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 decided upon and at the end of fifteen years the efforts begun in doubt have resulted in a definite system of color instruction which it is the purpose of this book to concisely set forth.

It is prepared in response to inquiries from primary school teachers for a clear and condensed explanation of the Bradley System of Color Instruction. The aim is to offer a definite scheme and suitable material for a logical presentation of the truths regarding color in nature and art to the children of the primary schools. Much of this instruction is so simple that it should be familiar to children who have had kindergarten training and has therefore already been explained in substantially the same form in "Color in the Kindergarten."

A few years ago it might well have been thought necessary to preface a treatise on the subject with arguments to prove that color is a legitimate object for school instruction, but today this is not a question with thoughtful educators, whether considered from the practical, industrial or aesthetic standpoint. With the establishment of professorships of practical psychology and the equipment of laboratories, provided with delicate and expensive apparatus for making and recording tests, there comes with increasing force the demand for some means by which the experiments in color made in various localities may be unified both as to the colors used and the terms and measurements for recording the result. It is the hope of the author that the system here outlined may be the initial step in gathering together such facts regarding color effects as will form a fund of knowledge little dreamed of at the present day.


text:
Page talk:The last man (Second Edition 1826 Volume 1).djvu/143

Book has two chapter IVs and so index is off.
I am new here, and I have no idea how to report this or what should be done about it.

See index: 88 is first instance, 121 is second instance, and this is what it says on the original book image, although the content appears to be different.

https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Index:The_last_man_(Second_Edition_1826_Volume_1).djvu

sacle1 Sacle1 (talk) 17:15, 18 February 2024 (UTC)

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


text:
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 "Certainly not the police," she declared. "I am glad."

"They have not really worried us much," said Hippolyte. "In fact, but for Monsieur le Comte's warning, I should never have guessed that stranger at the wineshop to be what he was."

The hall bell pealed and Hippolyte, in a grave and decorous manner, went to open the door.

"M. le Comte, I regret to say, is not at home."

The little man with the large moustaches beamed placidly.

"I know that," he replied. "You are Hippolyte Flavelle, are you not?"

"Yes, Monsieur, that is my name."

"And you have a wife, Marie Flavelle?"

"Yes, Monsieur, but"

"I desire to see you both," said the stranger, and he stepped nimbly past Hippolyte into the hall.

"Your wife is doubtless in the kitchen," he said. "I will go there."

Before Hippolyte could recover his breath, the other had selected the right door at the back of the hall and passed along the passage and into the kitchen, where Marie paused open-mouthed to stare at him.

"Voilà" said the stranger, and sank into a wooden arm-chair; "I am Hercule Poirot."

"Yes, Monsieur?"

"You do not know the name?"

"I have never heard it," said Hippolyte.

"Permit me to say that you have been badly educated. It is the name of one of the great ones of this world."

He sighed and folded his hands across his chest.


text:
NLRB v. Scrivener/Opinion of the Court

MR. JUSTICE BLACKMUN delivered the opinion of the Court.

Section 8 of the National Labor Relations Act, as amended, 61 Stat. 140, 29 U.S.C. § 158, provides: "SEC 8. (a) It shall be an unfair labor practice for an employer—
 * "(1) to interfere with, restrain, or coerce employees in the exercise of the rights guaranteed in section 7;
 * ... [p118]
 * "(4) to discharge or otherwise discriminate against an employee because he has filed charges or given testimony under this Act."

Section 7 of the Act, as amended, 61 Stat. 140, 29 U.S.C. § 157, provides: "'SEC. 7. Employees shall have the right to self-organization, to form, join, or assist labor organizations, to bargain collectively through representatives of their own choosing, and to engage in other concerted activities for the purpose of collective bargaining or other mutual aid or protection...'"

This case presents the issue whether an employer's retaliatory discharge of an employee who gave a written sworn statement to a National Labor Relations Board field examiner investigating an unfair labor practice charge filed against the employer, but who had not filed the charge or testified at a formal hearing on it, constitutes a violation of § 8 (a)(1) or of § 8 (a)(4) of the Act. The Board, with one member not participating, unanimously held that it was. 177 N.L.R.B. 504 (1969). The United States Court of Appeals for the Eighth Circuit, by a unanimous panel vote, held otherwise and denied enforcement. 435 F. 2d 1296 (1971). The Court of Appeals did not reach other issues raised by the employer. We granted certiorari in order to review a decision that appeared to have an important impact upon the administration of the Act. 404 U.S. 821 (1971).

I
There is testimony in the record, credited by the trial examiner, and adopted by the Board, to the following effect:

The respondent Robert Scrivener is a small electrical contractor in Springfield, Missouri. He does business as [p119] an individual proprietor under the name of AA Electric Company. On March 18, 1968, five of Scrivener's six employees signed cards authorizing a union to represent them in collective bargaining. The next day business agent Moore advised Mr. Scrivener of the union's majority status and asked to negotiate a contract. Scrivener examined the cards, but refused the request.

Mr. Scrivener then visited his jobsites and complained to his employees about their action. On March 20 he dismissed card-signers Cockrum, Smith, and Wilson, and hired Hunt, a journeyman, and Statton, a helper. Hunt had worked for Scrivener on prior occasions.

On March 21 the union filed charges with the Board alleging that the company had violated §§ 8 (a)(1), (3), and (5) of the Act. On March 26 the three dischargees returned to work. The next day, however, Cockrum and Smith again were released on the ground that there was a lack of work. The two new employees and Perryman, the sole nonsigner among the six original employees, were retained. Smith was again recalled on April 1 and, with the other card-signers, except Cockrum, continued to work until April 18.

On April 17 a field examiner from the Board's regional office met with Mr. Scrivener and discussed the charges that had been filed. That evening the examiner interviewed the five card-signers at the union hall. He took affidavits or sworn statements from all except Cockrum who was not then working for Scrivener. On April 18 Scrivener inquired of at least two of the men whether they had met and been interviewed by the examiner the evening before. At the end of the day Scrivener dismissed the four who had given the statements; he did so with the explanations that he had no work for them to do. [p120] Perryman, Hunt, and Statton continued to work on the three houses and the 11-unit apartment building the company had under construction at the time.

On May 13 the union filed an amended charge adding the allegation that the dismissal of the four men on April 18 was because they had given the statements to the examiner in connection with the earlier charge, and that this was a violation of § 8 (a)(1) and § 8 (a)(4). Three of the men returned to work in May or early June. The fourth was never recalled.

A complaint was issued on both the original charge and the added allegation.

II
The Board, in agreement with the trial examiner, concluded that the April 18 dismissal of the four employees was "in retaliation against them for having met with and given evidence to a Board field examiner investigating unfair labor practice charges which had been filed against" Scrivener; that "[t]he investigation of charges filed is an integral and essential stage of Board proceedings"; and that this conduct violated § 8 (a)(1) and § 8 (a)(4). 177 N.L.R.B., at 504. The customary order to cease and desist, to reinstate the four employees with back pay, and to post notices was issued. The Board concluded, however, in disagreement with the trial examiner and with one member dissenting, "that it will not effectuate the policies of the Act for the Board to assert jurisdiction herein over the alleged independent and unrelated violations of Section 8 (a)(1), (3), and (5) of the Act," and dismissed those portions of the complaint. Id., at 504, 505.

The Court of Appeals, per curiam, relying on its earlier decision in ''NLRB v. Ritchie Mfg. Co.'', 354 F. 2d 90 (CA8 1965), held that § 8 (a)(4) does not "encompass discharge of employees for giving sworn statements to Board field examiners." In Ritchie the court had [p121] stated, "We are reluctant to hold that § 8 (a)(4) can be extended to cover preliminary preparations for giving testimony." 354 F. 2d, at 101. In the present case, the court refused to uphold the Board's finding that the challenged discharges violated § 8 (a)(1) as well as § 8 (a)(4) since "[t]o do so would be to overrule Ritchie implicitly, and we are not prepared to take that action." 435 F. 2d, at 1297.

III
The view of the Court of Appeals is that § 8 (a)(4) of the Act serves to protect an employee against an employer's reprisal only for filing an unfair labor practice charge or for giving testimony at a formal hearings, and that it affords him no protection for otherwise participating in the investigative stage or, in particular, for giving an affidavit or sworn statement to the investigating field examiner.

We disagree for several reasons.

 * 1. Construing § 8 (a)(4) to protect the employee during the investigative stages, as well as in connection with the filing of a formal charge or the giving of formal testimony, comports with the objective of that section. Mr. Justice Black, in no uncertain terms, spelled out the congressional purpose:

"'Congress has made it clear that it wishes all persons with information about such practices to be completely free from coercion against reporting them to the Board. This is shown by its adoption of § 8 (a)(4) which makes it an unfair labor practice for an employer to discriminate against an employee because he has filed charges. And it has been held that it is unlawful for an employer to seek to restrain an employee in the exercise of his right to file [p122] charges' (citations omitted). Nash v. Florida Industrial Comm'n, 389 U.S. 235, 238 (1967)."

 * This complete freedom is necessary, it has been said, "to prevent the Board's channels of information from being dried up by employer intimidation of prospective complainants and witnesses." John Hancock Mut. Life. Ins. Co. v. NLRB, 89 U.S. App. D.C. 261, 263, 191 F. 2d 483, 485 (1951). It is also consistent with the fact that the Board does not initiate its own proceedings; implementation is dependent "upon the initiative of individual persons." Nash v. Florida Industrial Comm'n, supra, 389 U.S., at 238; NLRB v. Industrial Union of Marine & Shipbuilding Workers, 391 U.S. 418, 424 (1968).

 * 2. The Act's reference in § 8 (a)(4) to an employee who "has filed charges or given testimony," could be read strictly and confined in its reach to formal charges and formal testimony. It can also be read more broadly. On textual analysis alone, the presence of the preceding words "to discharge or otherwise discriminate" reveals, we think, particularly by the word "otherwise," an intent on the part of Congress to afford broad rather than narrow protection to the employee. This would be consistent with § 8 (a)(4)'s purpose and objective hereinabove described. A similar question with respect to the word "evidence" in §§ 11 (1) and (2) of the Act, 29 U.S.C. §§ 161 (1) and (2), was considered in NLRB v. Wyman-Gordon Co., 394 U.S. 759, 768-769 (1969), and was resolved by a broad and not a narrow construction. That precedent is pertinent here.

 * 3. This broad interpretation of § 8 (a)(4) accords with the Labor Board's view entertained for more than 35 years. Section 8 (a)(4) had its origin in the [p123] National Industrial Recovery Act, 48 Stat. 195. Executive Order No. 6711, issued May 15, 1934, under that Act (10 NRA Codes of Fair Competition 949), provided, "No employer... shall dismiss or demote any employee for making a complaint or giving evidence with respect to an alleged violation..." The first Labor Board interpreted that phrase to protect the employee not only as to formal testimony, but also as to the giving of information relating to violations of the NIRA. New York Rapid Transit Corp., 1 N.L.R.B. Dec. 192 (1934) (affidavits); Ralph A. Freundlich, Inc., 2 N.L.R.B. Dec. 147, 148 (1935) (state court testimony). In § 8 (a)(4) the word "testimony," rather than "evidence," appears. But the new language was described as "merely a reiteration" of the Executive Order language and it was stated that the "need for this provision is attested" by the above-cited Board decisions. Comparison of S. 2926 (73d Cong.) and S. 1958 (74th Cong.), Senate Committee Print 29, 1 Leg. Hist. of National Labor Relations Act 1319, 1355 (1949).

 * 4. This interpretation, in our view, also squares with the practicalities of appropriate agency action. An employee who participates in a Board investigation may not be called formally to testify or may be discharged before any hearing at which he could testify. His contribution might be merely cumulative or the case may be settled or dismissed before hearing. Which [p124] employees receive statutory protection should not turn on the vagaries of the selection process or on other events that have no relation to the need for protection. It would make less than complete sense to protect the employee because he participates in the formal inception of the process (by filing a charge) or in the final, formal presentation, but not to protect his participation in the important developmental stages that fall between these two points in time. This would be unequal and inconsistent protection and is not the protection needed to preserve the integrity of the Board process in its entirety.

 * 5. The Board's subpoena power also supports this interpretation. Section 11 of the Act, 29 U.S.C. § 161, gives the Board this power for "the purpose of all hearings and investigations." Once an employee has been subpoenaed he should be protected from retaliatory action regardless of whether he has filed a charge or has actually testified. Judge Lumbard pertinently described it:

"'It is, we think, a permissible inference that Congress intended the protection to be as broad as the [subpoena] power.' Pedersen v. NLRB, 234 F. 2d 417, 420 (CA2 1956)."

 * Under this reasoning, if employees of Scrivener had been subpoenaed, they would have been protected. There is no basis for denying similar protection to the voluntary participant.

 * 6. The approach to § 8 (a)(4) generally has been a liberal one in order fully to effectuate the section's remedial purpose. In M & S Steel Co v. NLRB, 353 F. 2d 80 (CA5 1965), the court sustained the Board's [p125] finding, 148 N.L.R.B. 789, 792-795 (1964), that § 8 (a)(4) was violated by the discharge of an employee, Williams, because he gave a statement to a field examiner. In NLRB v. Dal-Tex Optical Co., 310 F. 2d 58, 60-61 (CA5 1962), the court sustained the Board, 131 N.L.R.B. 715, 721 (1961), in affording protection to an employee, Whitaker, who appeared but did not testify at a Board hearing. See John Hancock Mut. Life Ins. Co. v. NLRB, supra, and NLRB v. Syracuse Stamping Co., 208 F. 2d 77, 79-80 (CA2 1953).

We are aware of no substantial countervailing considerations. We therefore conclude that an employer's discharge of an employee because the employee gave a written sworn statement to a Board field examiner investigating an unfair labor practice charge filed against the employer constitutes a violation of § 8 (a)(4) of the National Labor Relations Act.

Having reached this conclusion, it is unnecessary for us to determine whether the employer's action is also a violation of § 8 (a)(1), and we expressly refrain from so doing.

IV
A final comment about the jurisdictional aspects of the case is perhaps in order. The Board found that Scrivener's operations were too small to satisfy the Board's self-imposed and published $50,000 outflow-inflow jurisdictional standard for non-retail enterprises. See Siemons Mailing Service, 122 N.L.R.B. 81, 85 (1958). It also found, however, that Scrivener's operations were sufficient to "have an impact on and affect interstate commerce," 177 N.L.R.B., at 504, and thus were within the Board's statutory jurisdiction as defined by § 10 (a) of the Act, 29 U.S.C. § 160 (a).

[p126] This prompted the Board to assert jurisdiction over the §§ 8 (a)(1) and (4) claim of retaliation, but to refuse to exercise jurisdiction over the original §§ 8 (a)(1), (3), and (5) claims on the ground that the latter would have "no immediate impact on the vindication of the right of an individual to resort to the Board's processes..." 177 N.L.R.B., at 505. Scrivener, as a consequence, complains that relief for him against a claimed unfair labor practice on the part of the union is unavailable.

The employer's complaint of jurisdictional unfairness is understandable. See, however, Pedersen v. NLRB, supra, 234 F. 2d 417. As we read the opinion of the Court of Appeals, this issue and that of the sufficiency of the evidence, and perhaps others, were not reached when that court decided the § 8 (a)(4) issue as it did. We note that that court described the Board's jurisdiction to act as "marginal." 435 F. 2d, at 1296. In any event, this and any other issues may be canvassed on remand.

The judgment of the Court of Appeals is reversed and the case is remanded for further proceedings.

It is so ordered.

title: NLRB v. Scrivener/Opinion of the Court


text: Constitution of India (2020)/Fourth Schedule


text:
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 Hippolyte and Marie were staring at him uneasily. They were at a loss what to make of this unexpected and extremely strange visitor.

"Monsieur desires" murmured Hippolyte mechanically.

"I desire to know why you have lied to the police."

"Monsieur!" cried Hippolyte; "Ilied to the police? Never have I done such a thing."

M. Poirot shook his head.

"You are wrong," he said; "you have done it on several occasions. Let me see." He took a small notebook from his pocket and consulted it. "Ah, yes; on seven occasions at least. I will recite them to you."

In a gentle unemotional voice he proceeded to outline the seven occasions.

Hippolyte was taken aback.

"But it is not of these past lapses that I wish to speak," continued Poirot, "only, my dear friend, do not get into the habit of thinking yourself too clever. I come now to the particular lie in which I am concernedyour statement that the Comte de la Roche arrived at this villa on the morning of 14th January."

"But that was no lie. Monsieur; that was the truth. Monsieur le Comte arrived here on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th. That is so, Marie, is it not?"

Marie assented eagerly.

"Ah, yes, that is quite right. I remember it perfectly."

"Ah," said Poirot, "and what did you give your good master for déjeuner that day?"

"I" Marie paused, trying to collect herself.


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 "Odd," said Poirot, "how one remembers some thingsand forgets others."

He leant forward and struck the table a blow with his fist; his eyes flashed with anger.

"Yes, yes, it is as I say. You tell your lies and you think nobody knows. But there are two people who know. Yestwo people. One is le bon Dieu"

He raised a hand to heaven, and then settling himself back in his chair and shutting his eyelids, he murmured comfortably:

"And the other is Hercule Poirot."

"I assure you, Monsieur, you are completely mistaken. Monsieur le Comte left Paris on Monday night"

"True," said Poirot"by the Rapide. I do not know where he broke his journey. Perhaps you do not know that. What I do know is that he arrived here on Wednesday morning, and not on Tuesday morning."

"Monsieur is mistaken," said Marie stolidly.

Poirot rose to his feet.

"Then the law must take its course," he murmured. "A pity."

"What do you mean, Monsieur?" asked Marie, with a shade of uneasiness.

"You will be arrested and held as accomplices concerned in the murder of Mrs. Kettering, the English lady who was killed."

"Murder!"

The man's face had gone chalk white, his knees knocked together. Marie dropped the rolling-pin and began to weep.

"But it is impossibleimpossible. I thought"


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N ORDER to place the study of color on a broad and safe foundation, the work must commence at the bottom with a rational presentation of the subject, based on experiments and the use of color material. We must intelligently consider the relation that exists between the pure science of light which is the source of all color and the use of color materials with their effect on our color perceptions. While it is true in all study that there is here and there found a natural genius in some line of work who seems to have such inborn perceptions as to require little or no logical instruction in his special line, it is also manifest that the masses must gain their knowledge through a systematic presentation of the subject, if they secure it at all. Therefore with the growth of modern pedagogics the laboratory work of the psychologist has become a necessity. This consists in collecting and tabulating the results of hundreds and thousands of experiments regarding any subject under investigation, and the averaging of these to form theories and laws. In making these experiments there must be standards and measurements on which they may be based and some nomenclature in which to make the records; and the standards, measurements and nomenclature adopted must be common to those who desire to compare their results made in different places at different times.

From the results of many physical experiments properly measured and recorded certain psychological theories are deduced. These experiments are tried on hundreds and thousands of individuals and the average results establish the theories, which will ultimately stand or fall according to the truth


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 and accuracy with which the experiments have been made. Experiments are useless for formulating any exact theories unless they can be recorded in some generally accepted terms for comparison with other experiments made under similar conditions and recorded in the same terms.

So in color perceptions it is not necessary that we know anything of the theories of color in order to see colors, and if endowed by nature with a natural genius for color, education in color may not be necessary, but if there is to be education in color which can be transmitted to a second party there must be some standards of colors and some measurement of color effects which can be recorded in accepted terms.

In the realm of art there is no necessity for any purely scientific analysis of sunlight, which is the origin of natural colors, because all the practical value of color is found in its aesthetic effects on the mind, and in order to enjoy these even in the highest degree it is not necessary that we understand the scientific origin of the colors, any more than it is necessary for the artist to know the chemical composition of his pigments in order to produce best effects with them on his canvas. Because of this almost self-evident fact, artists have as a rule been very impatient when any reference has been made to the science of color in connection with color education, believing that color is an exception to the general subjects of study to such a degree that it lies outside of all scientific investigations. Consequently they have not been in sympathy with the physiopsychological investigations which have been prosecuted with such promising results in other lines, when such investigations have been proposed regarding color. While it is not essential for best results in his own work that an expert artist shall know anything of the science of color, still if he is to communicate his knowledge of art to any others except his personal pupils, he must have some language in which to make known his ideas, and on the same grounds if any psychological


text:
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 "Since you stick to your story, there is nothing to be said. I think you are both foolish."

He was turning towards the door when an agitated voice arrested him.

"Monsieur, Monsieur, just a little moment. II had no idea that it was anything of this kind. II thought it was just a matter concerning a lady. There have been little awkwardnesses with the police over ladies before. But murderthat is very different."

"I have no patience with you," cried Poirot. He turned round on them and angrily shook his fist in Hippolyte's face. "Am I to stop here all day, arguing with a couple of imbeciles thus? It is the truth I want. If you will not give it to me, that is your look out. For the last time, when did Monsieur le Comte arrive at the Villa MarinaTuesday morning or Wednesday morning?"

"Wednesday," gasped the man, and behind him Marie nodded confirmation.

Poirot regarded them for a minute or two, then inclined his head gravely.

"You are wise, my children," he said quietly. "Very nearly you were in serious trouble."

He left the Villa Marina, smiling to himself.

"One guess confirmed," he murmured to himself. "Shall I take a chance on the other?"

It was six o'clock when the card of Monsieur Hercule Poirot was brought up to Mirelle. She stared at it for a moment or two, and then nodded. When Poirot entered, he found her walking up and down the room feverishly. She turned on him furiously.

"Well?" she cried. "Well? What is it now? Have you


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14 On seeing him for the first time a stranger would be apt to exclaim, “That's a hard-looking man!” and, after hearing where he had been and what he had done, the stranger would be apt to add, “He's just the man to do it.” Hard, indeed, was the character of Shughtie's weather-beaten features—hard as his heart was soft. High cheek bones, grey eyes, set deep in cave-like sockets, shining forth a fierce light, with prominent eyebrows jutting over them like a pent-house; forehead low and slightly retreating, nose thick and anything but classical, a beard falling to the waist, and grizzly, short-cropped hair which, they say, prevented his becoming bald; an upper lip clothed with a large moustache, stiff but not bristly—that shows the rough “son of Neptune”—yet hardly large enough to hide the setting of the lips, and jaws vast and square, as if settled down into a somewhat humorous war with the world, at the same time showing none of the futile pugnacity of the Celt.

Such was the countenance. He was a tallish man, whose vast breadth of chest and shoulders made him appear below middle size. The tout ensemble of face and figure was intended, said the jealous, for a born pugilist. Such men, who voluntarily assume the bearskin, are apt to growl, and sometimes to barb a growl with a venerable quotation from Mr Punch.

“Perhaps, gentlemen,” said Lord B., with even more than usual kindness, “to-morrow evening Capt. Burton will give us a sketch of his curriculum?"”

With all the pleasure in life ! But I would warn you that it will be as an improvisatore, not as a professor. And now goodnight. Seaton, have you brought your plastron? Shughtie, do not mistake in your dreams that other valley for the valley of the Nile! And under cover of these feeble shots I effected my escape.

spent part of the morning in the library, where a few treatises, old and new, had refreshed my memory in matters that had faded from it; yet I felt somewhat nervous as the smoking hour drew near, like a lecturer who had not thoroughly prepared his lecture, a professor unprovided with all his notes. As it was therefore understood that my introduction would not only deal with general principles, but also be somewhat historical, the Marchioness and her two daughters kindly declared their intention of joining us.

title: Page:The sentiment of the Sword.djvu/37


text: Wrostella's Weird (Ludgate Monthly serial)


text:
Talk:Wrostella's Weird (Ludgate Monthly serial)

Reviews

 * The Delineator, June 1923: In Wrostella's Weird Helen Mathers has given us a novel that is decidedly above the average, though constructed of materials that are not usually fusible. The weird is not a weird at all, and the French girl, who at the beginning of the story marries a chivalrous, generous and hot-tempered Irish gentleman, is more like an Irish lass than a Parisian belle, and is a finer, more courageous and more winsomely capricious woman than one would expect to find in a tale with so forbidding a title. If the romance is somewhat too vividly colored here and there, its high lights are easily tolerated because they are laid on so prettily.

 * The Art Amateur, June 1893:, by Helen Mathers, will serve to furnish an hour's diversion of a moderately exciting nature. Terry Fitzgerald, a blue-eyed young Irishman, has fallen heir to Wrostella Castle, a bleak and lonely retreat by the sea. According to the terms of the will by which he inherited the castle, the owner must live there at least four months in the year. Thither Fitzgerald brings his fascinating Parisian bride to pass the honeymoon. Some grewsome experiences follow, which even the presence of a French cook can hardly alleviate. The husband suddenly leaves home; jealousy creeps in on both sides, and there is a suspicion of possible murder. However, let us hasten to intimate that the curtain falls on an edifying scene of reconciliation, with bright prospects of future felicity.


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 tests are to be made, regarding color, it is evident that there must be some accepted terms in which to record the results, which has not hitherto been the case.

When the well known Newton and Brewster theory of three primary colors red, yellow and blue, was advocated by those scientists there appeared to be something of interest and value in it for the artists also, because with the three pigments red, yellow and blue, they seemed to be able to confirm the truth of the scientific theories regarding the spectrum colors. But the scientists have long been convinced that there is no truth in this theory and have quite generally accepted the Young-Helmholtz idea of three other color perceptions red, green and violet, from which they claim all color vision is produced, and which they call fundamental colors.

This more modern theory has seemed so far removed from the realm of the artists and the colorists that they have not been able to see anything in it of truth or value to them, and so have continued to repeat the old, old story of the three primaries red, yellow and blue, from which the secondaries orange, green and purple are made etc., etc., all of which is the more pernicious when accepted as a correct theory because of its seeming approximation to the facts. And yet there is not in it all any scientific truth on which to build a logical system of color education, and some of the effects which are considered prominent arguments for the system are directly opposed to well known facts in the science of color. Consequently, the artist has failed to gain from the investigations of the scientists anything to aid him in his pigmentary work, and the scientist has not been interested in the aesthetic ideas of the artists which in fact he has generally been unable to fully appreciate, from lack of training and associations.

The system of color instruction here presented for primary grades is based on the results of careful study and experiment for many years in which the attempt has been made to bring the scientist and the artist on to common ground, where


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 they may work in sympathy with each other instead of at cross purposes as has been the case heretofore, and the results with children have already been such as to testify fully to the efficiency of this line of work.

Thus the feeling for color which every true artist has, may be to a certain extent analyzed so that it can be understood by the scientist and recorded for the benefit of fellow artists one hundred or a thousand miles away and in time an aggregation of facts regarding the psychological effects of color collected which will form the beginning of a valuable fund of color knowledge to be increased from age to age.

Ever since Newton produced the prismatic solar spectrum, the so-called science of color as applied to pigments and coloring, has been a most curious mixture of truth, error and speculation. It was supposed by Newton and Brewster that in the solar spectrum the colors were produced by the over-lapping of three sets of colored rays red, yellow and blue. The red rays at one end were supposed to overlap or mix with the yellow rays to make the orange, and on the other side of the yellow the blue rays were supposed to combine with the yellow to produce green.

Following the same theory in pigmentary colors, it has been claimed that all colors in nature may be produced by the combination of pigments in. these three colors red, yellow and blue, and hence they have been called primary colors. It is still claimed by the advocates of this theory that from the three primaries red, yellow and blue the so-called secondaries orange, green and purple can be made, and that the secondaries are complementary to the primaries in pairs; the orange to the blue, the green to the red and the purple to the yellow.

By similar combinations of the secondaries it is claimed that three other colors, in themselves peculiar, and different from the first six, may be made, the orange and green forming citrines, orange and violet russets, and green and violet olives


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 not tortured me enough, all of you? Have you not made me betray my poor Dereek? What more do you want?"

"Just one little question, Mademoiselle. After the train left Lyons, when you entered Mrs. Kettering's compartment"

"What is that?"

Poirot looked at her with an air of mild reproach and began again.

"I say when you entered Mrs. Kettering's compartment"

"I never did."

"And found her"

"I never did."

"Ah, sacré!"

He turned on her in a rage and shouted at her, so that she cowered back before him.

"Will you lie to me? I tell you I know what happened as well as though I had been there. You went into her compartment and you found her dead. I tell you I know it. To lie to me is dangerous. Be careful. Mademoiselle Mirelle."

Her eyes wavered beneath his gaze and fell.

"II didn't" she began uncertainly and stopped.

"There is only one thing about which I wonder," said Poirot"I wonder, Mademoiselle, if you found what you were looking for or whether"

"Whether what?"

"Or whether some one else had been before you."

"I will answer no more questions," screamed the dancer. She tore herself away from Poirot’s restraining hand, and flinging herself down on the floor in a


text:
Page:The Mystery of the Blue Train.pdf/276

 frenzy, she screamed and sobbed. A frightened maid came rushing in.

Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and quietly left the room.

But he seemed satisfied.


text:
The Lady With Wings

HE steamer was late. The “head clerk” looked critically at the chandelier. Then he went out to fetch the dust-cloth and a piece of chamois. He took down the glass lamps and wiped each one carefully and put it back in its place in the chandelier, blowing bits of dust from the fixtures and running the dust-cloth carefully in and out along the brass filigree of grapes and vines.

It had been a busy day in the office—and upstairs and downstairs and in my lady's chamber—for to-day the rush season began. They always came the first of August—shoals of them—and by the middle of the month the house would overflow. There would be cots in the parlor and the “head clerk” would retire to the wood-shed to sleep—such sleep as he could get—a few winks between midnight and dawn—and dawn began with cockcrow. The “head clerk's” back had a busy, contemplative air as he regarded the chandelier, alert for any smudge of dust. It was not strictly his business to dust the chandelier, perhaps, or to fill the lamps, or bring in eggs, or set the table. His chief business in life was to make the boarders comfortable. Incidentally he did things that no one else found time for: He met the boat twice a day—carried up bags and trunks and golf sticks—brought the mail and distributed it from the piazza steps—with jokes for the boarders—he ran errands and filled water-pitchers and fed the hens and brought vegetables from the garden when the rest were too busy, and superintended the dining-room when things went hard—visiting with the guests and gathering up cups and plates and omelets, coffee, and fish hash, with his long arms that reached skilfully among them while he talked.

He had finished the chandelier and he returned the dust-cloth to its place and went to the window to scan the horizon.... Far to the west a little blur appeared on the sky. He looked at it again and then at the clock—twenty minutes before she would be in. He glanced again around the room, running a quick, thoughtful hand along his black hair—every chair and pen and blotter and toothpick in place. Some one passed the office door and he looked up.

“Oh, Annie!”

She turned back a little. “Yes, Joseph—?” She hesitated, and came in, smoothing her apron. She was a dark little figure, with clear, straight eyes.

Joseph looked, and his glance deepened approvingly. “First rate, Annie! Don't wear the gingham one again—not afternoons—will you?”

She smiled—a demure, shy smile—and turned away, as one might from the sun when it shines too bright. “Mother likes it better—this one,” she said, smoothing the starched surface again.

“Of course she does.” Joseph was hearty. “And the boarders will. You through work?”

“All but some flowers. Mother said petunias.” She had started to go.

“That's right.” He nodded again, his eyes on the dark, clear face. “We'll have a lot of people to-night.”

“Yes.” She lingered over the word and turned to go, and waited—a breath—

The clerk's eyes were on her kindly.... A whistle sounded—a long, low note that broke the quiet and echoed a little and sounded again—low and hoarse.

She started. “It's the boat!” She had slipped through the door and down the long hall toward the garden.

The clerk's face wore a puzzled look. It was almost dreamy as he went down the piazza steps. The day had a kind of radiance. He had not known that it was like this. He looked across the stretch of road that led to the water. There were flowers everywhere and tall grasses that swung on light stems, and dandelions fluffing and butterflies, yellow and white. Joseph's eyes took it in with slow content. It was the quiet air that made it so beautiful—there had been no wind all day.... They would have had a good passage and would eat, he thought. He quickened his steps a little. The boat was off the Head now; there was no hurry, but he liked to be at the dock as she came in. He liked the bustle and the calling, as he liked to be first on board to gather up hand-bags and luggage and start the boarders right. There were no other hotels on the island—only a couple of boarding-houses that did not boast a head clerk between them—but it was safer for Joseph to be there and he liked it.

He stood among the crowd on the dock looking at the boat as she steamed in. She was a round, clumsy craft, riding high in the water. A little group of people gathered in the bow waved gaily as she came. Parasols—bits of color, red and deep blue—twirled in the light. The crowd on the wharf waved back and called out foolish things. Summer was alive, pulsing between the great boat and the island.

Then Joseph saw her first—standing on the deck of the steamer, her eyes scanning eagerly this new island she had come to. Her parasol was not blue or red, but a kind of creamy light that circled about her and shut her off from the sky.

The tide was high and the landing was made from the upper deck. So she came down the gangplank, her light skirts held daintily away and the creamy parasol atilt to shade her face. Behind her followed Joseph, laden to the chin with booty, and before and behind them came various youths who carried the surplus. She was accustomed to little swarms of men waiting on her. Since her earliest babyhood she had had them; they had danced at her feet, and she would not have known how to travel without them. She did not need them so much for the wraps and bags and parasols and flowers, perhaps, as for a kind of moral support—to applaud softly when she spoke, and to remain dumb.

T WAS a pretty picture she made, coming down the steamer plank—with her attendants before and behind. But no one would have guessed, from the curve of her pretty mouth or the tilt of her chin, that she was aware how pretty she was, or that she had taken in the whole long wharf, the radiant island, and Joseph in his black coat and tie with one sweep of her lashes before the eyes fell. It was such an absent, preoccupied prettiness—not self-conscious or put on for the wharf, but genuinely preoccupied—as if she had retired for a while to the citadel—to commune with her self—perhaps to plan a campaign of happy laughter—a slaughter of hearts. It was not easy to know what was going on under the filmy hat—behind the absent eyes, and so everybody guessed.

If she had been an inch taller she would have been majestic—and her admirers would have known why they ran helter-skelter to do her bidding—or if an inch had been taken off, she would have been fragile—needing protection. She was neither tall nor short—only straight as a flame, from the little slender feet; and she was neither witty nor wise—but all the men who knew her waited on her lightest wish—because such is the way of men.

To Joseph, lumbering behind, with the luggage, these things were a sealed book. He knew woman nature—through many summers and much tribulation he had learned that some women are to be placated and some are to be commanded, and as “head clerk” he had done his duty by them all. No one could say that he had a favorite among them—fishballs and flowers and towels were dealt out with impartial hand—for Joseph's ideal in life was to be a faithful “head clerk.”

But the clerk's head reeled to-day, as he followed the happy cortège up the road, between the flowery fields. The flowers nodded as before and the long grass waved and butterflies were everywhere—but the radiance of the day was not in them. It had gathered in a straight, slight figure that went before him—like a cloud. Poor Joseph!—as he turned the register on the desk and dipped the pen in its ink and placed his finger on the black line where the first guest was to sign—he knew that his world had tumbled upside down and that things were falling out.

But when she came to the desk and took the pen in her fingers and looked at it a moment, dubiously, and then at Joseph, before she signed, his trouble went away. He saw things clear again and he knew. Whatever she might wish him to do it would be done.

“Mrs. Gregory Blair, Garyville, Kentucky, and Miss Anita Blair,” with ditto marks, ran its fresh blackness across the page and the pen was in his fingers again—with the lightest smile for thanks. He laid the blotter, almost tenderly, upon the page—as if it guarded a secret for him, while he assigned guests and rooms and played his part as mere “head clerk.”

They had never had a guest from Kentucky ... and Joseph might have known, had he not been a very ignorant “head clerk,” that there is a charmed land, and its daughters have the smile of the sun, and he upon whom that smile falls has tasted wine that will linger with him till old age—a smile of charm and gladness and the purity of heart that little children have, yet somehow faintly troubled with the downcast look and listening eyes of Mother Eve while the serpent coiled his shining length and bent his weaving head to whisper wisdom in her shell-pink ear. So when she had smiled her thanks and handed back the pen, Joseph's head swam with the draft the gods had brewed for the sons of men since the first light fell upon the earth. Alas, Joseph!

HE was not a coquette—but, like the lady of Ferrara, she “liked whate'er she looked on—and her looks went everywhere.” The hotel woke up. There were riding parties and driving parties and boating and golf and tennis—only bridge, in the parlors, seemed to languish a little, and the old ladies, gathered in sheltered corners of the piazzas, were no longe1 safe over their bits of news and scallops and wool—for the piazzas chattered and hummed. Chairs rocked with gay little ruffles and creaked and whispered when the ruffles had fled. If one would keep up with the pace, he must rise early and sit up late, and even then he could not be sure that something delightful going past, some charming little guess at life, had not escaped him. As for Joseph, devoted to kitchen and office and hens, he lived in one long, glorious dream that knew no waking—and no sleep. Never had life pressed so hard and never had he been so happy.

It could not be said that she flirted with Joseph, but neither could it be denied that Joseph was singled out. If she was the center of the group and dispensed favors, it was Joseph who stood at her side and placed the favors in her hand.

She was planning this morning for a driving party to Southern Head and back. They would take luncheon and drive back by moonlight—everybody—old ladies and all. She was very determined about the old ladies. Why she wished this would be a secret between herself and heaven—since the old ladies did not wish to go—and there were not horses enough on the island to carry so many old ladies to Southern Head and back in a day. Joseph had pointed this out to her carefully, sitting on the piazza railing, one long, black leg swinging back and forth as he talked.

And she had listened—with her pretty head bent—and she had nodded and raised her eyes, and continued her plans, which included all the old ladies and luncheon for everybody.

And Joseph had gone away and created horses out of dust and air and had changed a roast dinner, with vegetables and soup and ice-cream, into a cold boiled luncheon, with sandwiches and relishes and a delicate, spicy drink that she liked. These were not easy days for Joseph, but his countenance shone with joy.

He had not known what living meant before. He recalled now—how far away it all seemed—the first night she came, when the hotel was about to settle down to its placid, accustomed sleep, and she had appeared in the dining-room, with her court about her and a chafing-dish borne aloft—and had demanded cheese and butter and eggs and paprika and beer! That it was a prohibition island Joseph had explained with his most courteous gravity, and that you must have beer for a Welsh rabbit, she had explained with her sweetest, gravest air, and while their two souls wrestled together, a feather-brained youth, who had no principles, had scoured the place and produced the beer—just one bottle—and it was Joseph himself who stood at her right hand and poured it in—a little at a time, as she commanded, while some one at her left did the paprika, and some one else the cheese, and her wooden spoon was everywhere, a kind of baton that kept order and beat the time—and the air was full of laughter and gay little sounds that tinkled and sweet, high-pitched commands that sent Joseph on useless errands and called him back and praised and scolded him in a breath till it seemed too good to be true. So, in heaven, the angels might call to each other, from bench to bench—but surely earth never brimmed so before.

Joseph smiled now, the long, slow smile that always rested on his face when he thought of her—Joseph was always thinking of her. Did he go to gather the eggs—it was to select the freshest and daintiest and slip it into his black coat pocket, to be boiled later, with his own careful eye on the clock, and borne in triumph to place before her. The day was a blaze of glory for him if she said: “Thank you!” and if she only raised her lids a little and looked at it, half-curiously, half-indifferently, still Joseph's heart sang within him, and when her fingers swung the knife that broke the shell with even cut, Joseph's heart went crack, too—just a little. For Joseph had seen a great light upon the way, and—like the rest of us—he would never be the same again.

HE Southern Head was bathed in sunshine. The great cliffs that circled back from the sea were red at heart—like vast orchestral stalls that waited, silent and empty, for the accustomed gods—perchance they were asleep or gone upon a journey. So the day slept; and over the quiet sea, gulls wheeled on slow, outspread wings.

Now and then a face peered above the edge of the cliff, and was withdrawn, or a stone dropped from the top and fell into space—giving back no sound. The guests went warily along the path that edged the cliff. The path was well back from the sea, but there were ugly rumors—enough to make one cautious. A misstep and one might not see the sunshine again, or breathe the air. They went in little groups, laughing and talking, the bowl of sky above them and the great cliffs at the left that dropped to the sea.

It was not a day to linger indoors. Even the old ladies, wrapped in shawls, but without the knitting, had ventured a little way. They would not go far—they would be within call of the bell when it rang. Already, before they left the house, the smell of coffee had met the nostrils, and Joseph was here and there and everywhere, his black coat awry and the wisp of necktie standing under one ear, giving orders, bringing in baskets, unpacking cups and glasses and plates. The old ladies walked slowly past the stables where the horses could be heard through thin boards blowing softly and crunching their hay and oats. The way from the stable to the cliffs ran through an open field and the old ladies went with leisurely foot. One of them, who carried a black parasol, raised it to shield her eyes from the light. And it was as if heaven mocked her—for a little black cloud, like a parasol gone aloft, sailed between her and the sun and rested there. She looked up with blinking eyes and lowered the parasol, smiling. The other old ladies looked up—the cloud was on the sun and other clouds were coming—from the east and from the west. There had been no warning—but the sky was overcast. Great masses were rolling up, hurrying to blot out the heavens, from the four corners of the earth. The old ladies turned in their places with swift thought. They gathered up their skirts—as if the rain were already descending—and ran, their wide soles gleaming in the light as they went. Before they reached the house, the first drops fell, splashing big.

Joseph on the steps of the rough shelter house greeted them, smiling 'and helping them up the steps. They laughed and twittered and shook their wraps and peered through the windows, and watched the rest of the party hurrying now across the open field, fleeing from the wrath of the rain. They came flying—skirts drawn protectingly over bent heads—hats under arms—blown by the wind, hurrying, drifting to shelter, half-amused and half-angry at the power that drove them on.

It was Joseph who met them on the steps, scanning each group as it came—his quick eye running beyond it to search the field in the distance. She was not come— No, they did not see her—but she must be here. She started with them—yes, of course. It was so sudden—they had to run, single file—no one could tell. But Joseph had not listened, he was gone—across the field—hatless, in the rain.

They watched him, from the piazza, down the path. He would find her. She was surely safe—waiting under some rock, probably—wiser and safer than all of them. The other young men were searching the house hastily. Then they turned back into the rain. The last bevy of girls drifted into the house, shaking the wet from their garments, crowding about the blazing fire.

The wind had risen with the storm. They heard it whirling outside. The sky had grown black. They could scarcely see each other, except by the lightning flare.... The man who ran by the cliff called as he ran, lifting his face to listen. The ran had drenched him, but the wind that sailed past lifted the soaked coat and whipped it about him, slapping his face. He fought it down, peering ahead. He darted to the edge of the cliff and threw himself flat—far below an angry, muffled sound came up out of darkness. He rose to his feet and ran—stumbling, calling: “Anita! Anita!” The wind lulled a little and he made a hollow of his hands, calling to her: “Anita! Anita!”... Then louder, as the wind grew and louder again and again: “Anita! An-i-ta!”—dying away pitifully like a sob. It was only the wind that heard him and hissed across the headlands. He stumbled and fell, and the wind echoed it again while he lay, beaten upon. by the rain. When he rose a little three-cornered cut was in his forehead and a red streak trickled down his face as he fought the wind for foothold. He had reached the end of the path now, where it dips to the sea and curves back toward the great procession of cliffs.... If he should not find her. He went cautiously, feeling the treacherous rock with his hands, slipping, sliding, catching at brambles, and waiting while huge pebbles. loosened from their place, rattled and fell, striking against the. side of the cliff once—and again and were lost to sound. He strained his eyes to pierce the dimness. The lightning flared high—and gleamed white on the sky and the cliff—and on something lodged below. He caught fast hold of the cliff and held himself against the beating of his heart that would thrust him off. Swiftly he had stripped himself of the black coat and was tearing it in slits, testing each link with set lip. He gripped the strong cloth fiercely, as if he swore it to service. The tense fingers had found a cervice [sic] where a huge root thrust out and made fast the ribboned coat. It might not hold—God knew.... There was not time to go back.... She lay with the rain falling on her face, and below her the darkness fell away— If she awoke.... He put his foot cautiously down.... The rope held fast and he swung himself faster—and faster—careless now.... He would reach her.... The rain blinded him ... but he held her, strained to his breast.... He had lifted her up the great cliff... “Anita!” He sobbed it, bending to her, and the eyes opened and smiled wistfully and closed in the night. He stumbled and ran—hatless and coatless—babbling with joy—for he carried her safe.... Like a child, he cradled her, shielding the face from the rain.... The gods were jealous. ... He held them at bay ... he thrust them back....

So he met the others, coming toward him through the storm, and gave her to them. But she had struggled to her feet and went along among them, laughing a little as her feet stumbled and they held her up on every side.

At the stables Joseph left them. He went in among the wagons and sobbed like a child.

And when he came to the house, the coffee was made, and Anita, sitting by the fire, held a steaming cup to her lips. When she saw him she put it down and looked at him with gentle eyes—and the gentleness in her eyes mocked him.

HE day lay like a pearl upon the sea. The world was new-washed by the storm—all the flowers and the grass and the little leaves.

Under the trees in the orchard Joseph waited for her. She had said she would come—with a little nod of her head and laughing eyes she said it.... She would come.... She was coming—with light feet—there on the grass.... He could see her.... Out of some other world.... She was coming.... She had paused for a moment to speak to the group by the path, then she came slowly on. Her eyes were on the ground, a little smile on her lips.

When she looked up, her glance rested on Joseph in his black clothes—waiting—and the smile faded, and she came more quickly and stood beside him. “I didn't mean to keep you waiting,” she said. The light through the green leaves filtered and fell on the tilted face. It nodded to him kindly. “I meant to come right off, but it takes so long to pack, you know—to find your things and say good-by... and I always forget something.”... The candid eyes appealed to him for sympathy.

But Joseph did not give it. He had started forward a step, his hand half-clenched at his side—words struggling on his lips.... But it was the “head clerk” that spoke....

“You took your rooms—till the first—” The voice was harsh.

“Yes, I know. But we must go... I just can't stay—”

“Sit down,” said Joseph. He motioned to the bench. “I want to say something.”

She sat down obediently, her light skirt trailing a little and the slender foot peeping from among its ruffles.

Joseph stood before her humbly. His dark head was bent and the light traced lines of silver on it.... She looked at them curiously. “I haven't thanked you—” she said gently.

His hand put it aside with a gesture. “Wait... I didn't know you were going ... I can't let you go—” He spoke fast—breathless—and dropped to one knee beside her—half resting on the bench....

She did not move away—a grave look had crossed the childish petulance of her face. “I wish you wouldn't say things like that to me,” she said. She was speaking very low.... “It makes me quite unhappy—” She spread her little hands.

Joseph looked at them. “I would not make you unhappy, or hurt you—for the world—”

“No ... no—”Her lips half parted with a little smile—“I know you wouldn't. You're such a kind, good man—and I love you. Everybody does, you know— They just can't help it...” She was looking, strange and inscrutable into his face—as if all the mirth and all the sorrow of the world dwelt in her eyes.

“I want you to love me,” said Joseph. “I want you to marry me.” But his face was unutterably sad.... “I can not live without you—” he added simply.

She looked down at him with swift eyes.... “I wish you wouldn't... I couldn't marry you.” She shook her head. “I just couldn't marry you—I'd be glad if I could—”

There was silence in the orchard all about, and the golden day brimmed with it. He had not stirred from his place.

She half put out her little hand toward him and drew it back.... “You see, I don't expect to marry anybody—not anybody—” She shook her head gravely.... Then her eyes laughed. “I'd like to, real well—but I don't ever expect to.”

The toe of her slipper found a little pebble and pushed it about. “You wouldn't like it—to live with me—” she said; “I'm as hard as hard to live with.”

He looked up and smiled—a slow smile, that was full of tenderness and gentleness. “Don't—Anita—I understand—now—” He stood up, his hands behind him, looking down at her.

“I'm sorry I ever came to this island,” she said... The quick eyes brimmed and ran over. She was searching among the flimsy ruffles for a bit of handkerchief. When she found it she dabbed them fiercely.... Then she stood up, both hands outstretched. “You'll just have to forgive me,” she said. A little smile struggled up among the tears.

He took the hands, holding them fast, looking into the face of Eve—mother of men. Then he dropped them slowly. “I am glad I have loved you,” he said.

“Oh—dear! Please don't—I'm going to cry again!” She searched for the handkerchief frantically. Then the laugh bubbled up. The day was filled with it and the orchard light and all the great world, and the smell of salt crept up from the sea. “Good-by.” She turned away, but the eyes had brimmed again.

So he watched her move away, under the trees—out into the light, where the sunshine caught her and the flowers made a path for her, and the butterflies, on either side, rose and circled and fell as she went.

HE ticking of the office clock on the wall behind him was like the echo of his thought.... She was gone—but the sun was shining out on the water and the sky was blue. He turned away from the window and crossed the empty room and sat down. The season was done now. There would be a few more days, then the last guests would go and the house would be closed. His hand in his pocket felt for something and drew it out—a fragile bit of lace and lightness.... He held it in his hand, gazing at it stupidly. It was so frail and gossamer and useless.... The clock ticked past the hour ... but he had not stirred.

Some one in the hall passed the door and looked in and passed on with light foot. By and by the step came again, pausing a little by the door. Then he looked up. “Did you want something—Annie?” The girl's face held its clear light steadily.

“I thought you might want me, Joseph—to do something—”

“No—there is nothing to do—now. Things are about over.”

“Yes—” But she waited. She did not look at the closed hand that held something in it, but only at his face.

“The cut in your forehead is worse,” she said. She had come nearer, looking at it.

“Is it? I don't know—” He raised a stupid hand. “Never mind,” he said.

But she was looking at it—with clear eyes. “I have something—” Her gaze lightened. “One of the boarders left it—for me. When you put it on, it heals. You wait—”

She was gone and he dreamed again. The clenched hand opened and the bit of lace fell to the table beside him.

When she returned, she pushed it a little aside, making a place for the dish of water she had brought, and the scissors and a tiny bottle of fluid.

“I wash it first—in carbolic—” She drew the dish toward her. Then she reached out. “This will do—nicely—” she said. “I forgot the cotton.” She had gathered up the little handkerchief and dipped it lightly in the water.

“Bend down, Joseph—just a little, please—”

The dark head, with its silver streaks, was bent obediently.... °

The little hand that dabbed the water was very firm, but she gave an anxious look. “Does it hurt?”

“No—” He smiled a little.

“There—” She drew a quick breath. “It's clean—now.” She lifted the bottle. “I put some of this on. It makes a kind of new skin, you know, and cures it—” She stood on tiptoe ... reaching up. “It will hurt—a little—at first, but you won't mind—?”

“I shall not mind,” said Joseph.

The cool finger-tips worked quickly. “There!” She stood off, looking at him.

A smile crossed the sad, quiet face. “Thank you, child,” he said gently.

“You're quite welcome.” She lifted the bit of handkerchief from the water and squeezed it with careful fingers and laid it on the table—a little wet ball.

But her eyes were on the cut. “It will be better to-morrow,” she said.

Joseph's hand had reached out to the table. It returned to his pocket. “I think it is better now,” he said.

Her face glowed with happiness. “You have to be careful of hurts like that.” She nodded gravely. “Sometimes they stay and get worse and make a lot of trouble—if you don't take care.” She gathered up the things she had brought—the dish of water and the scissors and the little bottle of fluid. Then she turned away, her face full of happiness and a kind of childlike courage.

When she had gone the room was still again. Joseph sat motionless, staring before him. Only the tick of the clock on the wall ... and the sun shining outside. He drew his hand from the pocket and looked down at it—a little ball of filmy wetness, in the great palm.... The ticking of the clock on the wall echoed his thought.

title: The Lady With Wings


text: A Study of Peter Chelčický's Life and a Translation from Czech of Part I of His Net of Faith (1947)/Part 2/Section 5


text: A Study of Peter Chelčický's Life and a Translation from Czech of Part I of His Net of Faith (1947)/Part 2/Section 6


text: A Study of Peter Chelčický's Life and a Translation from Czech of Part I of His Net of Faith (1947)/Part 2/Section 7


text: A Study of Peter Chelčický's Life and a Translation from Czech of Part I of His Net of Faith (1947)/Part 2/Section 8


text: Talk:The Lady With Wings

title: Talk:The Lady With Wings


text:
Page:Constitution of India (9 Sep 2020).pdf/191

1. Interpretation.—In this Schedule, unless the context otherwise requires, the expression “State” *** does not include the [States of Assam, [, [Meghalaya, Tripura and Mizoram.]]]

2. Executive power of a State in Scheduled Areas.—Subject to the provisions of this Schedule, the executive power of a State extends to the Scheduled Areas therein.

3. Report by the Governor *** to the President regarding the administration of Scheduled Areas.—The Governor *** of each State having Scheduled Areas therein shall annually, or whenever so required by the President, make a report to the President regarding the administration of the Scheduled Areas in that State and the executive power of the Union shall extend to the giving of directions to the State as to the administration of the said areas.

4. Tribes Advisory Council.—(1) There shall be established in each State having Scheduled Areas therein and, if the President so directs, also in any State having Scheduled Tribes but not Scheduled Areas therein, a Tribes Advisory Council consisting of not more than twenty members of whom, as nearly as may be, three-fourths shall be the representatives of the Scheduled Tribes in the Legislative Assembly of the State:

Provided that if the number of representatives of the Scheduled Tribes in the Legislative Assembly of the State is less than the number of seats in the Tribes Advisory Council to be filled by such representatives, the remaining seats shall be filled by other members of those tribes.

(2) It shall be the duty of the Tribes Advisory Council to advise on such matters pertaining to the welfare and advancement of the Scheduled Tribes in the State as may be referred to them by the Governor ***.

(3) The Governor *** may make rules prescribing or regulating, as the case may be,—
 * (a) the number of members of the Council, the mode of their appointment and the appointment of the Chairman of the Council and of the officers and servants thereof;
 * (b) the conduct of its meetings and its procedure in general; and
 * (c) all other incidental matters.


text:
Page:The sentiment of the Sword.djvu/175

Rh


text:
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 perhaps, an occasional remnant of a pine, that, by being cut close to the earth, so as to leave nothing visible but its base of roots, spreading for twenty feet in every direction, was apparently placed there as a beacon, to warn the traveller that it was the centre of the highway.

Into one of these roads the active Sheriff led the way, first striking out of the footpath, by which they had descended from the sugar-bush, across a little bridge, formed of round logs laid loosely on sleepers of pine, in which large openings were frequent, and in one instance, of a formidable width. The nag of Richard, when it reached this barrier, laid its nose along the logs, and stepped across the difficult passage with the sagacity of a man; but the blooded filly which Miss Temple rode disdained so humble a movement. She made a step or two with an unusual caution, and then, on reaching the broadest opening, obedient to the curb and whip of her fearless mistress, she bounded across the dangerous pass, with the activity of a squirrel.

"Gently, gently, my child," said Marmaduke, who was following in the manner of Richard—"this is not a country for equestrian feats. Much prudence is requisite, to journey through our rough paths with safety. Thou mayst practise thy skill in horsemanship on the plains of New-Jersey, with safety, but in the hills of Otsego, they must be suspended for a time."

"I may as well, then, relinquish my saddle at once, dear sir," returned his daughter; "for if it is to be laid aside until this wild country be improved, old age will overtake me, and put an end to what you term my equestrian feats."

"Say not so, my child," returned her father; "But if thou venturest again, as in crossing this bridge, old age will never overtake thee, but I

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text: Talk:The Freedom of John Peabody

title: Talk:The Freedom of John Peabody


text:
The Freedom of John Peabody

E had come straight to Southern Head, hurrying a little at the end and driving down late at night through wind and rain. He knew there was a welcome for him in the lighthouse. The old Scotch keeper and his wife would put him up. Jean's face would give its slow dazzling smile—the look of health and sun, the freshness of the sea....

But Jean had not been in the lighthouse—she was away with friends inshore—and he had waited, talking with Hugh McFarland of storm and shipwreck, and with Elsie McFarland, Jean's mother, of her tiny patch of garden under the sky on the headland .... He had waited three impatient days. Then she had come walking along the cliff .... Just as she was coming off there now. He watched the strong supple figure advancing in the sunlight .... He had been there two weeks, and he had told her this morning: he was going away, and he should not come back again. She had looked at him with quiet young eyes.

“All right, John; you go and make a sketch on the cliff. There's two hours till the boat goes. You make a sketch, and I'll pack your bag.”

So now he was here on the cliff making the last sketch she had told him to. His easel was not unpacked; his paint-box lay unopened on the turf.

How freely she moved along the edge of the cliff; a mis-step would send her to the bottom, four hundred feet straight down! But she did not look. Her head was up. She was smiling, coming toward him—coming to tell him it was time to start .... A woman always nagging with times and seasons!

His eyes drank in her approach and hated her—and hated himself. She stopped beside the gloomy figure, smiling down.

“I knew you were not painting—so I came.”

“You could not know!” It was gruff and defensive. She laughed.

“I watched you through the glass.”

His lips made an impatient exclamation. Then his face cleared .... only two more hours of being watched through a glass. He stretched his arms.

Her eyes rested on him candidly. “I thought I'd come and we'd have a talk and you could go away easier... I didn't wan't [sic] you to fret yourself about me when you are away. You'll be looking back maybe, worrying about how I'm taking it.”

He pulled his hat well down over his eyes. He did not speak.

“You don't mind talking it over?” she asked.

“Go ahead,” he said gruffly.

She was silent a minute. A gull called down and hung on wide wings and drifted over them. Her eyes followed it. “It's a feeling you have, maybe”—her eyes followed the gull—“that you can't be tied to any one—it's not just me.”

“It is just you!” he said harshly. “That's the trouble!” he stopped.

A light danced for a moment in her face like sunlight. “I'm liking to hear you say that; it makes a kind of music to me! But I'm thinking it's something deeper, inside somewhere—something that's got to be.”

He plucked a spear of tough grass, watching her beneath his hat-brim.

“You'll never be content till you go away and know,” she said.

“Know what?” he grunted. Her eyes watching the sea smiled and turned to him.

“Like the tide—and the birds,” she said. The outstretched wings hovered and wheeled. “They are there—they are gone... Mayhap they don't know why—but with the spring I'm watching...”

“The birds will come back without me, Jean.” He set his teeth grimly on the tough spear of grass. His eyes glowered like an animal imprisoned, alert, watchful... “I've never had freedom, I tell you!” It broke from him. “Always somebody nagging at me—mother, school, tutors, summer camp—after my soul! Then last year I came here” He bit his lip.

“And then it was me,” said Jean. He nodded. “And I came back—but I'm going now. I sha'n't come back.”

Her face was content. “It's right for you to go, John. Of course I'd like right well if you were happy and could stay—or take me with you when you go.” She moved a hand to the sea. “But it's different with a man. Mother always says, 'Men are men!' I expect mother knows. She's wise.”

She smiled with the words, and he seemed to see Elsie MacFarland's wise shrewd face looking up from her squash-vines and cabbages.

“You won't be doing your best work till you've gone free. I'd be glad to wait till you come”

“I don't want you to wait!” The words were almost savage.

“I know.” Her voice soothed him. “You want to forget me.”

“I never want to see you again.” He buried his face in his arms. “Never!”

“That's as may be.” Her voice was quiet. “I'd like right well to think you'd come some day. I'd like my bairns to call you father.”

He stirred.... His eyes were on the sea.

“But don't think I'll be looking for smoke from Eastport, wondering if some day you'll come ... I'd waste my life that way. I'd do a wrong to myself and to you ... I'll never love any other man like I love you, John. I want you to be happy—a great man. You will be!” Her voice lifted him to heights. “You're not just ordinary—that's why I've loved you maybe ... I wanted to tell you—so you wouldn't be worrying when you're gone.” She got up. “I'll go and finish packing. You make the sketch—unpack your box and get to work. You'll be glad you did it.”

She stood a minute listening. A bird was singing in a little cedar-grove a distance from the cliff. Her face held the notes of the bird. He watched her from beneath his hat jealously, holding the notes of the bird.

“No, it's not the whitethroats.” She moved a hand. “I was hoping they'd come; they're always here about this time. They nest in the wood over there.” She nodded to the cedars. “You know the song they sing, the whitethroat sparrows?”

“No.” His voice was dull. Her lips smiled, watching the greenness of the wood.

“They sing 'Peabody',” she said. “Folks call them Peabody birds.”

“Peabody-peahody-peabody!” Her lips whistled the plaintive half-human call of the bird—and waited. The bird in the cedar-wood seemed to listen. Then it sang its song. She shook her head. “That's not the whitethroat—but they'll be here soon. I like to hear them when they sing your name.”

She moved away. He lay with his face on his arm. Below him the surf thudded on the rocks.... It must be nearing high tide, and in his nostrils he smelled the pungent scent of the turf where the ants ran to and fro.

He got up and walked toward the wood. The bird was still singing. He would make a sketch of the cedars and send it to her when he got away. It would please her to have a little sketch of the place where the whitethroats sang.

He passed through the outer circle of trees and came to the grove where the trees grew thick, huddled together for protection against the wind. They showed huge trunks stunted and uncouth. Through the bare tracery of the twigs and branches he could look up to a high flat roof of green that seemed to be shutting out a mysterious sky. All about him in the wood the light was cool and brown; not a fleck of sound but the faraway roll of surf.

He put down his easel and box and stood listening, letting the silence drift in.... No one could paint the sustained harmonious quiet of the wood. It was if a hand were laid on his brow. The unrest of the headland left him.... Great pictures—he should paint them. It needed only this mood—removed from life, untouched by the things men strive for.

Peace was in the wood... There was something behind life that he wanted to get at... something that evaded him—a significance in things peeping out at him and withdrawing swiftly. When he glimpsed it for an instant, horizons drew back. When it disappeared, he painted flat surfaces without a thrill... If he could only understand what it was, back there, hiding behind illusion, if he could fairly glimpse it, hold it, paint it for men to see, he would die content.... But it meant a lifetime of devotion; a whole lifetime was none too long.

His eye rested gratefully on the gnarled cedar-trunks that upheld their canopy of green. They had wrestled and overcome ... they knew. He wanted no other companionship than the green roof shutting out the sky and the great gnarled trunks ... He stood in the temple of his genius.

When he was away he would still paint here in the cedar-grove ... And suddenly Jean was in his thought—with tenderness; she no longer threatened him. He must make the sketch for her ... But not here; the grove was sacred. He wanted no thought of Jean to trouble the great mystery with cross desire.

He passed out into the sunlight. Beyond the grove he saw a scant patch of earth and a figure—Elsie MacFarland, Jean's mother, planting her garden against the sky. He moved toward her.

She looked up and put back the lock of hair that the wind blew in her eyes. The storms that grayed the hair had not touched Elsie MacFarland. She had Jean's eyes and smile, with a deepening and steadfast look—the look Jean would bear in forty years.

“We'll be getting a storm,” she said.

“Think so?” He looked back of him—across the sunlit cliff. “It does not look like a storm.”

“It's the feel of the wind; there'll be a blow, I'm thinking. No rain maybe; but I'm getting my seeds in, on the chance. Jean's coming to help me—when she's packed your bag. We're sorry you're going.”

“I must.” He looked stubbornly across the cliff.

“That's right!” she nodded. “Go and have your play.”

His play! He held the thought of the greenwood to him. No woman would understand.

Her shrewd kindliness enfolded him. “You will be a different man when you're coming back,” she said.

“I am not coming back.”

She did not reply. She bent again to her seeds. He watched her for a minute: strong like the earth she handled in her brown fingers, and quiet like the light in the cedar-grove .... He turned away and walked rapidly across the cliff, as if something sought to hold him; he must escape.

He passed along the edge of the cliff and descended a sloping path at the farther end where the cliff dropped down and thrust out in a projection of broken rock to the sea. He had come here every day with Jean. Hardy cliff flowers grew in the crevices—bartsia, pimpernel, speedwell, blue like her eyes ... He scanned the path ahead. It should be a pretty sketch for Jean, something she would like to put on her wall and live with. The curving path rounded a huge boulder, and he looked up. He stood gazing toward the great cliff that rose in sheer lonely height from the sea .... He stood holding his breath. The light on the face of the cliff was changing, and the wall of block-like surfaces took on a look of grandeur. Curved in the ample sweep of some majestic ampitheatre [sic], the sea-carved rocks rose tier on tier, block on block—the stalls of Titans, facing the sea. His breath caught. The cliff stood imperious.

To seize the moment—the light that swept the headland! He looked down. Below him the rocks of the lower headland on which he stood sloped, jagged and broken, to the foot of the cliff. A steady foot would carry him down, and out to that projecting rock that faced the cliff.

His eyes searched the pathless descent; his hand in his pocket was feeling for the strap that fastened easel and box to his back ... With a little laugh he bounded down and remembered the many times Jean had prevented his scrambling down the zigzag rocks to the bottom of the cliff .... Not safe! Sometimes, she had promised him, when wind and tide served, she would row him out to that rock that faced the cliff and he should make his sketch—if he would promise her not to go down by the rocks. He had promised her.

Well, promises were off! He leaped to a rock below. She should have a sketch of the great cliff frowning up from below—that she forbade him to take a risk for! Sliding now, scrambling and slipping down the fissured rock, testing each step of shale with his foot—like a flying figure of a dream he saw himself lose balance and recover, and leap again ..... One more breath!

He landed with a shaken laugh and ran along the seaweed surface, slipping and scrambling—out to the plateau of safety he had watched from above.

He turned and looked up. Above him rose the cliff, challenging. Below him around his rock washed the sea—kelp and seaweed rising with the tide and sucking downward with its withdrawal. He measured the great cliff—three hundred, four hundred feet, straight up from the scant foreground to the edge in the sun .... And the sea lapping its foot—the sea that could crumble but never wear it down .... He studied the towering rock. How catch in color that serene repose—strike off with a touch of his brush a million years?

He set up his easel and canvas .... His fingers tingled; his heart was singing. Freedom! He had cast out the last human call! He stood with the masters of the world before the cliff!

Swift lines, urging breath, incisive strokes—the stark cliff set in that tiny space, caught in a globule of matter, to light the world! He carried the torch ahead .... He would set it where other men must climb!

He stood back from the picture and gazed. He stared at it whistling softly ....

He turned and gasped and looked down. The tide had stolen on him; the lapping water was swirling about his rock. He glanced at the traceless path by which he had descended: a flood shut it off, too deep and swift to swim. Through the narrow channel between him and the foot of the cliff the water was pouring with swift rush. He packed his sketch with flying fingers and strapped the box on his back. The easel—he dared not risk it. He kicked it with his foot, and it fell into the sea; he saw it sucked back and tossed up once—and disappear.

He drew a laughing breath, looking up to the stern face of the cliff. Did it think it could daunt him? He studied the surface with sharp eye and put up a foot and mounted. He tested the next projection. He was cool now. He knew what he had to do—straight up—only a little leeway on one side or the other .... His sinews were iron! He wondered coolly as he went whether any other man had done it—not likely! .... Not many fools in the world—to lose their wits for a little paint! .... Up another pull—sheer perpendicular climbing. An orgy of exultation was in him as he mounted .... Free!

Free as the gulls up there soaring above the cliff! He paused, noting how the great wings hung motionless. The wind must be rising to a gale—they seemed borne on a tide.

He lifted himself steadily; the gulls were nearer now. He could see their breasts glisten; his eye measured the distance up to the edge of the cliff—fifty feet, seventy-five ... He rested his fingers; they were beginning to feel the strain, but he had covered three-quarters of the way .... His eye glanced down over the rock he had scaled.

The whole world was heaving in space ...

Slowly the fingers gripped the rock .... Steady! The space behind him was calling—trumpeting .... Steady—up!

“Two times four are eight,” he said under his breath; “two times five are ten; two times six are twelve; two times seven are ...” The world grew steady and settled on its axis—he saw a boy at his desk in school, the wooden seats and the teacher's kind face—she wore her hair in a braid ....

“Two times eight are sixteen.” Flat sheer surface! He saw himself pressed against it in mid-air. Then it seemed to shake beneath him and he felt it crowding out ... And space off there—calling ... One flying leap—his hurling body would be free!

The irony of the thought wrenched a grunting laugh ... If he could get his fingers off that sucking rock!

Then he knew—sheer terror pinned him to the face of the cliff! Only the suction of his tense nerveless fingers between him and space .... Free!

A cry broke from him—and another. God! Would no one hear?

A voice came—a call that thrilled him, running ... The voice sailed on the wind:

“Cling-ahold, John! Hold fast!”

Cling hold! The nerveless fingers on the tiny projection could not loose their hold if they would ... The cliff was pressing out, pressing against him, pressing him off into space—crowding out, swelling to fling him into the abyss—pushing on spent fingers to let go and drop!

“Hold fast, John!” The cry came again, and the wind caught it ironically and tossed it. It sailed in empty space ... She was running on the cliff above—her voice drifting as she ran.

A coil of rope hung from a great cedar; she caught it and wound it about the trunk. She drew a knot, testing it with set lips ... More than one figure she had seen drawn up the face of the cliff with that rope—strength gone, finger-tips bleeding.

She drew another knot and tested it and ran swiftly to a smaller tree at the edge of the cliff and passed it around the trunk .... Leaning over, she gauged the figure clinging to the face of the wall. The looped end of the rope swirled outward—caught by the wind—borne up ... She dropped to her knees, her eyes on the figure. Her arm flung again with free swing—a twist of the wrist, and the rope dropped on the shoulders—her eyes watched.

“Slip your arm up, John! One arm—and the other! You can do it!” Did she know he could not move a finger—till the last plunge into space! The voice came down—coaxing, commanding.

His lips were dry; he ran his tongue along them. He tested the fingers that clung to the neck ...

“Look up, John!” He glanced above him. Her face, clear and homelike, was bending to the edge of the cliff. She was smiling ... The tense fingers relaxed a breath—and she nodded quickly. “Now!”

He felt the rope give—one arm reached up—the other .... The rope slipped down his body and tightened with a gentle pull. He drew breath.

Above him he could hear her voice:

“The one on the left there—yes! Then the next one and up!”

The voice seemed to laugh and lift him. Fear dropped in the abyss ... With Jean against the sky—with that tiny circle of rope shutting him off from space—he could climb forever! .... Hand over hand. He had only to put one hand over the other—then a foot up and another ... He drew breath and came above the edge of the cliff and leaped ... Danger fell back in space.

She stood before him, the slackened rope in her fingers, her legs well apart, still braced, looking at him with her steady gaze.

“That was a grand and foolhardy risk, my man!” she nodded ... Far in the depths of her brimming eyes he saw the cedar-grove, brown and cool, and beneath the high flat roof of green he heard a bird singing....

title: The Freedom of John Peabody


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 shall be left to mourn thee, cut off in thy pride, my Elizabeth. If thou hadst seen this district of country, as I did, when it lay in the sleep of nature, and witnessed its rapid changes, as it awoke to supply the wants of man, thou wouldst curb thy impatience for a little time, though thou shouldst not check thy steed."

"I have a remembrance of hearing you speak, sir, of your first visit to these woods, but the recollection of it is faint, and blended with the confused images of childhood. Wild and unsettled as it may yet seem, it must have been a thousand times more dreary then. Will you repeat, dear sir, what you then thought of your enterprise, and what you felt?"

During this speech of Elizabeth, which was uttered with the interested fervour of affection, young Edwards rode more closely to the side of the Judge, and bent his dark eyes on his countenance, with an expression that seemed to read his thoughts.

"Thou wast then young, my child, but must remember when I left thee and thy mother, to take my first survey of these uninhabited mountains," said Marmaduke. "But thou dost not feel all the secret motives that can urge a man to endure privations in order to accumulate wealth. In my case they have not been trifling, and God has been pleased to smile on my efforts. If I have encountered pain, famine, and disease, in accomplishing the settlement of this rough territory, I have not the misery of failure to add to the grievances."

"Famine!" echoed Elizabeth; "I thought this was the land of abundance! had you famine to contend with?"

"Even so, my child," said her father. "Those who look around them now, and see the loads of

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