while you were perched up on the top row with a bunch of newspaper reporters, in the rain?”

“You didn’t go up for Prom Week.”

“Because Hank wouldn’t let me. But I’ll be there next year, and you can haul out the family sock on it.”

“Oh, shut up for a while,” her brother said wearily. “Maybe some of these ladies want to talk some.”

And there was the tug, squatting at her cables, breaking the southern horizon with an effect of abrupt magic, like a stereopticon slide flashed on the screen while you had turned your head for a moment.

“Look at that boat,” said Mark Frost, broaching. Mrs. Maurier directly behind him, shrieked:

“It’s the tug!” She turned and screamed down the companionway: “It’s the tug: the tug has come!” The others all chanted “The tug! The tug!” Major Ayers exclaimed dramatically and opportunely:

“Ha, gone away!”

“It has come at last,” Mrs. Maurier shrieked. “It came while we were at lunch. Has any one—” She roved her eyes about. “The captain— Has he been notified? Mr. Talliaferro—?”

“Surely,” Mr. Talliaferro agreed with polite alacrity, mounting the stairs and disintegrating his members with expedition, “I’ll summon the captain.”

So he rushed forward and the others came on deck and stared at the tug, and a gentle breeze blew offshore and they slapped intermittently at their exposed surfaces. Mr. Talliaferro shouted: “Captain! oh, Captain!” about the deck: he screamed it into the empty wheelhouse and returned. “He must be asleep,” he told them.

“We are off at last,” Mrs. Maurier intoned, “we can get off

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 at last. The tug has come: I sent for it days and days ago. But we can get off, now. But the captain Where is the captain? He shouldn’t be asleep, at this time. Of all times for the captain to be asleep—Mr. Talliaferro—”

“But Gordon,” Mark Frost said, “how about—”

Miss Jameson clutched his arm. “Let’s get off, first,” she said.

“I called him,” Mr. Talliaferro reminded them. “He must be asleep in his room.”

“He must be asleep,” Mrs. Maurier repeated. “Will some gentleman—”

Mr. Talliaferro took his cue. “I’ll go,” he said.

“If you will be so kind,” Mrs. Maurier screamed after him. She stared again at the tug. “He should have been here, so we could be all ready to start,” she said fretfully. She waved her handkerchief at the tug: it ignored her.

“We might be getting everything ready, though,” Fairchild suggested. “We ought to have everything ready when they pull us off.”

“That’s so,” Mark Frost agreed. “We’d better run down and pack, hadn’t we?”

“Ah, we ain’t going back home yet. We've just started the cruise. Are we, folks?”

They all looked at the hostess. She roved her stricken eyes, but she said at last, bravely: “Why, no. No, of course not, if you don’t want to But the captain: we ought to be ready,” she repeated.

“Well, let’s get ready,” Mrs. Wiseman said.

“Nobody knows anything about boats except Fairchild,” Mark Frost said. Mr. Talliaferro returned, barren.

“Me?” Fairchild repeated. “Talliaferro’s been across the whole ocean. And there’s Major Ayers. All Britishers cut their teeth on anchor chains and marlinspikes.”

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text:
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 “And draw their toys with lubbers’ lines,” Mrs. Wiseman chanted. “It’s almost a poem. Finish it, some one.”

Mr. Talliaferro made a sound of alarm. “No: really, I—” Mrs. Maurier turned to Fairchild.

“Will you assume charge until the captain appears, Mr. Fairchild?”

“Mr. Fairchild,” Mr. Talliaferro parroted. “Mr. Fairchild is temporary captain, people. The captain doesn’t seem to be on board,” he whispered to Mrs. Maurier.

Fairchild glanced about with a sort of ludicrous helplessness. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked. “Jump overboard with a shovel and shovel the sand away?”

“A man who has reiterated his superiority as much as you have for the last week should never be at a loss for what to do,” Mrs. Wiseman told him. “We ladies have already thought of that. You are the one to think of something else.”

“Well, I’ve already thought of not jumping overboard and shoveling her off,” Fairchild answered, “but that don’t seem to help much, does it?”

“You ought to coil ropes or something like that,” Miss Jameson suggested. “That’s what they were always doing on all the ships I ever read about.”

“All right,” Fairchild agreed equably. “We’ll coil ropes, then. Where are the ropes?”

“That’s your trouble,” Mrs. Wiseman said. “You're captain now.”

“Well, we'll find some ropes and coil ’em.” He addressed Mrs. Maurier. “We have your permission to coil ropes?”

“No: really,” said Mrs. Maurier in her helpless astonished voice. “Isn’t there something we can do? Can’t we signal to them with a sheet? They may not know that this is the right boat.”

“Oh, they know, I guess. Anyway, we'll coil ropes and be

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text: Madagascar; with Other Poems/To the Qveene, upon a New-yeares day


text: Madagascar; with Other Poems/Elegie, on Francis, Earle of Rutland


text:
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 ready for them. Come on here, you men.” He named over his depleted watch and herded it forward. He herded it down to his cabin and nourished it with stimulants.

“We may coil the right rope, at that,” the Semitic man suggested. “Major Ayers ought to know something about boats: it should be in his British blood.”

Major Ayers didn’t think so. “American boats have amphibious traits that are lacking in ours,” he explained. “Half the voyage on land, you know,” he explained tediously.

“Sure,” Fairchild agreed. He brought his watch above again and forward, where instinct told him the ropes should be. “I wonder where the captain is. Surely he ain’t drowned, do you reckon?”

“I guess not,” the Semitic man answered. “He gets paid for this There comes a boat.”

The boat came from the tug, and soon it came alongside and the captain came over the rail. A stranger followed him and they went below without haste, leaving Mrs. Maurier’s words like vain unmated birds in the air. “Let’s get ready, then,” Fairchild ordered his crew. “Let’s tie a rope to something.”

So they tied a rope to something, knotting it intricately, then Major Ayers discovered that they had tied it to a winch handle which fitted loosely into a socket and which would probably come out quite easily, once a strain came onto the rope. So they untied it and found something attached firmly to the deck, and they tied the rope to this, and after a while the captain and the stranger, clutching a short evil pipe, came back on deck and stood and watched them. “We’ve got the right rope,” Fairchild told his watch in an undertone, and they knotted the rope intricately and straightened up.

“How’s that, Cap?” Fairchild asked.

“All right,” the captain answered. “Can we trouble you for a match?”

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text:
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 Fairchild gave them a match, The stranger fired his pipe and they got into the tender and departed. They hadn’t got far when the one called Walter came out and called them, and they put about and returned for him. Then they went back to the tug. Fairchild’s watch had ceased work, and it gazed after the tender. After a time Fairchild said: “He said that was the right rope. So I guess we can quit.”

So they did, and went aft to where the ladies were, and presently the tender came bobbing back across the water. It came alongside again and a negro, sweating gently and regularly, held it steady while the one called Walter and yet another stranger got aboard, bringing a rope that trailed away into the water behind them.

Every one watched with interest while Walter and his companion made the line fast in the bows, after having removed Fairchild’s rope. Then Walter and his friend went below.

“Say,” Fairchild said suddenly, “do you reckon they’ve found our whisky?”

“I guess not,” the Semitic man assured him. “I hope not,” he amended; and they all returned in a body to stare down into the tender where the negro sat without selfconsciousness, eating of a large grayish object. While they watched the negro Walter and his companion returned, and the stranger bawled at the tug through his hands. A reply at last, and the other end of the line which they had recently brought aboard the yacht and made fast, slid down from the deck of the tug and plopped heavily into the water; and Walter and his companion drew it aboard the yacht and coiled it down, wet and dripping. Then they elbowed themselves to the rail, cast the rope into the tender and got in themselves, and the negro stowed his strange edible object temporarily away and rowed back to the tug.

“You guessed wrong again,” Mark Frost said with sepul-

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text:
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 chral irony. He bent and scratched his ankles. “Try another rope.”

“You wait,” Fairchild retorted, “wait ten minutes, then talk. We'll be under full steam in ten minutes Where did that boat come from?”

This boat was a skiff, come when and from where they knew not; and beneath the drowsy afternoon there came faintly from somewhere up the lake the fretful sound of a motor boat engine. The skiff drew alongside, manned by a malariaridden man wearing a woman’s dilapidated hat of black straw that lent him a vaguely bereaved air.

“Whar’s the drownded feller?” he asked, grasping the rail.

“We don’t know,” Fairchild answered. “We missed him somewhere between here and the shore.” He extended his arm. The newcomer followed his gesture sadly.

“Any reward?”

“Reward?” repeated Fairchild.

“Reward?” Mrs. Maurier chimed in, breathlessly. “Yes, there is a reward: I offer a reward.”

“How much?”

“You find him first,” the Semitic man put in. “There’ll be a reward, all right.”

The man clung yet to the rail. “Have you drug fer him yet?”

“No, we’ve just started hunting,” Fairchild answered. “You go on and look around, and we'll get our boat and come out and help you. There’ll be a reward.”

The man pushed his skiff clear and engaged his oars. The sound of the motor boat grew clearer steadily; soon it came into view, with two men in it, and changed its course and bore down on the skiff. The fussy little engine ceased its racket and it slid up to the skiff, pushing a dying ripple under its

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text: Madagascar; with Other Poems/To Endimion Porter (4)


text: Page:Characteristicks of men, manners, opinions, times Vol 3.djvu/7


text:
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 stem. The two boats clung together for a time, then they parted, and at a short distance from each other they moved slowly onward while their occupants prodded at the lake bottom with their oars.

“Look at them,” the Semitic man said, “just like buzzards. Probably be a dozen boats out there in the next hour. How do you suppose they learned about it?”

“Lord knows,” Fairchild answered. “Let’s get our crew and go out and help look. We better get the tug’s men.”

They shouted in turn for a while, and presently one came to the rail of the tug and gazed apathetically at them, and went away; and after a while the small boat came away from the tug and crossed to them. A consultation, assisted by all hands, while the man from the tug moved unhurriedly about the business of making fast another and dirtier rope to the Nausikaa’s bows. Then he and Walter went back to the tug, paying out the line behind them while Mrs. Maurier’s insistence wasted itself upon the somnolent afternoon. The guests looked at one another helplessly. Then Fairchild said with determination:

“Come on, we'll go in our boat.” He chose his men, and they gathered all the available oars and prepared to embark.

“Here comes the tug’s boat again,” Mark Frost said.

“They forgot and tied one end of that rope to something.” Mrs. Wiseman said viciously. The boat came alongside without haste and it and the yacht’s tender lay rubbing noses, and Walter’s companion asked, without interest:

“Wher’s the feller y’all drownded?”

“I’ll go along in their boat and show ’em,” Fairchild decided. Mark Frost got back aboard the yacht with alacrity. Fairchild stopped him. “You folks come on behind us in this boat. The more to hunt, the better.”

Mark Frost groaned and acquiesced. The others took their

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text: Madagascar; with Other Poems/To the Countesse of Carlile, on the death of the Earle her Husband


text: Madagascar; with Other Poems/Epilogue, To Love and Honor, A Tragicomedy


text: Mosquitoes (Faulkner)/The Fourth Day

title: Mosquitoes (Faulkner)/The Fourth Day


text:
Page:The story of the flute (IA storyofflute1914fitz).djvu/69

now have reached the most momentous stage in the history of the modern flute—the period when the instrument underwent practically a complete revolution, which changed it from being very imperfect and unsatisfactory into the most perfect of all wind instruments. The question of the origin of the Böhm system, that "most happy of all the more modern improvements made in orchestral instruments," has given rise to one of the bitterest and most prolonged controversies that has ever disturbed the harmony of the musical world. To this day flute-players are divided as to the rival claims of Böhm and Gordon, and it is not likely that the questions raised will ever be quite fully and satisfactorily answered. But the majority of flautists are now agreed that the Böhm flute is rightly so named. I shall endeavour to give a concise and impartial


text: Madagascar; with Other Poems/Epilogue, To a Vacation Play at the Globe


text: Madagascar; with Other Poems/To the Qveene, upon a New-yeares day (2)


text:
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 “Isn’t there some way we can go in the tender and then pull it back to the yacht with a rope?”

“I Yes. Yes, we can do that.”

“Well, you get a rope then. Snap into it.”

When he returned with a coiled line she was already in the tender with the oars, and she watched with interest while he passed the rope around a stanchion and brought both ends into the boat with him and made one of the ends fast to the ringbolt in the stem of the skiff. Then she caught the idea and she sat and paid out the line while he pulled away for shore. Soon they beached and she sprang ashore, still holding the free end of the rope. “How’re we going to keep the tender from pulling the rope back around that post and getting aloose?” she asked.

“I’ll show you,” he answered, and she watched him while he tied the oars and the rowlocks together with the free end of the line and wedged them beneath the thwarts. “That'll hold, I guess. Somebody’ll be sure to see her pretty soon,” he added, and prepared to draw the skiff back to the yacht.

“Wait a minute,” she said. She mused gravely, gazing at the dim shadowy yacht, then she borrowed matches from him, and sitting on the gunwale of the tender she tore a strip of paper from the bacon box and with a charred match printed Going to— She looked up. “Where are we going?” He looked at her and she added quickly: “I mean, what town? We'll have to go to a town somewhere, you know, to get back to New Orleans so I can get some clothes and my seventeen dollars. What’s the name of a town?”

After a while he said: “I don’t know. I never—”

“That’s right, you never were over here before, either, were you? Well, what’s that town the ferries go to? the one Jenny’s always talking about you have fun at?” She stared again at the vague shape of the Nausikaa, then she suddenly printed

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text: Madagascar; with Other Poems/To Edward Earle of Dorcet, after his Sicknesse, and happy recovery


text:
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 Mandeville. “That’s the name of it—Mandeville. Which way is Mandeville from here?” He didn’t know, and she added: “No matter, we'll find it, I guess.” She signed the note and laid it on the sternseat, weighting it with a small rock. “Now, pull her off,” she commanded, and soon there came back to them across the motionless water a faint thud.

“Good-by, Nausikaa,” she said. “Wait,” she added, “I better put my shoes on, I guess.” He gave her her slippers and she sat flat on the narrow beach and put them on, returning the crumpled stockings to him. “Wait,” she said again, taking the stockings again and flipping them out. She slid one of them over her brown arm and withdrew a crumpled wad—the money she had been able to rake up by ransacking her aunt’s and Mrs. Wiseman’s and Miss Jameson’s things. She reached her hand and he drew her to her feet. “You’d better carry the money,” she said, giving it to him. “Now, for breakfast,” she said, clutching his hand.

Trees heavy and ancient with moss loomed out of it hugely and grayly: the mist might have been a sluggish growth between and among them. No, this mist might have been the first prehistoric morning of time itself; it might have been the very substance in which the seed of the beginning of things fecundated; and these huge and silent trees might have been the first of living things, too recently born to know either fear or astonishment, dragging their sluggish umbilical cords from out the old miasmic womb of a nothingness latent and dreadful. She crowded against him, suddenly quiet and subdued, trembling a little like a puppy against the reassurance of his arm. “Gee,” she said in a small voice.

That small sound did not die away. It merely dissolved into the moist gray surrounding them, and it was as if at a

title: Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/175


text: Madagascar; with Other Poems/Written, When Collonell Goring Was beleev'd to be slaine, at the siege of Breda


text:
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 movement of any sort the word might repeat itself somewhere between sky and ground as a pebble is shaken out of cotton batting. He put his arm across her shoulders and at his touch she turned quickly beneath his armpit, hiding her face.

“I’m hungry,” she said at last, in that small voice. “That’s what’s the matter with me,” she added with more assurance. “I want something to eat.”

“Want me to build a fire?” he asked of the dark coarse crown of her head.

“No, no,” she answered quickly, holding to him. “Besides, we are too close to the lake, here. Somebody might see it. We ought to get farther from the shore.” She clung to him, inside his arm. “I guess we’d better wait here until the fog goes away, though. A piece of bread will do.” She reached her brown hand. “Let’s sit down somewhere. Let’s sit down and eat some bread,” she decided. “And when the fog goes away we can find the road. Come on, let’s find a log or something.”

She drew him by the hand and they sat at the foot of a huge tree, on the damp ground, while she delved into the basket. She broke a bit from the loaf and gave it to him, and a fragment for herself. Then she slid further down against her propped heels until her back rested against him, and bit from her bread. She sighed contentedly.

“There now. Don’t you just love this?” she raised her grave chewing face to look at him. “All gray and lonesome. Makes you feel kind of cold on the outside and warm inside, doesn’t it?—say, you aren’t eating your bread. Eat your bread, David. I love bread, don’t you?” She moved again, inward upon herself: in some way she seemed to get herself yet closer against him.

The mist was already beginning to thin, breaking with heavy reluctance before a rumor of motion too faint to be

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text: Madagascar; with Other Poems/To the Lord Cary of Lepington, upon his translation of Malvezzi


text: Madagascar; with Other Poems/To Henry Jarmin


text: Madagascar; with Other Poems/To Tho: Carew


text:
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 called wind. The mist broke raggedly and drifted in sluggish wraiths that seemed to devour all sound, swaying and swinging like huge spectral apes from tree to tree, rising and falling, revealing somber patriarchs of trees, hiding them again. From far, far back in the swamp there came a hoarse homely sound—an alligator’s lovesong.

“Chicago,” she murmured. “Didn’t know we were so near home.” Soon the sun; and she sprawled against him, contentedly munching her bread.

They hadn’t found the road, but they had reached a safe distance from the lake. She had discovered a butterfly larger than her two hands clinging to a spotlight of sun on the ancient trunk of a tree, moving its damp lovely wings like laboring exposed lungs of glass or silk; and while he gathered firewood—a difficult feat, since neither of them had thought of a hatchet—she paused at the edge of a black stream to harry a sluggish thick serpent with a small switch. A huge gaudy bird came up and cursed her, and the snake ignored her with a sort of tired unillusion and plopped heavily into the thick water. Then, looking around, she saw thin fire in the somber equivocal twilight of the trees.

They ate again: the oranges; they broiled bacon, scorched it, dropped it on the ground, retrieved it and wiped it and chewed it down; and the rest of the loaf. “Don’t you just love camping?” She sat crosslegged and wiped a strip of bacon on her skirt. “Let’s always do this, David: let’s don’t ever have a house where you’ve always got to stay in one place. We’ll just go around like this, camping David?” She raised the strip of bacon and met his dumb yearning eyes. She poised her bacon.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she told him sharply. Then,

title: Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/177


text: Madagascar; with Other Poems/To Doctor Duppa, Deane of Christ-Church, and Tutor to the Prince


text:
To the Qveene, upon a New-yeares day

 * "To the Qveene, upon a New-yeares day", a poem by William Davenant (You of the Guard make way! and you that keepe)
 * "To the Qveene, upon a New-yeares day", a poem by William Davenant (This day, old Time, doth turne his Annuall Glasse)

title: To the Qveene, upon a New-yeares day


text:
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 more gently: “Don’t ever look at anybody like that. You'll never get anybody to run away with you if you look at ’em like that, David.” She extended her hand. His hand came out, slowly and diffidently, but her grip was hard, actual. She shook his arm for emphasis.

“How was I looking at you?” he asked after a while, in a voice that didn’t seem to him to be his voice at all. “How do you want me to look at you?”

“Oh—you know how. Not like that, though. Like that, you look at me just like a—a man, that’s all. Or a dog. Not like David.” She writhed her hand free and ate her strip of bacon. Then she wiped her fingers on her dress. “Gimme a cigarette.”

The mist had gone, and the sun came already sinister and hot among the trees, upon the miasmic earth. She sat on her crossed legs, replete, smoking. Abruptly she poised the cigarette in a tense cessation of all movement. Then she moved her head quickly and stared at him in consternation. She moved again, suddenly slapping her bare leg.

“What is it?” he asked.

For reply she extended her flat tan palm. In the center of it was a dark speck and a tiny splash of crimson. “Good Lord, gimme my stockings,” she exclaimed. “We’ll have to move. Gee, I’d forgotten about them,” she said, drawing her stockings over her straightening legs. She sprang to her feet. “We'll soon be out, though. David, stop looking at me that way. Look like you were having a good time, at least. Cheer up, David. A man would think you were losing your nerve already. Buck up: I think it’s grand, running off like this. Don’t you think it’s grand?” She turned her head and saw again that diffident still gesture of his hand touching her dress. Across the hot morning there came the high screech of the Nausikaa’s whistle.

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text:
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“No, sir,” the nephew answered patiently. “It’s a pipe.”

“A pipe, eh?” repeated Major Ayers, glaring at him with his hard affable little eyes. “You make pipes, eh?”

“I’m making this one,” the nephew replied with preoccupation.

“Came away and left your own ashore, perhaps?” Major Ayers suggested after a time.

“Naw. I don’t smoke ’em. I’m just making a new kind.”

“Ah, I see. For the market.” Major Ayers’ mind slowly took fire. “Money in it, eh? Americans would buy a new kind of pipe, too. You’ve made arrangements for the marketing of it, of course?”

“No, I’m just making it. For fun,” the nephew explained in that patient tone you use with obtuse children. Major Ayers glared at his bent preoccupied head.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Best to say nothing about it until you’ve completed all your computations regarding the cost of production. Don’t blame you at all.” Major Ayers brooded with calculation. He said: “Americans really would buy a new sort of pipe. Strange no one had thought of that.” The nephew carved minutely at his pipe. Major Ayers said secretly: “No, I don’t blame you at all. But when you’ve done, you'll require capital: that sort of thing, you know. And then a word to your friends at the proper time, eh?”

The nephew looked up. “A word to my friends?” he repeated. “Say, I’m just making a pipe, I tell you. A pipe. Just to be making it. For fun.”

“Right you are,” Major Ayers agreed suavely. “No offense, dear lad. I don’t blame you, don’t blame you at all. Experienced the same situation myself.”

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text: The Pima Indians/Introduction

title: The Pima Indians/Introduction


text:
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They had found the road at last—two faint scars and a powder of unbearable dust upon a raised levee traversing the swamp. But between them and the road was a foul sluggish width of water and vegetation and biology. Huge cypress roots thrust up like weathered bones out of a green scum and a quaking neither earth nor water, and always those bearded eternal trees like gods regarding without alarm this puny desecration of a silence of air and earth and water ancient when hoary old Time himself was a pink and dreadful miracle in his mother’s arms.

It was she who found the fallen tree, who first essayed its oozy treacherous bark and first stood in the empty road stretching monotonously in either direction between battalioned patriarchs of trees. She was panting a little, whipping a broken green branch about her body, watching him as he inched his way across the fallen trunk.

“Come on, David,” she called impatiently. “Here’s the road: we're all right now.” He was across the ditch and he now struggled up the rank reluctant levee bank. She leaned down and reached her hand to him. But he would not take it, so she leaned further and clutched his shirt. “Now, which way is Mandeville?”

“That way,” he answered immediately, pointing.

“You said you never were over here before,” she accused.

“No. But we were west of Mandeville when we went aground, and the lake is back yonder. So Mandeville must be that way.”

“I don’t think so. It’s this way: see, the swamp isn’t so thick this way. Besides, I just know it’s this way.”

He looked at her a moment. “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll guess you are right.”

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text:
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 Arcturus, Orion swinging head downward by his knees, in the southern sky an electric lobster fading as the moon rose, Water lapped at the hull of the Nausikaa with little sounds.

“So I tiptoed across to the seat. It was hot in there, with the sun beating down on it: I could smell hot resin, even above the smell of the place itself. In a corner of the ceiling there was a dirt dobber’s nest—a hard lump of clay with holes in it, stuck to the ceiling, and big green flies made a steady droning sound. I remember how hot it was in there, and that feeling places like that give you—a kind of letting down of the bars of pretense, you know; a kind of submerging of civilized strictures before the grand implacability of nature and the physical body. And I stood there, feeling this feeling and the heat, and hearing the drone of those big flies, holding my breath and listening for a sound from beyond the partition. But there wasn’t any sound from beyond it, so I put my head down through the seat.”

Mark Frost snored. The moon, the pallid belly of the moon, inundating the world with a tarnished magic not of living things, laying her silver fleshless hand on the water that whispered and lapped against the hull of the yacht. The Semitic man clutched his dead cigar and he and Fairchild sat in the implacable laxing of muscles and softening tissue of their forty odd years, seeing two wide curious blue eyes into which an inverted surprise came clear as water, and long golden curls swinging downward above the ordure; and they sat in silence, remembering youth and love, and time and death.

Mark Frost had roused and with a ghostly epigram had taken himself off to bed. Later the Semitic man rose and departed, leaving him with a cigar; and Fairchild sat with his

title: Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/240


text:
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 sitting around in the shade, playing some game, or maybe just talking.

“I went on down the path and went inside, and when I turned to shut the door to the men’s side, I looked back. And I saw her blue dress kind of shining, coming along the path between the tall weeds. I couldn’t tell if she had seen me or not, but I knew that if I went back I’d have to pass her, and I was ashamed to do this. It would have been different if I’d already been there and was coming away: or it seemed to me that it would have. Boys are that way, you know,” he added uncertainly, turning his bewilderment again toward his friend. The other grunted. Mark Frost snored in his shadow.

“So I shut the door quick and stood right quiet, and soon I heard her enter the other side. I didn’t know yet if she’d seen me, but I was going to stay quiet as I could until she went away. I just had to do that, it seemed to me.

“Children are much more psychic than adults. More of a child’s life goes on in its mind than people believe. A child can distil the whole gamut of experiences it has never actually known, into a single instant. Anthropology explains a little of it. But not much, because the gaps in human knowledge that have to be bridged by speculation are too large. The first thing a child is taught is the infallibility and necessity of precept, and by the time the child is old enough to add anything to our knowledge of the mind, it has forgotten. The soul sheds every year, like snakes do, I believe. You can’t recall the emotions you felt last year: you remember only that an emotion was associated with some physical fact of experience. But all you have of it now is a kind of ghost of happiness and a vague and meaningless regret. Experience: why should we be expected to learn wisdom from experience? Muscles only remember, and it takes repetition and repetition to teach a muscle anything”

title: Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/239


text:
Page:Holy Bible Berean Standard Bible.pdf/129

 Laws for Burnt Offerings (Leviticus 6:8–13)

Then the LORD called to Moses and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying, “Speak to the Israelites and tell them: When any of you brings an offering to the LORD, you may bring as your offering an animal from the herd or the flock.

If one’s offering is a burnt offering from the herd, he is to present an unblemished male. He must bring it to the entrance to the Tent of Meeting for its acceptance before the LORD. He is to lay his hand on the head of the burnt offering, so it can be accepted on his behalf to make atonement for him.

And he shall slaughter the young bull before the LORD, and Aaron’s sons the priests are to present the blood and sprinkle it on all sides of the altar at the entrance to the Tent of Meeting. Next, he is to skin the burnt offering and cut it into pieces.

The sons of Aaron the priest shall put a fire on the altar and arrange wood on the fire. Then Aaron’s sons the priests are to arrange the pieces, including the head and the fat, atop the burning wood on the altar. The entrails and legs must be washed with water, and the priest shall burn all of it on the altar as a burnt offering, an offering made by fire, a pleasing aroma to the LORD.

If, however, one’s offering is a burnt offering from the flock—from the sheep or goats—he is to present an unblemished male. He shall slaughter it on the north side of the altar before the LORD, and Aaron’s sons the priests are to sprinkle its blood against the altar on all sides. He is to cut the animal into pieces, and the priest shall arrange them, including the head and fat, atop the burning wood that is on the altar. The entrails and legs must be washed with water, and the priest shall bring all of it and burn it on the altar; it is a burnt offering, an offering made by fire, a pleasing aroma to the LORD.

If, instead, one’s offering to the LORD is a burnt offering of birds, he is to present a turtledove or a young pigeon. Then the priest shall bring it to the altar, twist off its head, and burn it on the altar; its blood should be drained out on the side of the altar. And he is to remove the crop with its contents and throw it to the east side of the altar, in the place for ashes. He shall tear it open by its wings, without dividing the bird completely. And the priest is to burn it on the altar atop the burning wood. It is a burnt offering, an offering made by fire, a pleasing aroma to the LORD. Laws for Grain Offerings (Leviticus 6:14–23)

“When anyone brings a grain offering to the LORD, his offering must consist of fine flour. He is to pour olive oil on it, put frankincense on it, and bring it to Aaron’s sons the priests. The priest shall take a handful of the flour and oil, together with all the frankincense, and burn this as a memorial portion on


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 She had blue eyes and a lot of long, prim, golden curls. This girl, Jenny, must have looked like her, when she was about twelve. I didn’t know the other children very well, and besides I was used to furnishing my own diversion anyway; so I just kind of hung around and watched them doing the things children do. I didn’t know how to go about getting acquainted with them. I’d seen how the other newcomers would do it, and I’d kind of plan to myself how I’d go about it: what I’d say when I went up to them” He ceased and mused for a time in a kind of hushed surprise. “Just like Talliaferro,” he said at last, quietly. “I hadn’t thought of that before.” He mused for a time. Then he spoke again.

“I was kind of like a dog going among strange dogs. Scared, kind of, but acting haughty and aloof. But I watched them. The way she made up to them, for instance. The day after she came she was the leader, always telling them what to do next. She had blue dresses, mostly.” Mark Frost snored in the silence. The Nausikaa dreamed like a gull on the dark water.

“This was before the day of water works and sewage systems in country homes, and this one had the usual outhouse. It was down a path from the house. In the late summer there were tall burdocks on either side of the path, taller than a twelve-year-old boy by late August. The outhouse was a small square frame box kind of thing, with a partition separating the men from the women inside.

“It was a hot day, in the middle of the afternoon. The others were down in the orchard, under the trees. From where I had been, in a big tree in the yard, I could see them, and the girls’ colored dresses in the shade; and when I climbed down from the tree and went across the back yard and through the gate and along the path toward the privy I could still see them occasionally through gaps in the burdocks. They were

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For the next week activity was very restricted. The Warren Force had thrown everything available at the enemy, again without success. Baffled and disheartened, it settled down in its positions. Gas stoves were brought up to provide hot meals, and the soldiers were permitted to have their pack rolls.

New tactics now were adopted. Artillery and mortar concentrations preceding earlier attacks had not succeeded in knocking out the Japanese defenses, partly because fire was directed too far behind the enemy front lines. The artillery preparation had served also to warn the enemy of impending attack. When the artillery opened fire, Japanese troops found relative security in their bunkers; when it ended, they crawled out into firing positions. Our infantry usually pulled back before the artillery concentration began and advanced after it ended to find the Japanese ready and waiting for them. Henceforth, the mortars fired at irregular intervals and only on targets located as accurately as possible. Patrols were pushed up to feel out any weak spots in the Japanese lines and so assist in inching our offensive forward by infiltration. Hand grenades were used more frequently as the firing slits and rear entrances of enemy bunkers were discovered. Although the success of these tactics was limited when measured in terms of advancing our lines, the patrol activity enabled us to fix the location of enemy bunkers and the persistent mortar fire wore down enemy strength and morale day by day. Prisoners of war reported that our mortar fire was extremely effective; all agreed that our mortars and artillery were more feared than air support.

Enemy counterattacks came from both flanks on the 6th, but the units on the Urbana front held tightly to their corridor. The next day they tried to take the Village. F Company, 126th Infantry, captured a trench at the edge of the Village, while G Company moved up to Coconut Grove. Early in the afternoon their battalion commander, Maj. Herbert M. Smith, was wounded. The greatly weakened companies on this flank could do little more than hold their positions. Further advance was impossible without reinforcements.

The needed reinforcements were provided. The 3d Battalion, 127th Infantry, under Lt. Col. Edwin W. Swedberg, finished its 42


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 movement by air from Port Moresby to Dobodura and Popondetta on 9 December; on the 11th, it relieved the 2d Battalion, 126th Infantry, and on the following day began active night patrolling. On the morning of the 14th, after spending 2 days in the line to become acquainted with the location of enemy defenses and the nature of the terrain, I and K Companies, 127th Infantry, attacked Buna Village, following a mortar concentration of 400 rounds. Within an hour they had overrun the last enemy resistance in this area. Most of the enemy had retired before we advanced. The only American casualty was a souvenir-hunting soldier of the 126th Infantry.

On the same day the three battalions on the Warren front received new commanders: Maj. Chester M. Beaver for the 1st Battalion, 126th Infantry; Lt. Col. Alexander J. MacNab for the 3d Battalion, 128th Infantry; and Maj. Gordon M. Clarkson for the 1st Battalion, 128th Infantry. The Warren Force had improved greatly in morale during the comparative rest of the past week. It was soon to renew the attack.

On the evening of the 14th the American line ran from the sea east of Buna Village roughly along the Buna Village trail, bending around the Coconut Grove and along the west edge of the Triangle to the Ango trail. After a wide gap covered by impassable swamp, our line began again with the jungle along Simemi Creek just south of the bridge bunkers and curved northeast across the western end of the New Strip. The open ground south of the New Strip between the bridge and the Plantation was constantly patrolled. At the eastern end of the New Strip our line looped northward to encircle a spur of the strip, then ran eastward through the Duropa Plantation to the sea.

Although heartbreaking setbacks, each with costly casualties, had thus far attended the campaign, our situation was actually improved to a marked degree. The 2d Battalion, 126th Infantry, had shown that the enemy lines on the west flank could be broken. The nature of the enemy defenses in the Plantation and bridge areas had become much clearer, even though our troops did not yet have the right weapon to smash them. The supply of the force was more effective; rear echelons now functioned with relative smoothness; command 43


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 abjectness and falsification: immolation of insincerity.” Fairchild ignored him, wrapped in this dream of his own.

“When youth goes out of you, you get out of it. Out of life, I mean. Up to that time you just live; after that, you are aware of living and living becomes a conscious process. Like thinking does in time, you know. You become conscious of thinking, and then you start right off to think in words. And first thing you know, you don’t have thoughts in your mind at all: you just have words in it. But when you are young, you just be. Then you reach a stage where you do. Then a stage where you think, and last of all, where you remember. Or try to.”

“Sex and death,” said Mark Frost sepulchrally, arcing the red eye of his cigarette, “a blank wall on which sex casts a shadow, and the shadow is life.” The Semitic man grunted again, immersed in one of his rare periods of uncommunicativeness. The moon climbed higher, the pallid unmuscled belly of the moon, and the Nausikaa dreamed like a silver gull on the dark restless water.

“I don’t know,” Fairchild said again. “I never found anything shadowy about life, people. Least of all, about my own doings. But it may be that there are shadowy people in the world, people to whom life is a kind of antic shadow. But people like that make no impression on me at all, I can’t seem to get them at all. But this may be because I have a kind of firm belief that life is all right.” Mark Frost had cast away his final cigarette and was now a long prone shadow. The Semitic man was motionless also, holding his dead cigar.

“I was spending the summer with my grandfather, in Indiana. In the country. I was a boy then, and it was a kind of family reunion, with aunts and cousins that hadn’t seen each other in years. Children, too, all sizes.

“There was a girl that I remember, about my age, I reckon.

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