text:
The Eternal Challenge

HIS story has nothing whatever to do with the shipwreck that began it.

Picture to yourself a pair of islands lying side by side, long, narrow, as like as the two halves of a split peanut. About them stretches the ocean—a great, flat plane, moving as heavily as a flood of molten metal, cut into a clean circle by the incisive horizon line. Above them lifts the sky—a great, deep bowl, as vividly colored as the richest old stained glass, eternally dropping cloud-shadows to flutter across the islands and melt into the sea. Between them runs a channel, shaped like a funnel, the broad end north, the narrow end south—a channel not of waves but of white-maned sea-horses leaping over jags of rock, to claw with tooth and nail at the cliff-sides of the islands.

Sometime, eons ago, the twin islands must have been one island. For the rocky hill-height of the south side of the one is on a level with the rocky hill-height of the south side of the other, and each drops abruptly to a perilous, rocky coast. Similarly, the green tropical tangle of the north side of the other is perfectly matched by the green tropical tangle of the north side of the one, and each is banded with a broad ribbon of silvery sand. On the rocky south coast the water chums into eddies and whirlpools. On the sandy north coast it breaks in huge combers. Without ceasing they come in, these combers—for the a shift from east to west, and from west to east, of the currents back of them is the only indication of a change in tide. A dozen waves are always in the process of formation, unbroken line on unbroken line, mountains of jade with crests of crystal that lift and rear, until suddenly they leap too high and topple to a creamy and thunderous destruction.

Centuries ago, a seismic disturbance cut the island in two as neatly as a knife halves an apple. The sea, tearing into the broad opening of the funnel, found its way impeded by broken-off boulders and splinters of rock. Most of these it never dislodged. But some its first tumultuous rush carried through the narrow neck of the funnel a short distance out to sea. So to this day the channel waters rip a boiling white course half a mile due south, straight through the purple ocean.

The curious thing about this chasm was that its narrowest point, the very mouth of the funnel, had reft the greatest eminence of the old island. So each of the new islands ran up to a hill which ended abruptly in a cliff. So close were these cliffs, and yet so high above the boiling, churning waves, that a whisper would carry from one to the other. You would have said that a strong man could leap across.

It was a spot made up of two parts of beauty and one of menace. John Lawford and Molly Ernst took the beauty and let the menace go. When they crawled back to life after the disaster which cast them insensible on to the sands, it looked a paradise to them. It fairly dripped with beauty, and, as the days went by, the story of their love and wooing wrote itself all over the landscape. Indeed, their nomenclature of the place marked, as by a series of poetic notches, the progress of their love-affair.

They named the island on which they lived Molly Isle and its hill Mount Ernst. They named its twin John Isle, and its hill Mount Lawford. The channel between they named the Funnel.

A certain little arroyo on Molly Isle, by day emerald-green shot with sunlight bars of pure gold, became, under the moon, a thing of magic, shadow-dark, dusk-soft, laced with cobwebs of silver. One night, Molly and John, standing there, recited to each other from the Book of Common Prayer:

“I, Molly, take thee, John”

“I, John, take thee, Molly”

Thereafter, they referred to that arroyo as Honeymoon Hollow. Other names grew out of their association, but it is not necessary to set them down here.

Only one fear haunted Molly and John in the long two months before they married, and in the long three months subsequent—it was that they might be rescued.

“Of course, we want to go back to civilization some day, John,” Molly would say, “but not before two years, do you think?”

“Not before ten,” John would respond fervently.

He never told her that he saw no chance of rescue. He did not want to mar her certainty of a present happiness by any sense of insecurity. But after the accident to its machinery which set the ship helplessly adrift with an iron demon pounding its entrails out, they had floated far out of the beaten paths of the Pacific. They would be discovered only by chance.

In the meantime they were happy as perhaps no two have ever been happy since that innocent period before the primal pair plucked disaster from the Tree of Knowledge.

Everything made for happiness.

In the first place, neither of them had any ties to harass them. In the second place, the excitements of the new life were of the tensest. In the third place, under the most extraordinary circumstances, they were running through all the pleasures of acquaintanceship, friendship, love.

An orphan from childhood, Molly had come out on a government appointment to teach in the Philippines. John had been drifting about the world since his fifteenth year. He had never had a home, and had never thought he wanted one. Molly had never had a home and had always thought she wanted one. The home which they made on Molly Isle suited them perfectly because they never stayed in it.

At first the necessity of keeping alive blocked out every other problem. Later, as the possibilities of the island developed, their responsibilities dwindled into one—merely that of keeping their fire.

Every morning they made a tour of the beach, seeking what the tide had brought them in the night. It was weeks before the dead ship at the bottom of the sea ceased to be generous. Gruesome gifts came—the first ten days, John and Molly had recourse often to an improvised burial service, and a graveyard was the first public institution on Molly Isle. But, in the main, the ship gave them real treasure—wood, coal, furniture, canned goods, tools, canvas, kitchen clutter, trunks—all the paraphernalia of a floating hotel. Everything was fish to their net—the more useless the catch, the greater the risks they took to secure it. One day they found the shore strewn with a set of “The World's Best Literature,” sifted into a hundred-odd volumes, bloated, bulging out of their covers.

“Oh!” exclaimed Molly, examining these finds after they had dried; “I'm so glad that we're both short on general culture! We're going to read these aloud to each other.”

Three months later she laughed when she recalled that they had not yet opened one of them—except for that important occasion with the Book of Common Prayer. The canned adventure of books seems flat, stale, and tame when Fate lays a fresh kill of romance daily at your feet. And they, remember, were living in a world as virgin as Mars. It called to them with a hundred voices.

After their labor with the day's flotsam and jetsam, with the house and with the garden, there were the hunting and fishing; the daily examination of the traps which John had set; the exploring walks across the island; the bathing-hour—one long fight in the rush of the broken combers; the late afternoon walk up Mount Ernst into the color-riot of the sunset; the swift twilight; the evenings on the beach, where they lay in a ripple of the sand, warmly secure from the tide but shaken by its thunders; the nights under a sky of murky velvet, sagging almost to their touch with its weight of stars; the awakenings into dawn and dew and bird-calls.

John had floated about the world for twenty years, but Molly was, in his own phrase, “a new one on him.”

“Everything's always been wrong with me from my birth,” was the way Molly put it. And she always added that pathetic “bromidiom” of the modern woman, “I ought to have been born a man.”

Everything had been wrong with Molly partly because of circumstance, partly because of Molly herself. She was disqualified by taste for the domestic life; yet nothing in her except an inherent restlessness justified any other existence. A woman of indefinite capacity but with no specific gift, she was lashed by sporadic ambitions; yet she lacked both the perseverance and the concentration which bring ability to fruition. A college education had rolled off her mind, leaving no trace; but it had served to take her away from the little town in the Middle West where she had lived, eating her heart out.

It is another way to say it that, in the absence of one absorbing ambition, it was necessary for her happiness that both brain and hand be busy. As yet, neither had been busy enough.

The island life agreed with her physically. It brought out every mental power.

“If I'd stayed at home one year longer, I'd have killed myself,” she said over and over to John. “I'm a born buccaneer, come to my own through accident.”

The island life brought out something else in her—something pagan, and yet deeper than pagan—a something of primeval woman.

“Do you know why I love you so much, John?” she said more than once. “It's because I own you absolutely. Other women might tire of you for that reason, but it brings out all that's best in me. It's not only because you're my all—it's because I'm your all that I'm crazy about you. If there were another woman on this island to take your attention—or a man even—I couldn't love you so much.”

John laughed. What man was ever offended by such a declaration! It did not hurt her selfish cause in his eyes that he watched her grow beautiful.

When the ship went down, she was just a girl, big and chunky, red-headed and pasty-skinned, her face beginning to fall into the lines which mean a thwarted personality. Now she was no longer chunky, nor was she yellow or creased. Cast in the beginning in heroic lines, she had fulfilled all her promises. Bare-armed, bare-legged, she did not walk—she strode. Under the great, golden-brown freckles which dappled it, her skin was as white as a pond-lily petal. Her crisp red hair, nailed flat to her head by long, curving hairpins of John's amateur make, sparkled like a helmet of carved copper. Her gray eyes were wide-open, clear, joyous, triumphant.

In John, all the lovable qualities of the professional drifter disguised the selfishness of the irresponsible. He had never known any duty but that of his own pleasure. Until he met Molly, women had been unconsidered trifles in his life, important only as they allied themselves with that pleasure. He was a perfect specimen of a certain New England type—the long, lean, clean-cut, dusky type which looks Hindu until you've been to India; Arabian until you've been to Arabia; Egyptian until you've been to Egypt. He had grown long-haired. His white teeth flashed milky in a face in which a hint of red glowed through the bronze. Not an ounce of unnecessary flesh impeded the roll of his wire-strong muscles.

In a month they knew the island as a man knows his pocket. John had already drawn a tentative map. He had come to many conclusions about it. It was near enough to the tropics to offer an equable climate; not quite near enough for the debilitating tropic heat. It was far enough away to escape the monotonous rainy season.

Birds sang epithalamium on twigs level with their hands. Fish of a delicate deliciousness leaped from the water into their laps. A baby mountain, a toy river, cataracts of needle fineness, ponds the size of hand-mirrors, valleys that were mere dimples—it was a world in miniature, with everything that threatened or offended left out. John knew, before Molly began to realize, that just its calm, dead, even perfection would pall long before a land offering greater hardships of heat or cold.

But in the meantime no shadow had fallen across their happiness. They ruled over their island kingdom—a god-king and a goddess-queen. They talked constantly, for each had the gift of articulateness. They always walked close—his hand on her shoulder. They were perfectly happy.

And yet

Environment has made man the radical force in the human current—woman the conservative. He is centrifugal, she centripetal. Perhaps woman's first adventure with the serpent in the Garden of Eden taught her her lesson. Certain it is that she is willing to let well enough alone. It is the male who wants to know. Because these male creatures have wanted to know, the dark places of the earth, the abysses of the sea, the heights of the air, lie bare to the world's gaze. Because these female creatures are willing to stay put, homes have multiplied until they made cities. But between that instinct on the part of the male to explore the unknown lands, and that desire of the female to stay at home, lies a chasm which is filled with women's tears.

“By Jove! I'd like to take John Isle apart and see what makes it work,” John said one afternoon. He was busy driving stakes. With nothing left to do, John had decided that another room should be added to their home. “It makes me sick to think that I can't get over there.”

“It's too bad that we can't,” Molly answered placidly, “but of course it's out of the question.” Molly was thinking of something which she had just said to John—a discovery which she had made—a wonderful discovery, too.

“Do you know, John,” she had said, “this is a real Lotus Land. It will be impossible for us ever to be unhappy here. It will be almost impossible for us ever to do wrong. It's an expurgated world like the one Helen Keller lives in. There can be no evil here. There can be no jealousies or misunderstandings or estrangements, for there's nothing to be jealous or misunderstood or estranged about.”

“It's the only problem that stumps me—how I'm going to get over there,” John went on.

“Oh, we'll find a way sometime, I suppose,” Molly answered, still placid.

That was all there was to the first discussion. Molly did not even notice that twice her “we” had corrected his “I.”

Two days later, they sat on the top of Mount Ernst, studying the sunset.

“The north and east coasts must be thick with ship-truck—the Lord Himself only knows how much floated there,” John said.

“North—east coasts of what?” Molly asked.

“John Isle. Everything we didn't get went there.”

“There are some things it's welcome to,” Molly said with a shudder.

John burst out laughing. “Ridiculous how these two little picayune islands are cut off from each other! Impossible to launch a boat on the north coast because of the surf. I don't believe even those Kanaka beggars could get a boat through combers like that. Besides, we haven't any boat. Impossible to make it from the south coast because of that fierce current from the Funnel. Say, Moll, do you suppose a North American Indian could shoot the Funnel?” “I don't believe any one could,” said Molly.

John squinted across the Funnel. Just in front of him, ridiculously near, inaccessibly far, Mount Lawford presented a height, the twin of Mount Ernst. “Just think how easy if we only had the goods—if there were a sizable tree on the island, I could make as good a little bridge as anybody would want.”

“I suppose there are swimmers that could get through the Funnel,” he continued, “but if you will excuse me. I'd just as soon leave it to them as thinks they can.”

“Oh, I'll excuse you,” Molly laughed. “If you think that in order to please me you've got to swim the Funnel, it shows how little you understand the nature of your child-wife.”

And again she blithely turned the subject without in the least realizing that she was sailing away from a dangerous topic.

“I believe,” said John the next day, “that a raft's the thing we want.” They were busy wattling withes, and this remark came out of an interval of concentration which Molly believed had to do entirely with his work. “I think I can beat those rapids. Yes, my love, I'm going to make John Isle via the Funnel. I'll start at the northern corner of Molly Isle, and if I haven't landed on John Isle by the time we reach the southwestern corner, it's only because—oh, but I'm sure I can do it!”

Molly stopped work to look at him. And for the first time she realized that the Sword of Damocles quivered over her head. “Do you mean to tell me, John Lawford, that you are really thinking of sailing over to John Isle?”

“Certainly,” John said. “Why not? Not a-sailing, though. My yacht's out of commission. Poling a raft.”

“Why not!” Molly repeated in a gasp. “It will be the death of you—that's why not.”

“Not while I know it,” John responded flippantly. “No, a curious thing about me is that I never get killed—I can't at this moment recall a single time. Violent deaths don't seem to run in the family.”

“John,” said Molly, clasping her hands, “it would kill me if you left me alone in this place for an hour; and as for thinking of crossing the Funnel on a raft—promise that you will never mention the subject again.”

“Of course I won't,” John answered lightly; “you're missis here. You know that, little girl. Whatever you say goes—see?”

Molly was gay that night with the gaiety of the woman who is acknowledged queen. True to his promise, John never mentioned the subject again; but the next day, Molly noted, with a sinking of the heart, that he began work on a raft. He said that he wanted to have it ready in case of an emergency.

It is unnecessary to trace the steps by which this expedition became a bone of contention between them. But what at first was only a whim became at last an obsession with John because Molly made it one. Discussion grew into argument. Argument became first covert, then open, quarrel. It did not help that John had all the obstinacy of the male, and Molly all the perversity of the female. There came days when their conversation was one long wrangle. There came evenings when they sat apart, grimly silent. It may be that if Molly had once volunteered to let John go, he would have given up his project without a pang. It may be that if John had once begged Molly's permission, she would have helped him with might and main. Be that as it may, at the end all Molly's wiles, smiles, tears, and sulks were equally ineffective against John's smiling obstinacy. At the end, none of John's good-humored sallies could draw Molly from a defiant dumbness. The day came when Molly stood on the beach and watched John put off into the raging current of the Funnel. She saw plainly all that happened; but mercifully it did not last long.

John went smoothly in the beginning, not quite beating the current, as his slanting progress proved. At first he called all kinds of cheerful remarks back to her; they stopped suddenly, the last cut off in the middle. It was getting a little harder—he was putting every inch of his strength into an effort to keep away from something—she could not make out which rock—she saw his figure relax as with relief, but he did not speak or turn again. Another current took him—he swung with it—swung out of it. A third caught him, jammed the raft against a high sliver of rock—neatly overturned it—it seemed a long time before John's head appeared. But he was quite master of himself, swimming expertly, floating a bit, then swimming again—he was going to make it—the current took him again—once it threw him up—twice it dashed him down—once for a long time she did not see him at all—rocks kept coming in between—he came up finally in a stretch of clear water, swam—dropped out of sight—bobbed up—floated in a dizzy circle—was sucked under—shot up and fell sideways—drifted like a log—sank

Molly ran back and forth along the beach, screaming to her Creator for help. She stopped that after a long time and stood still, watching fixedly the spot where she had seen him go down. She called his name until she was hoarse. Night came and found her there. The morning broke—she was still there, a voiceless, formless figure of woe.

Afterward she realized that it was only because her reason was a blank that she waited there—she was not conscious of expecting anything. But an hour after sunrise something pulled itself up to man-height on the opposite shore and waved a hand to her. Conversation was impossible over the beating of the surf at that point in the Funnel. Perhaps she thought he could feel her screams of encouragement. But even as she screamed the figure fell. And that was the last she saw of him that day.

Their first conversation was held many days later, after John had recovered sufficient strength to hobble to the top of Mount Lawford. Two rods away, on the top of Mount Ernst, Molly stretched her arms to him, her eyes streaming.

“I look as if I'd been run through a meat-chopper,” he said, when he became articulate, “and I've got one sprained foot and a pretty bad shoulder. Nothing serious, though.” His white teeth flashed an encouraging smile to her.

The long night-vigil had done spiritual wonders to Molly. She said none of the things which, for three weeks, had been constantly on her lips. Instead, she murmured brokenly the other words which had been long absent from them. John drank them down.

“How long before—” she concluded.

John understood and his brow furrowed. “Well, of course I've got to get into condition again. And then—you were right, Molly, I should never have attempted it. But sometimes—I don't know if a woman ever could understand this—the very devil gets into a man, especially when he's opposed. Oh, I guess it's the eternal challenge of the universe. You have to keep proving yourself to yourself, that you're no older than you were and that you have all your courage with you still. It was the only thing in sight to do. I had to do it. I felt that it was my job.”

“I understand,” Molly said. “But, oh, don't ever do it again!” It is to be questioned if John understood the logic of the following statement coming after the precious one; but every woman will. “I'm never going to set myself in the way of anything you want to do as long as I live.”

“I'll never put it up to you again, Molly,” John said. “I'm going to begin on a raft in a day or two. I don't believe it will take more than a week at most.”

“Only a week?” Molly gleamed.

Twice a day, thereafter, in the morning after sunrise, in the evening after sunset, they had long talks. Starting together with a wave of the hand, they could follow each the progress of the other as they ascended the twin heights. As their paths neared, they sang out joyous greetings. Molly always finished her end of the walk on a dead run, throwing herself down on the top with a quick, panted: “Oh, talk to me, John—I'm hungry for the sound of your voice.”

John's talk, always entertaining, was now actually full of news. “John Isle is simply covered with ship-truck,” he proclaimed at the second tête-à-tête. “Everything you can think of: trunks with all kinds of female clothes in them; hard and soft drinks—we can have a wine cellar now; olive-oil—we'll have a salad course after this; the ship doctor's kit, and enough miscellaneous clutter to stock Mars.” He stopped to stare down into the boiling neck of the Funnel. “Know what I'm going to do? I'm going to start all these things across the Funnel from the northern end of John Isle. They'll have to land somewhere on Molly Isle. It will be your job to collect them—see?”

So, for a week or more they worked together, though separated. And the work on the new raft went on. Occasionally, in the midst of it, an impulse to talk would seize one or the other. A signal, and they dropped everything to fly to the hilltops. It seemed always as if something new and wonderful grew out of these talks—the fruit of their love-in-loneliness. All that was most charming in Molly came to the surface. She even indulged in much long distance coquetry and John wooed her all over again.

One morning, Molly was late at the starting-place. John waited an unconscionable time; then, alarmed at the delay, tried to beat the noise of the rapids with a series of shrill whistles.

At length he saw her emerge from the path which led to their home. Evidently she had not heard his calls, for it seemed a long time before she remembered his existence. Finally, there came a languid flutter of her hand. But she walked up the hill with an averted head and she walked as if she carried a mental burden. It was John who, nearing the top, ran as hard as his stiff leg would permit to the edge of Mount Lawford. “What is it, Molly?” he asked.

Molly's eyes had sunk and her cheek had paled. She did not speak. Her gaze fixed on him, she came straight toward the edge of the cliff. John had a sudden feeling that she was going to walk over the brink.

“Be careful, Molly!” he warned sharply. “What is it?” he repeated.

She did not speak, but her eyes still clung to his.

“What is—” he began again. But, suddenly, he knew. He, too, stood stock-still, staring. “Poor child!” he said after a long time.

Molly's face melted in the quiver that ran across it. “Come as soon as you can. I can't stand it alone any longer.”

John worked like a madman. Every night Molly asked him a hundred questions about the raft. Sometimes the news of his progress made her spirits rise to giddy heights. Sometimes she seemed to sink under it. Whatever her mood, it seemed to lash John to harder, closer work.

When he awoke one morning, no Molly came to greet him from the opposite shore. For fifteen minutes he paced back and forth, his imagination rioting. Casually, in the midst of it, he glanced toward Mount Ernst. A figure, whose draperies fluttered in the wind, crouched on its summit. He ran to the top of Mount Lawford.

“I didn't sleep all night,” she said somberly. “Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer. I came up here—hours ago—it seemed a little nearer to you, somehow.”

“You poor little girl!”

“You do love me, John?”

John's answer was inarticulate.

“Would you do anything for me?”

“I'd—I'd”

“Will you promise to do one thing if I never ask anything else of you?”

“Oh, Molly—of course I promise.”

Molly's lips made words before her voice came. “Don't come back here until—until—until—” Both lips and voice refused to go on.

He caught it. “Until after?”

An expression came into her eyes which said, “Yes.”

“Oh, Molly,” he said, “I can't! Molly, how could I?”

“It's terrible, I know.” And on a sudden she had words in plenty. “But I'm afraid to let you try it again until after—you were nearly drowned the first time. You may be drowned the second. And if you are drowned, there is nothing for me—and it—but death. For, before God, if you drown, I will kill myself. But if you'll stay on John Isle so that I can see you and know you're alive and—well, I can go through anything—alone, too. Something in my heart tells me to do this. All night long for a week now, I've lain awake thinking. I keep seeing you struggling in the Funnel again. That picture of you sinking. Those hours after you went down—” She broke off with a fit of shuddering. “I could not go through that again. I will not. I'll kill myself if you start across. But when it's over and I have the courage to live—for it—even if you die, then you may come. Promise! Promise me! Promise me now!”

They talked the matter through that whole livelong day. John raged and stormed, pleaded and argued, but Molly was always immovable. To the end of his days, John regretted that he gave and kept his promise; but ultimately Molly had her way.

Followed the strangest months that ever a man passed. He had moments when he told himself that he was justified in breaking his word. Twenty times he made up his mind to swim the Funnel without letting her know. But for a time she kept so steady a watch on him that it would have been impossible to make the attempt by daylight without being discovered. It was out of the question by night. Later, he did not dare because of the effect on her.

In the meantime, they almost lived on the hilltops. John made a camp so that he could spend the night on Mount Lawford; and often Molly went back to their home only to sleep. Physically she was at her best. Mentally and spiritually, she was a broken thing.

And John—his hard labor collecting every shred of wreckage, of procuring and preparing fish and game to toss over to Molly, could not give him an instant's mental respite. For the first time in his life, Grief was his playmate and Worry his bedfellow. Depression dogged his footsteps and Despair sat on his pillow. For Molly's sake, he must not disperse these phantoms by confiding them to her, since one quiver of adverse emotion in him precipitated a cataclysm in her. He had to learn how to control, as with a grip of steel, a situation which he could not even touch. In spite of his care, Molly was harried by all kinds of strange moods: moods of utter panic and blind terror; moods of hope and perfect serenity; moments of feverish wild glee, and of stark, dead despair; moods of calm certainty of a happy outcome, and of perverse belief in inevitable tragedy. At her worst she threatened to throw herself into the Funnel before his eyes. At her best, she indulged in long rhapsodies over their future. John came to know many strange things—strangest of all how a man can love the creature which tortures while it clings.

“Do you love me?” she always asked on first sight of him and, “Do you love me?” always when she left.

John invented strange litanies in answer to this recurrent question. Often he soothed her to sleep, chanting them.

Even in her unlovely moods, it was not difficult to answer in the affirmative. But toward the end, all her wildness left her—she became gentle and serene. A something which he described vaguely to himself as “holy”—it was really only the outer expression of an inner confidence—came into her air. Because of it, his love grew to adoration; and yet he half hated it. It seemed to raise a barrier between them. He wondered jealously if this strange being had ever been his wife, if he would ever dare to touch her hand again! Curiously enough, this new aspect almost broke his nerve; it began to twist itself into his psychology with a vague foreboding of disaster. It weakened him. Toward the end, the lump which means tears always rose in John's throat as he followed her slow climb up Mount Ernst. Often he ground his teeth. Often he clenched his hands. The gray began to appear over his temples.

There came the time when Molly climbed the hill only every other day. There came the time when she could walk only part way up the hill. There came the time when she appeared for a few moments, morning and evening, at the end of the path. There came the day when she did not appear at all.

On the morning of the second day, John started for Molly Isle. For months he had been experimenting with the currents on the north end of John Isle. For months he had been hardening himself for the conflict. Nevertheless he had not been in the water a quarter of an hour before he realized that it was going to be much harder crossing from John Isle to Molly Isle than from Molly to John. A third of the way over, the raft broke under him on a submerged rock; and thereafter it was his fight.

Never afterward could he give any consecutive account of the struggle. At first, details came back to him—of the dizzying din and surge of the waters; of eddies that boiled and currents that whirled; of a wave that seized him, passed him on with a strangling fumble, recovered him, shoved him back, thrust him forward again; of a succession of great waves which seemed, in collusion, to play a game with him even more cruel. But soon the thought of these things left him. They melted in his memory to a mere sense of noise and conflict and fatigue and trouble and pain.

In his first crossing of the Funnel, it had been an incitement to bravado that Molly was corporeally present. In his second struggle, it added to his strength that she seemed spiritually present. He did not see her. He could not hear her. He might not touch her. Yet she was there—that was it—just there, but with a curious, intermittent thereness. She left him at times. His sense of her nearness died. He understood dimly why she went, though. Somewhere another responsibility called to her. In her absence, death became a temptation. Again and again, he decided to let himself go. But, always, just as he was sinking into the rosy, soft cloud which would ease every thing, Molly would come again.

It was quiet in the little clearing where the hut stood—quiet with the dead, dry stillness of the tropic noon. Above, hung a purple sky shot by one huge eye of heat. About, creeping close, lay the jungle, already putting forth hundreds of tentacles to choke the innocent garden growths. A path, just beginning to sink back into the besieging bush, offered, through a tube of emerald, a distant view of rumpled peacock sea.

Suddenly a figure leaped into the opening and came running down the path. Branches tripped and pulled it. Thorns and brambles tore it, but it came speeding on. Sinister it seemed; and yet it was human—it was a man. A few rags hung from him. A multitude of cuts and bruises traced a network on his flesh. Blood poured from a gash in his forehead.

At the edge of the clearing the man stopped a moment. Fearfully he paused, peered, listened. Not a sound pricked the stillness. He leaped to the open door.

A thing lay in the farther corner of the room—a thing that seemed a heap of spent human flesh. The man gazed. His lips made motions only; no sound came. But as he stared, the thing moved. Its arms went weakly to its breast. They drew back a covering, and revealed a bundle of something tiny, something faintly stirring, to his gaze.

title: The Eternal Challenge


text: Talk:The Eternal Challenge

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

title: Talk:The Eternal Challenge


text:
Page:Everywoman's World, Volume 7, Number 7.djvu/38

PAGE 36 “Higher than Gibraltar”

Yes, higher by 600 feet—this Tugged outpost of the Laurentian Mountains—Cape Trinity, on the Saguenay River. Eighteen hun- dred feet above the sea it towers. Its majestic companion, Cape Eternity, is almost as high.

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Send two cents postage for illustrated Booklet, Map and Guide

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He learns their habits, the peculiarities of the different animals as classes and individuals, and in later life he finds that he readily understands the peculiar slants of character in many people through his experience with animals.

And yet again, the changes of the sky, the weather, the wind, the fields, with their ever-changing colouring from day to day, the odours of flowers, soil, and harvest fields, the notes of the birds, the voices of animals and insects, the of fruits and leaves, grains and roots, are constant appeals to every sense, awakening and developing those five great avenues through which the mind must receive knowledge. The very foundation of education is the development five great channels to the mind, of touch, taste, sight, smell, and hearing.

He will develop a constant desire for knowledge, under the direction of an intelligent parent, by being encouraged to ask the reason for this and that, and by being advised to observe closely, reason accurately, and experiment with a purpose. By introducing the boy to the available sources of knowledge in books, magazines, and Government bulletins, his judgement, initiative, and originality may likewise be developed.

No crime is greater than that of silencing the question of the child through indifference, impatience, or sheer selfish laziness. All work becomes interesting when its purpose and the facts related to it are understood, and the average boy will grow up to love the farm if his questions are intelligently answered and if he is taught to work with his head as well as his hands.

BOY can learn at the Agricultural College, in a short time, what scores of men have spent years in discovering, and can secure that knowledge for a very small investment in real money. When that knowledge acquaints him with a better method, a better crop, a better strain in breeding, by which he may increase the product of a farm by hundreds of dollars, with the same labour, it is worth real money. Scores of farms have paid the cost of tile draining with the resulting increase, in a single crop. Many a farmer, after learning to systematically weigh and test the milk of every cow, discovered that he was actually boarding some members of his herd at a loss. Your boy, taught to value knowledge and to apply that knowledge to the problems of the farm, will not find, as he grows older, that farm life is without opportunity.

ITH the numerous inventions and improvements in machinery come the farmer's opportunity to shorten his hours of labour and to do better work. Granted that there is some machinery placed on the market that is too complicated and cumbersome to be worth using; granted that many farmers have been "bitten" by buying machinery of this kind, and "stung" by sharp practice. Granted, too, that those who have been "bitten" and "stung" would not have been such "easy money" to some crook had they known more about it. There you are! More education, more information would have saved them. It takes brains to profit by an education, and it takes judgment to buy machinery.

But of all the hired men who pass through,a farmer's hands in a year, the man who gets the warmest welcome on his return is he who "can do the work of two." Well! A good machine, suited to the soil and the work does the work of two, three, ten men, you don't pay it wages, though it does "cost a pile" at first.

The farmer whose home, office, stable, barn are equipped with the best and latest improvements is working with brain and not with his hands only. He makes the machinery do all the work he can; he saves his wife in the home and himself in the barn, so that they each have time for something besides "always slaving."

The office is as necessary to the farmer as to the banker. The banker deals in money, the farmer in wheat: and of the two crops—for the next four or five years, anyway—wheat is worth more, It is quite possible that in 1918 we shall have money and yet cannot buy bread; and the same condition is likely to obtain in 1919, despite an increased production.

Could the banker tell where he stands without books? Does the merchant attempt to carry all his business "in his head"? Can the manufacturer know if he is making a profit or carrying a loss if he can't "figger" well, nor write a business letter? How does the farmer know that his cows are not boarding on the money made by the pigs, or that his potatoes are not swallowing up the profits made in corn?

There is just on thing that can be carried around with expense and that is knowledge; and enouch knowledge can be gained at any Agricultural College in a four-year-course to give a man a good foundation on which to build, by Government bulletin, magazine, club, and book, for the rest of his life.

Remember it is the start that counts.

OST farmers give little intelligent attention to the boy and girl crop. They are born on the farm and they either do as their fathers did and as their father wants, or they get out. This same policy is followed over and over again by the city business man, except that his crop is not born to it, but hired. If the city man have an employee who does not fit in as the employer wishes, he gets out—is fired. But it is beginning to dawn on the city man that a man or girl may be a misfit in one position and a splendid success in another. The farmer may claim that the city man has the other position in which to try out a misfit employee and that on the farm this is impossible. Is it? Think it over. If Jim grows up not any too robust and shows strong inclination to shirk the heavy work and loafs around the barnyard fooling with the chickens, and, perhaps, wants to keep rabbits, the average farmer promptly decides that Jim is no good and wonders "who he takes after, anyhow."

The general tendency of the day is to specialize, and this is becoming true of the farm. It gives a man a chance, since life is limited, to learn on subject much more thoroughly and to apply his knowledge to much greater advantage. The boy who shows an interest in chickens should be given a chance to specialize as a poultry farmer and, with the price of eggs now and the price they will surely be, there is a bug success to be made along this line, particularly if run in connection with a general farm where the hens can pick up so much without expense.

Another boy may show an inclination to putter around sick animals and an aptitude in caring for their comfort and cleanliness; he should be "railroaded," with the least possible delay, into the dairy business. He is needed there.

The successful father, he be city man or farmer, should find out for what his boy is best suited, and help him to develop along those lines. It doesn't pay to use a carriage horse for ploughing, nor a draft horse for the saddle.

We Canadians come of a long line of ancestors who worked in the soil. The first man, Adam, was a gardener. (Continued on page 38)


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 sent situation, the briny drops of sorrow and affliction moistened my palid cheeks:—"What will become of thee?" said I to myself, "A robber, and perhaps a murderer too." A chilly trembling glided through my veins, I started up, and was resolved to mount one of the horses, and make my escape, but the want of strength reminded me soon of the utter impossibility of the execution of my rash design. I sunk down upon the bench, imploring heaven rather to put an end to my miserable life, than to suffer me to become an associate of these hell-born fiends. After I had ejaculated this fervent prayer, I felt my despondency abate a little, awaiting with impatience the re-appearance of my fell conductors.

A short time after they came, accompanied by three more ruffians of a most frightful aspect, who, with the greatest expedition fetched their horses from an adjacent stable, mounted them without delay, and rode away like lightning, my conductors did the same,


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 ordered me to follow their example, and galloped over the fields as fast as their coursers could run; coming up with our ill looking companions we pursued our journey with all possible swiftness.

Having by accident mounted the wrong horse, which was the fleetest of all, I kept always a head, and could distinctly hear every word they spoke, though I could not understand a syllable of their conversation. After it had grown dark we alighted again at a solitary public house, the horses being once more committed to my care, and I awaited with patience the end of an adventure that boded no good.

I had been standing in the chilly air of night above an hour, musing on my deplorable fate, when the inn-keeper brought me a piece of bread and butter, and a mug of beer, but I could neither eat nor drink, shaking with cold.


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 The night was dark and the sky overcast, a thick dampish fog had wetted my cloaths, and not one friendly star was to be seen in the firmament, which was as gloomy as my mind. After I had been exposed half an hour longer to the inclemency of the chilly air, my conductors re-appeared, their number being increased to twelve, and their sooty dress exchanged for green hunting coats; every one of them was armed with a gun, a brace of pistols and a cutlass.

The feelings which were rushing on my mind at that sight admit of no description; the blood froze in my veins, my soul was harrowed up in dreadful suspence, and I mounted my horse more dead than alive, gallopping over the heath with my conductors in senseless stupefaction, like a poor culprit who is dragged along to be delivered to the merciless fangs of the grim fiendly-looking executioner, 'till I at length was roused from my stupor by the sound of horns


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 assailing my ears from afar, and the loud clamorous shouts of our troop.

The sound of horns drew nearer, and my conductors answered it by blowing theirs. Now I perceived a powerful troop of horsemen sweeping the heath like a hurricane. In an instant I was surrounded by a numerous crew on horseback, and rough dismal voices vibrated in my ear in a confused manner: One of them struck fire, a number of torches were lighted, and I beheld, with amazement and dismay, a large troop of terrible beings around me.

Whithersoever I turned my eyes I was frightened almost out of my wits by stern threatening looks: They soon perceived the workings of my desponding mind, laughed at my fear, and uttered terrible execrations. One of them who bore a more tremendous aspect than the rest, came: forth, the noisy crew was awed in solemn silence, and the terrible man began to address them thus:


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THIRD SERIES


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 that the bottle was not independently copyrightable. Thus, the Ninth Circuit reasoned that the bottle was not a preexisting work. Ets-Hokin, at 1077–1082. This Court respectfully believes that the Ets-Hokin court misconstrued the nature of derivative works. While the Ets-Hokin court correctly noted that a derivative work must be based on a “preexisting work,” and that the term “work” refers to a “work of authorship” as set forth in 17 U.S.C. § 102(a), it failed to appreciate that any derivative work must recast, transform or adopt the authorship contained in the preexisting work. A photograph of Jeff Koons’ “Puppy” sculpture in Manhattan’s Rockefeller Center, merely depicts that sculpture; it does not recast, transform, or adapt Koons’ sculptural authorship. In short, the authorship of the photographic work is entirely different and separate from the authorship of the sculpture.

This is not to suggest that photographs are incapable of derivative authorship. A cropped photograph of an earlier photograph is a derivative work. Re-shooting an earlier photographic work with some alteration of the expressive elements is another example. However, in both cases the nature of photographic authorship would have been recast, adapted, or transformed. Since plaintiff’s photographs merely depict defendants’ frames and do not recast, adapt or transform any authorship that may exist in the frames, they are not derivative works.

IV. Originality

Since the photographs are not derivative works, the next issue is whether they satisfy the general constitutional requirement of originality. Defendants assert they do not. Before addressing defendants’ arguments, it is useful to review the nature of copyright in photographs so that those general principles can be applied to this claim.

Photographs did not receive federal copyright protection until the Act of March 3, 1865, 38th Cong., 2d Sess., 16 Stat. 198. See also Cong. Globe 981 (Feb. 22, 1865); William Patry, 1 Copyright Law & Practice 248–253 (1994) [hereinafter “Patry”]. However, photography had become an established commercial endeavor as early as 1839, when the French government made the daguerreotype process available and William Talbot produced negative images on paper through a process called, eponymously, “Talbottype.” See Naomi Rosenblum, A History of Women Photographers 42 (1994) [hereinafter “A History of Women Photographers ”]; Naomi Rosenblum, A World History of Photography 47 (3d ed.1997) [hereinafter “A World History of Photography ”]. The following year, Alexander Wolcott and John Johnson established the first commercial photography studio in the United States here in New York City. Four years later, Mathew Brady, whose subsequent photographs of the Civil War would gain world wide recognition, established his studio in lower Manhattan. See A World History of Photography at 47. By the 1850s, small cartes-de-visite photographs were exchanged with all the passion baseball cards would be traded a century later. Even Queen Victoria is reported to have collected more than one hundred albums of photographs of European royalty. See A World History of Photography at 64.

The reason for the delay in extending federal copyright protection for photographs will likely never be known, but the increased post-Civil War commercial popularity of portraiture photography by leading figures such as Mathew Brady, Napoleon Sarony, and Julia Margaret Cameron may have led to widespread piracy, and, therefore, calls for protection.

Even though photography had been poetically referred to as “drawing with the aid of the sun,” [i]t was not yet clear whether photography could produce art or merely a record, whether it would be just a pastime or could fulfill more serious purposes, whether it was limited by its current

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 BY

THIRD SERIES

JOHN GARRETT UNDERHILL

AUTHORIZED EDITION

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

NEW YORK · LONDON

1923


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has taken part in international research projects on pollution and the environment.

Enforcement of food sanitation standards resides with regional and district health officers working closely with inspectors from the Ministry of Agriculture. Regulations provide for the inspection of all dairies, livestock farms, slaughterhouses, and food production and handling establishments. A lack of uniformity exists in the enforcement; inspection is more effective in the Czech Lands than in Slovakia. Pasteurization of milk is carried out in the larger cities and towns, but delays in delivery lead to spoilage. In the rural areas, the consumption of uninspected and untreated milk is a continuing source of tuberculosis infection.

2. Diet and nutrition

Progress has been made in increasing the quantity and upgrading the quality of the food consumed in Czechoslovakia. According to official reports, the per capita intake of calories during the period 1936-68 increased by over one-fifth while protein intake increased by one-fourth. Furthermore, the inequalities in food consumption which existed between the Czechs and Slovaks have been reduced; nutritional indicators in Slovakia have risen to levels approximating those in Czech Lands. Domestic agriculture is unable to provide an adequate quantity of foodstuffs; as a result, imports of foods are necessary to meet the expanding demands of the population. Principal imports include meat, wheat, vegetable oils, and fresh fruit and vegetables. The Czechoslovak market appears to offer the possibility of a balanced diet on a steady basis, although it is costly for the average citizen to maintain a high nutritional level. Official statistics show that approximately 30% of consumption expenditures are for food and drink; however, other sources indicate that expenditures on these items may run as high as 50%.

Cereal products, particularly bread, have been staples in the Czechoslovak diet. As recently as 1970, the average person consumed approximately 330 pounds of cereals annually. This accounted for 40% of the daily per capita caloric intake and 30% of protein intake. Dairy products and potatoes have also been dietary mainstays. Since World War II, the average diet has become more varied; the consumption of meat and eggs has more than doubled, and there have been moderate increases in other foodstuffs. Czechoslovaks consume more meat and eggs—an average annual per capita consumption of 71.3 kilograms of meat and 252 eggs—than any other Eastern European country. Yet, due to the inadequacies of domestic production and the inefficiencies in distribution, there are still occasional shortages of meat and of certain fruits and vegetables.

The diet of the Czechoslovaks contains an adequate supply of calories and is not seriously lacking in essential nutrients. There is no evidence of diseases associated with dietary deficiencies, although some citizens may not receive sufficient vitamins during the winter months. The daily per capita caloric intake, in 1970, was 3,130, slightly less than that in the United States. There is a high level of carbohydrate intake; nearly one-half of the calories in the typical diet derive from cereals, potatoes, and legumes, a much higher proportion than that in the United States. Per capita daily intake of protein in 1968 was 91.9 grams, only marginally less than the U.S. average. Animal protein accounted for 30% of total protein.

3. Housing

The chronic shortage of housing has severely affected the quality of life of the average citizen. Poor, overcrowded housing, more than anything else, makes urban life in Czechoslovakia dismal and tedious. Even families with an adequate income by Czechoslovakian standards live in two or three rooms, often sharing toilet and kitchen facilities with relatives or neighbors. A 2% sample of the 1 December 1970 census returns indicated that over two-thirds of the total housing units had three or less rooms. The average young married couple has to wait years for a modest apartment. The result has been overcrowding and lack of privacy. The housing deficit in large measure has been responsible for the prevalence of a low birth rate, which will result in an even greater labor shortage in the future. Social tension and friction apparently have increased because of overcrowding, attended by such problems as juvenile delinquency, crime, and alcoholism.

Because of artificially low rants, the average Czechoslovak household spent less on housing in 1971 than its Western counterpart—about 5% of income in contrast to 14-15%. Nonetheless, lower housing costs are more than offset by the smaller amounts of living space and by the general scarcity of furnishings and other amenities.

The Husak regime has greatly stepped up the pace of housing construction since the beginning of the Fifth Five Year Plan (1971-75). These efforts, however, are far from adequate. In the late 1960's, it was estimated that for Czechoslovakia to catch up to the housing standards of the advanced countries of Western Europe, it would have to build 150,000 dwellings of the current average size annually. In

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CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS


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 does not profess to have built the castle, but he pretends he has traced the lines of the foundation. He has not made the poetry, but he flatters himself he has done something towards making the poets.

His notion of the poetic function is ambitious, and coincides roughly with what Schopenhauer has laid down as the province of the metaphysician. The poet is to gather together for men, and set in order, the materials of their existence. He is "The Answerer;" he is to find some way of speaking about life that shall satisfy, if only for the moment, man's enduring astonishment at his own position. And besides having an answer ready, it is he who shall provoke the question. He must shake people out of their indifference, and force them to make some election in this world, instead of sliding dully forward in a dream. Life is a business we are all apt to mismanage; either living recklessly from day to day, or suffering ourselves to be gulled out of our moments by the inanities of custom. We should despise a man who gave as little activity and forethought to the conduct of any other business. But in this, which is the one thing of all others, since it contains them all, we cannot see the forest for the trees. One brief impression obliterates another. There is something stupefying in the recurrence of un-


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 important things. And it is only on rare provocations that we can rise to take an outlook beyond daily concerns, and comprehend the narrow limits and great possibilities of our existence. It is the duty of the poet to induce such moments of clear sight. He is the declared enemy of all living by reflex action, of all that is done betwixt sleep and waking, of all the pleasureless pleasurings and imaginary duties in which we coin away our hearts and fritter invaluable years. He has to electrify his readers into an instant unflagging activity, founded on a wide and eager observation of the world, and make them direct their ways by a superior prudence, which has little or nothing in common with the maxims of the copy-book. That many of us lead such lives as they would heartily disown after two hours' serious reflection on the subject is, I am afraid, a true, and, I am sure, a very galling thought. The Enchanted Ground of dead-alive respectability is next, upon the map, to the Beulah of considerate virtue. But there they all slumber and take their rest in the middle of God's beautiful and wonderful universe; the drowsy heads have nodded together in the same position since first their fathers fell asleep; and not even the sound of the last trumpet can wake them to a single active thought. The poet has a hard task before him to stir up


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 such fellows to a sense of their own and other people's principles in life.

And it happens that literature is, in some ways, but an indifferent means to such an end. Language is but a poor bull's-eye lantern wherewith to show off the vast cathedral of the world; and yet a particular thing once said in words is so definite and memorable, that it makes us forget the absence of the many which remain unexpressed; like a bright window in a distant view, which dazzles and confuses our sight of its surroundings. There are not words enough in all Shakespeare to express the merest fraction of a man's experience in an hour. The speed of the eyesight and the hearing, and the continual industry of the mind, produce, in ten minutes, what it would require a laborious volume to shadow forth by comparisons and roundabout approaches. If verbal logic were sufficient, life would be as plain sailing as a piece of Euclid. But, as a matter of fact, we make a travesty of the simplest process of thought when we put it into words for the words are all coloured and forsworn, apply inaccurately, and bring with them, from former uses ideas of praise and blame that have nothing to do with the question in hand. So we must always see to it nearly, that we judge by the realities of life and not by the partial terms


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 that represent them in man's speech; and at times of choice, we must leave words upon one side, and act upon those brute convictions, unexpressed and perhaps inexpressible, which cannot be flourished in an argument, but which are truly the sum and fruit of our experience. Words are for communication, not for judgment. This is what every thoughtful man knows for himself, for only fools and silly schoolmasters push definitions over far into the domain of conduct; and the majority of women, not learned in these scholastic refinements, live all-of-a-piece and unconsciously, as a tree grows, without caring to put a name upon their acts or motives. Hence, a new difficulty for Whitman's scrupulous and argumentative poet; he must do more than waken up the sleepers to his words; he must persuade them to look over the book and at life with their own eyes.

This side of truth is very present to Whitman; it is this that he means when he tells us that "To glance with an eye confounds the learning of all times." But he is not unready. He is never weary of descanting on the undebatable conviction that is forced upon our minds by the presence of other men, of animals, or of inanimate things. To glance with an eye, were it only at a chair or a park railing, is by far a more persuasive process, and brings us to a far more exact conclusion, than


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 to read the works of all the logicians extant. If both, by a large allowance, may be said to end in certainty, the certainty in the one case transcends the other to an incalculable degree. If people see a lion, they run away; if they only apprehend a deduction, they keep wandering around in an experimental humour. Now, how is the poet to convince like nature, and not like books? Is there no actual piece of nature that he can show the man to his face, as he might show him a tree if they were walking together? Yes, there is one: the man's own thoughts. In fact, if the poet is to speak efficaciously, he must say what is already in his hearer's mind. That, alone, the hearer will believe; that, alone, he will be able to apply intelligently to the facts of life. Any conviction, even if it be a whole system or a whole religion, must pass into the condition of commonplace, or postulate, before it becomes fully operative. Strange excursions and high-flying theories may interest, but they cannot rule behaviour. Our faith is not the highest truth that we perceive, but the highest that we have been able to assimilate into the very texture and method of our thinking. It is not, therefore, by flashing before a man's eyes the weapons of dialectic; it is not by induction, deduction, or construction; it is not by forcing him on from


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 one stage of reasoning to another, that the man will be effectually renewed. He cannot be made to believe anything; but he can be made to see that he has always believed it. And this is the practical canon. It is when the reader cries, "Oh, I know!" and is, perhaps, half irritated to see how nearly the author has forestalled his own thoughts, that he is on the way to what is called in theology a Saving Faith.

Here we have the key to Whitman's attitude. To give a certain unity of ideal to the average population of America—to gather their activities about some conception of humanity that shall be central and normal, if only for the moment—the poet must portray that population as it is. Like human law, human poetry is simply declaratory. If any ideal is possible, it must be already in the thoughts of the people; and, by the same reason, in the thoughts of the poet, who is one of them. And hence Whitman's own formula: "The poet is individual—he is complete in himself: the others are as good as he; only he sees it, and they do not." To show them how good they are, the poet must study his fellow-countrymen and himself somewhat like a traveller on the hunt for his book of travels. There is a sense, of course, in which all true books are books of travel; and all genuine poets must run their risk of being


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 charged with the traveller's exaggeration; for to whom are such books more surprising than to those whose own life is faithfully and smartly pictured? But this danger is all upon one side; and you may judiciously flatter the portrait without any likelihood of the sitter's disowning it for a faithful likeness. And so Whitman has reasoned: that by drawing at first hand from himself and his neighbours, accepting without shame the inconsistencies and brutalities that go to make up man, and yet treating the whole in a high, magnanimous spirit, he would make sure of belief, and at the same time encourage people forward by the means of praise.

We are accustomed nowadays to a great deal of puling over the circumstances in which we are placed. The great refinement of many poetical gentlemen has rendered them practically unfit for the jostling and ugliness of life, and they record their unfitness at considerable length. The bold and awful poetry of Job's complaint produces too many flimsy imitators; for there is always something consolatory in grandeur, but the symphony transposed for the piano becomes hysterically sad. This literature of woe, as Whitman calls it, this Maladie de René, as we like to call it in Europe,


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 is in many ways a most humiliating and sickly phenomenon. Young gentlemen with three or four hundred a year of private means look down from a pinnacle of doleful experience on all the grown and hearty men who have dared to say a good word for life since the beginning of the world. There is no prophet but the melancholy Jacques, and the blue devils dance on all our literary wires.

It would be a poor service to spread culture, if this be its result, among the comparatively innocent and cheerful ranks of men. When our little poets have to be sent to look at the ploughman and learn wisdom, we must be careful how we tamper with our ploughmen. Where a man in not the best of circumstances preserves composure of mind, and relishes ale and tobacco, and his wife and children, in the intervals of dull and unremunerative labour; where a man in this predicament can afford a lesson by the way to what are called his intellectual superiors, there is plainly something to be lost, as well as something to be gained, by teaching him to think differently. It is better to leave him as he is than to teach him whining. It is better that he should go without the cheerful lights of culture, if cheerless doubt and paralysing sentimentalism are to be the consequence. Let us, by all means, fight against that hide-bound


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 stolidity of sensation and sluggishness of mind which blurs and decolorises for poor natures the wonderful pageant of consciousness; let us teach people, as much as we can, to enjoy, and they will learn for themselves to sympathise; but let us see to it, above all, that we give these lessons in a brave, vivacious note, and build the man up in courage while we demolish its substitute, indifference.

Whitman is alive to all this. He sees that, if the poet is to be of any help, he must testify to the livableness of life. His poems, he tells us, are to be "hymns of the praise of things." They are to make for a certain high joy in living, or what he calls himself "a brave delight fit for freedom's athletes." And he has had no difficulty in introducing his optimism: it fitted readily enough with his system; for the average man is truly a courageous person and truly fond of living. One of Whitman's remarks upon this head is worth quotation, as he is there perfectly successful, and does precisely what he designs to do throughout: Takes ordinary and even commonplace circumstances; throws them out, by a happy turn of thinking, into significance and something like beauty; and tacks a hopeful moral lesson to the end.

"The passionate tenacity of hunters, woodmen, early risers, cultivators of gardens and orchards and fields, he says, the


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 love of healthy women for the manly form, seafaring persons, drivers of horses, the passion for light and the open air,—all is an old unvaried sign of the unfailing perception of beauty, and of a residence of the poetic in outdoor people."

There seems to me something truly original in this choice of trite examples. You will remark how adroitly Whitman begins, hunters and woodmen being confessedly romantic. And one thing more. If he had said "the love of healthy men for the female form," he would have said almost a silliness; for the thing has never been dissembled out of delicacy, and is so obvious as to be a public nuisance. But by reversing it, he tells us something not unlike news; something that sounds quite freshly in words; and, if the reader be a man, gives him a moment of great self-satisfaction and spiritual aggrandisement. In many different authors you may find passages more remarkable for grammar, but few of a more ingenious turn, and none that could be more to the point in our connection. The tenacity of many ordinary people in ordinary pursuits is a sort of standing challenge to everybody else. If one man can grow absorbed in delving his garden, others may grow absorbed and happy over something else. Not to be upsides in this with any groom or gardener, is to be very meanly organised. A man should be ashamed to take his food if he has not alchemy enough in


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 his stomach to turn some of it into intense and enjoyable occupation.

Whitman tries to reinforce this cheerfulness by keeping up a sort of outdoor atmosphere of sentiment. His book, he tells us, should be read "among the cooling influences of external nature;" and this recommendation, like that other famous one which Hawthorne prefixed to his collected tales, is in itself a character of the work. Every one who has been upon a walking or a boating tour, living in the open air, with the body in constant exercise and the mind in fallow, knows true ease and quiet. The irritating action of the brain is set at rest; we think in a plain, unfeverish temper; little things seem big enough, and great things no longer portentous; and the world is smilingly accepted as it is. This is the spirit that Whitman inculcates and parades. He thinks very ill of the atmosphere of parlours or libraries. Wisdom keeps school outdoors. And he has the art to recommend this attitude of mind by simply pluming himself upon it as a virtue; so that the reader, to keep the advantage over his author which most readers enjoy, is tricked into professing the same view. And this spirit, as it is his chief lesson, is the greatest charm of his work. Thence, in spite of an uneven and emphatic key of expression, something trenchant and straightforward,


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 something simple and surprising, distinguishes his poems. He has sayings that come home to one like the Bible. We fall upon Whitman, after the works of so many men who write better, with a sense of relief from strain, with a sense of touching nature, as when one passes out of the flaring, noisy thoroughfares of a great city into what he himself has called, with unexcelled imaginative justice of language, "the huge and thoughtful night." And his book in consequence, whatever may be the final judgment of its merit, whatever may be its influence on the future, should be in the hands of all parents and guardians as a specific for the distressing malady of being seventeen years old. Green-sickness yields to his treatment as to a charm of magic; and the youth, after a short course of reading, ceases to carry the universe upon his shoulders.

Whitman is not one of those who can be deceived by familiarity. He considers it just as wonderful that there are myriads of stars, as that one man should rise from the dead. He declares "a hair on the back of his hand just as curious as any special revelation." His whole life is to him what it was to Sir Thomas Browne, one perpetual miracle. Everything is strange, everything un-


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Page:Operation Crossroads 1946.pdf/52

 The Radiological Safety Technical Service Units were composed of instrument repair personnel, photometrists, and analysts. The instrument repair personnel maintained, repaired, and calibrated all instruments used by the radsafe section. They supplied monitoring equipment to all aircraft operating in the test area that did not carry monitors, and they trained pilots in use of that equipment. The photometrists (dosimetry technicians) calibrated film dosimetry badges, prepared casualty and personnel badges, processed film from badges that had been worn, calculated exposure from film data, and recorded the results. Analysts collected and analyzed samples of water, soil, and marine life for radioactivity (Reference B.0.1, p. E-II-6; Reference B.0.4).

PERSONNEL PROTECTION

Tolerance Exposure

The Operation Plan set the maximum allowable dose or tolerance for exposure over a long period at 0.1 roentgen (R) per 24 hours (Reference B.0.1, p. E-I-3). The National Bureau of Standards had established that limit in 1934, and it was used in manufacturing plants in the United States (Reference B.0.8). The Chief of the Radsafe Section stated that this dosage was based on 2 to 2-1/2 years of experiments with dogs, mice, and fruit flies, and on experience with a workforce of 8,000 people (Reference B.0.9). The Operation Plan also stated that an individual was not to have a total exposure of over 50 or 60 R in 2 weeks. If an individual received 10 R in 1 day or 60 R in 2 weeks he was to be withdrawn from active participation in the operation (Reference B.0.1, p. E-I-3). Such action was never required. The highest accumulated recorded exposure for the operation was 3.72 R, which was received by an Army assistant radsafe monitor badged for 6 days. The highest number of badges issued to a single individual was 19. He was also a radsafe monitor and his cumulative exposure was 2.48 R.

Provision was made for special situations (Reference B.0.1, p. E-II-9) that might:

 * ...permit the assuming of a calculated risk in order to let certain key personnel enter a hazardous area to make highly desirable observations when the total amount of radiation to be received is less than 10 roentgen units. This may be permitted only on direct instructions from Radiological Safety Control. Details of the situation and clearance therefore will be carefully logged by the accompanying monitor and at Radiological Safety Control.

There is no record that this special provision was involved during the operation.

On 5 August the Medico-Legal Board recommended that three monitors refrain from monitoring for 1 or 2 days because of badge readings in excess of 0.1 R (Reference C.0.10). Later, monitors who exceeded the tolerance were removed from work on USS Salt Lake City (CA-25) (Reference C.0.11).

47

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 {| class="wikitable" ! Day !! Time !! Course Title
 * + Table 3. Basic-intensive courses for CROSSROADS radiological safety monitors.
 * rowspan=7 | 1
 * 0830-0920
 * Introduction: Mission of the Radiological Safety Section
 * 0930-1020 || Mechanics, Force, and Energy
 * 1030-1120 || Electricity
 * 1300-1400 || The Atom Speaks
 * 1430-1520 || Casualties at Hiroshima
 * 1530-1620 || Conference
 * 1900 || Physical Damage at Hiroshima
 * rowspan=6 | 2
 * 0830-0920
 * Atomic Structure
 * 0930-1020 || The Bohr Theory
 * 1030-1120 || Ionization and Quantum Concepts
 * 1300-1520 || Group Seminar
 * 1530-1620 || Instruments Demonstration
 * 1900 || Radioactivity
 * rowspan=6 | 3
 * 0830-0920
 * X-rays; Alpha, Beta, and Gamma Rays
 * 0930-1020 || Mass and Energy
 * 1030-1120 || Nuclear Composition
 * 1300-1520 || Demonstration and Group Seminar
 * 1530-1620 || Demonstration of the X-263
 * 1900 || Thermal Radiation
 * rowspan=6 | 4
 * 0830-0920
 * Artificial Radioactivity
 * 0930-1020 || Fission Process
 * 1030-1120 || Fission Products
 * 1300-1520 || Demonstration and Group Seminar
 * 1530-1620 || Demonstration of the 247
 * 1900 || Effect of Radiation on the Human Body: Radiation Sickness and Other Pathology
 * rowspan=6 | 5
 * 0830-0920
 * Chemistry of Plutonium, Uranium, and Fission Products
 * 0930-1020 || Nuclear Cross-Section and the Production of Plutonium
 * 1030-1120 || Mesons and the Synchro- or Frequency-Modulated Cyclotron
 * 1300-1520 || Demonstration and Group Seminar
 * 1530-1620 || Demonstration of the Pocket Dosimeter
 * 1900 || Physical Damage to the Principal Hospitals and First-Aid Stations in Nagasaki
 * }
 * 1900 || Thermal Radiation
 * rowspan=6 | 4
 * 0830-0920
 * Artificial Radioactivity
 * 0930-1020 || Fission Process
 * 1030-1120 || Fission Products
 * 1300-1520 || Demonstration and Group Seminar
 * 1530-1620 || Demonstration of the 247
 * 1900 || Effect of Radiation on the Human Body: Radiation Sickness and Other Pathology
 * rowspan=6 | 5
 * 0830-0920
 * Chemistry of Plutonium, Uranium, and Fission Products
 * 0930-1020 || Nuclear Cross-Section and the Production of Plutonium
 * 1030-1120 || Mesons and the Synchro- or Frequency-Modulated Cyclotron
 * 1300-1520 || Demonstration and Group Seminar
 * 1530-1620 || Demonstration of the Pocket Dosimeter
 * 1900 || Physical Damage to the Principal Hospitals and First-Aid Stations in Nagasaki
 * }
 * 0830-0920
 * Chemistry of Plutonium, Uranium, and Fission Products
 * 0930-1020 || Nuclear Cross-Section and the Production of Plutonium
 * 1030-1120 || Mesons and the Synchro- or Frequency-Modulated Cyclotron
 * 1300-1520 || Demonstration and Group Seminar
 * 1530-1620 || Demonstration of the Pocket Dosimeter
 * 1900 || Physical Damage to the Principal Hospitals and First-Aid Stations in Nagasaki
 * }
 * 1530-1620 || Demonstration of the Pocket Dosimeter
 * 1900 || Physical Damage to the Principal Hospitals and First-Aid Stations in Nagasaki
 * }
 * 1900 || Physical Damage to the Principal Hospitals and First-Aid Stations in Nagasaki
 * }

(continued)

56

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text:
Index talk:Evangelium secundum Marcum.djvu

Another version
There is another version at Index:Gospel of Mark in West-Saxon.djvu -- Beardo (talk) 20:19, 26 December 2023 (UTC)


text:
Index talk:Gospel of Mark in West-Saxon.djvu

Another version
There is another version at Index:Evangelium secundum Marcum.djvu -- Beardo (talk) 20:21, 26 December 2023 (UTC)


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Page:Operation Crossroads 1946.pdf/62

 {| class="wikitable" ! Day !! Time !! Course Title
 * + Table 3. Basic intensive courses for CROSSROADS radiological safety monitors (continued)
 * rowspan=6 | 6
 * 0830-0920
 * Ionization Chamber and Geiger-Mueller Counter
 * 0930-1020 || Tolerance Dose
 * 1030-1120 || Radiobiology
 * 1300-1520 || Practical Problems of Radiation Exposure
 * 1530-1620 || Proteximeters (radiation detectors used in aircraft)
 * 1900 || Physical Damage at Nagasaki
 * rowspan=3 | 7
 * 0830-1120
 * Calibration of the X-263 and the Pocket Dosimeter
 * 0930-1020 || Practical Exercise of the X-263
 * 1030-1120 || Thermal Radiation
 * rowspan=3 | 8
 * 0830-1120
 * Calibration of the 247 and the Pocket Dosimeter
 * 1530-1620 || Practical Exercise with the 247
 * 1900 || Radioactivity from a Nuclear Blast
 * rowspan=6 | 9
 * 0830-1020
 * Principles of Radiological Survey
 * 1030-1120 || Radiological Operations
 * 1300-1400 || Air Monitoring
 * 1430-1520 || Sea Monitoring
 * 1530-1620 || Land Monitoring
 * 1900 || Biological Studies
 * rowspan=6 | 10
 * 0830-0920
 * Initial Boarding Party Monitoring
 * 0930-1020 || Target Ship Clearance
 * 1030-1120 || Analysis of Radioactive Water
 * 1300-1520 || Laboratory Analysis of Radioactive Water
 * 1530-1620 || Instrument Repair
 * 1900 || Biological Studies
 * rowspan=5 | 11
 * 0830-0920
 * Principles of Health Physics
 * 0930-1020 || Protection Against Radioactive Hazards
 * 1030-1120 || Analysis of Radioactive Solids
 * 1300-1520 || Laboratory Analysis of Radioactive Solids
 * 1530-1620 || Instrument Repair
 * rowspan=4 | 12
 * 0830-0920
 * Ventilation Clearance
 * 0930-1020 || Evaporator Clearance
 * 1030-1120 || Ship Clearance
 * 1300-1620 || Field Exercise
 * }
 * 0930-1020 || Target Ship Clearance
 * 1030-1120 || Analysis of Radioactive Water
 * 1300-1520 || Laboratory Analysis of Radioactive Water
 * 1530-1620 || Instrument Repair
 * 1900 || Biological Studies
 * rowspan=5 | 11
 * 0830-0920
 * Principles of Health Physics
 * 0930-1020 || Protection Against Radioactive Hazards
 * 1030-1120 || Analysis of Radioactive Solids
 * 1300-1520 || Laboratory Analysis of Radioactive Solids
 * 1530-1620 || Instrument Repair
 * rowspan=4 | 12
 * 0830-0920
 * Ventilation Clearance
 * 0930-1020 || Evaporator Clearance
 * 1030-1120 || Ship Clearance
 * 1300-1620 || Field Exercise
 * }
 * 1300-1520 || Laboratory Analysis of Radioactive Solids
 * 1530-1620 || Instrument Repair
 * rowspan=4 | 12
 * 0830-0920
 * Ventilation Clearance
 * 0930-1020 || Evaporator Clearance
 * 1030-1120 || Ship Clearance
 * 1300-1620 || Field Exercise
 * }
 * 1030-1120 || Ship Clearance
 * 1300-1620 || Field Exercise
 * }
 * 1300-1620 || Field Exercise
 * }

57

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text: The Keepsake for 1838/The Royal Marriage


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Page:Journal of the Straits Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society (IA journalof404219041905roya).pdf/322

 ... 58. Commercial Square ... ... 59. Cornwall Street 60. Craig Road ... ... 61. Crawford Road ... 62. Cross Street ...

(iii) Ang-teng lo-thau (i) Tho-kho khau ... (iii) Hue-bng kak Chiu-long lai (i) Gu-chhia-chui kia (ii) Ka-lek lut ... (i) Go-cho bue (ii) Go-cho pa-sat (i) Kit-ling-a koi ...

... ... (ii) Tho-fu fa-yün pin. ... Chau-long noi ... ... (iii) San yiong tai uk pin (i) Lo-cho mei (ii) Lo-cho pa-sat ... (ii) Hoi-san kai ha kai


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Page:Journal of the Straits Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society (IA journalof404219041905roya).pdf/323

 頭路燈紅 口庫土 邊園花庫土 ... 內廊酒 崎水車牛 律力加 ... 尾槽鵝 虱巴槽鵝 街仔靈吉 街下街山海

(iii) 'Red lamp landing place' i.e. Johnston's pier. (i) 'Mouth of the godowns.' (ii) 'Beside the godowns' flower-garden.' (iii) 'Flower-garden square.' (See under Beng Hoon Road.) (i) 'Side of Kreta Ayer.' (ii) Phonetic only. (iii) 'Beside Sam Yiong's big house.' (This street is largely inhabited by Babas, hence the 'Ka-lek lut.' 'San Yiong was the chop of the late Tan Kim Tian and it is still used by his descendants; the name is not generally known.) (i) 'End of Rochore.' (ii) 'Rochore Market.' (i) 'Kling Street.' There are a large number of Kling shops in Cross Street). (ii) 'Hoi-san' street lower street.' ('Hoi-san' street is Upper Cross street, q.v.)


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Page:Journal of the Straits Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society (IA journalof404219041905roya).pdf/324

 63. Cumming Street 64. D'Almeida Street ... 65. Damer Road ... 66. Delta Road 67. De Souza Street 68. Dickson Road

Kam-kong ma-lak kah hi-hng koi (i) Tho-kho le-long-kwan (ii) Hiap Hoat koi (i) Ong-ke sua-kah be-liau piⁿ (ii) Ong-ke suaⁿ-kha Kong-pan-ge phah chioh O kio Lam-in-tang tho-kho kak-thau Kam-kong ka-poh

Kam-pong ma-lak-kah hei-yün kai (i) Tho-fu ham-lang kwun (ii) Hip fat kai (i) Wong-ka shan-keuk ma-fong pin ... Wu khiu Lam-yin-thung tho-fu kok-thau Kam-pong ka-pok


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 possession. He has rows of little tubes with the things he has found in the bodies of rabbits

"But I will not disgust you further

"Is this a world made for the happiness of sentient things?

"I ask you, how is it possible for man to be other than a rebel in the face of such facts? How can he trust the Maker who has designed and elaborated and finished these parasites in their endless multitude and variety? For these things are not in the nature of sudden creations and special judgments; they have been produced fearfully and wonderfully by a process of evolution as slow and deliberate as our own. How can Man trust such a Maker to treat him fairly? Why should we shut our eyes to things that stare us in the face? Either the world of life is the creation of a being inspired by a malignancy at once filthy, petty and enormous, or it displays a carelessness, an indifference, a disregard for justice"

The voice of Mr. Huss faded out.

For some time Mr. Farr had been manifesting signs of impatience. The pause gave him his opportunity. He spoke with a sort of restrained volubility.

"Sir Eliphaz, Mr. Dad, after what has passed in relation to myself, I would have preferred to have said nothing in this discussion. Nothing. So far as I myself am concerned, I will still say nothing. But upon some issues it is impossible to keep silence.


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Page:Journal of the Straits Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society (IA journalof404219041905roya).pdf/325

 街園戲甲六馬公監 舘攏黎庫土 街發協 邊寮馬脚山家王 石打衙班公脚山家王 橋烏 頭角庫土筒烟藍 薄加公監

'Kampong Malacca theatre street.' (but see Angus Street). (i) 'The auction-rooms by the godowns.' (ii) 'Yap Watt street.' (The first name refers to Powell and Crane's auction-rooms, and the second to the chop of a firm which recently occupied premises there). (i) 'Beside the stables at the foot of the Government Hill' (i.e. Fort Canning). (ii) 'At the foot of Fort Canning where the Municipality breaks stones.' (There is a Municipal store-yard close by). 'The black bridge.' (This name is also given by Hokkiens to part of Balestier Road q.v.) 'Blue funnel godown corner.' (Mansfield & Co's godown is the corner of this street.) 'Kampong Kapor.' (cf. Clive Street, Dunlop Street &c.)


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Page:Journal of the Straits Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society (IA journalof404219041905roya).pdf/326

 69. Dunlop Street 70. Duxton Road 71. Ellenborough Street 72. Enggor Street 73. Esplanade 74. Farquhar Street 75. Fish Court

Kam-kong ka-poh hueⁿ (or toa) koi (i) Gu-chhia-chui kia (ii) Tok-sun lut (iii) Kam-kong-a lai Sin pa-sat piⁿ Chin-seng suaⁿ khau (i) Toa-kok cheng chhau-po Go-cho lut bo-bue hang Lo-ma pan-jiang hang

Kam pong ka-pok wang (or tai) kai ... (ii) Tak-sun lut ... San pa-sat pin Chan-seng shan hau ... Lo-cho lut mo-mei hong Lo-ma pan-yang hong


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Page:SHL Imaging v. Artisan House.pdf/7

 technology or could be expanded in unforeseen ways. But from the start photography was perceived to be a different kind of picture making—an easier version of an activity [painting] that had required a degree of talent and training not available to many. A World History of Photography at 39.

Painters, like many faced with the introduction of a new technology, feared the end of public interest in their art. Critics derided photography, declaring that the new medium “copies everything and explains nothing, it is blind to the realm of the spirit.” A World History of Photography at 210. Yet, some photographers’ skill inspired high praise. Critic Phillipe Burty, reviewing an 1859 exhibition of photography by Gaspard Felix Tournachon (a/k/a Nadar), wrote, “his portraits are works of art in every accepted sense of the word. … [I]f photography is by no means a complete art, the photographer always has the right to be an artist.” A World History of Photography at 72.

In the United States, some photographers quickly seized on the new medium as a means to express artistic as well as political and social sentiments. See Margaret Loke, In a John Brown Portrait, The Essence of a Militant, N.Y. Times, July 7, 2000, at E20 (describing a striking 1846 photograph of abolitionist John Brown by African-American photographer Augustus Washington, who touted his artistic skill and his intention of using that skill to contribute to the advancement of “the oppressed and unfortunate people with whom I am identified”).

The ambivalence and occasional antagonism toward photography expressed by painters and art critics spilled into the debate over whether to extend copyright protection to photographs. It was not until 1948 that the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works enumerated photography as a mandatory subject matter. Prior to that revision, protection was either on a reciprocal basis or extended only to “artistic,” as opposed to “ordinary” photographs. See Patry at 254. Even for “artistic” photographs, a minimum term of protection of twenty-five years from the making of the photographic work was not required until the 1971 Paris Text of the Berne Convention. See Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works, July 24, 1971, art. 7(4) (Paris text 1971); Patry 253–254. The Universal Copyright Convention still does require protection for photographs. See Universal Copyright Convention, July 24, 1971, art. IV(3) (Paris text 1971). Article 12 of the Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Rights Agreement (part of the 1994 Uruguay Round of the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade), allows member countries to exclude photographs from the general requirement of a term of protection of life of the author plus 50 years. See Agreement on Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Rights, Including Trade in Counterfeit Goods, MTN/FA II-A1C (1994). Only recently has international protection for photographs taken a significant step forward: Article 9 of the 1998 World Intellectual Property Organization Copyright Treaty forbids signatories from applying the Berne Convention’s Article 7(4). See WIPO Copyright Treaty, CRNR/DC/94 (1998). The effect is to extend the protection for photographs to the life of the author plus 50 years.

The dual standard applied by the Berne Convention—“artistic” photographs could be protected, but “ordinary” photographs could not—stemmed from doubts over whether photographs were the result of the photographer’s creativity or were instead the result of the technical process of photography. Those doubts took on constitutional significance in a challenge to the Act of March 3, 1865 in Burrow-Giles Lithographic Co. v. Sarony, 111 U.S. 53, 4 S.Ct. 379, 28 L.Ed. 349 (1884). In Burrow-Giles, plaintiff Napoleon Sarony was a successful celebrity photographer who produced inexpensive cartes-de-visite and larger cabinet cards favored by actors as

title: Page:SHL Imaging v. Artisan House.pdf/7


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Page:Journal of the Straits Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society (IA journalof404219041905roya).pdf/327

 街大或街橫薄加公監 崎水車牛 律順德 內仔公監 邊虱巴新 口山成振 巷尾無律槽梧 巷讓班碼路

'Kampong Kapor Cross (or big) street.' (This is perhaps is the biggest street in what is known as Kampong Kapor. The Chinese have not yet given names to the streets here.) (i) At the side of Kreta Ayer (cf. Craig Road). (ii) Phonetic, but commonly used. (iii) Within the little 'Kampong.' 'Beside the New Market (Ellenborough Market). 'Chin-Seng, Hill mouth' (see under Bernan Street). (i) 'Grass field in front of Supreme Court.' 'Rochore Road no end lane) or cul-de-sac.' (see under Carnie street). 'Rumah Panjang lane.' ('Rumah Panjong'='long house,' and is practically a house of ill fame: in Singapore it is the name given to a district in the neighbourhood of the junction of Rochore Road with North Bridge Road.)


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Page:Journal of the Straits Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society (IA journalof404219041905roya).pdf/292

 A new species of Chalcis from Borneo.

Black; the under side of the scape, the apices of the femora, the base and apex of the tibiæ, the tarsi and the tegalæ whitish-yellow; the hinder femora red, their middle teeth longish and clearly separated; the apex of the scutellum ending in 2 stout, longer than broad, teeth; the wings hyaline, the nervures black. ♀

Length $4 1⁄2$ mm.

Hab. Borneo.

Antennæ stout, as long as the thorax; the 3rd joint distinctly longer than the 4th and narrowed at the base. Head closely, but not deeply, punctured, except in the centre of the front; the centre of the face shining and less strongly and closely punctured; the top of the clypeus shining and bearing 6 large fovea. Mandibles rufous behind the teeth. Pro- and mesothorax rather strongly and closely punctured; the pronotum at the base on the sides with a distinct keel. Parapsidal furrows wide, curved. Scutellem more widely punctured than the mesonotum, its apex ending in 2 large, bluntly, rounded, longer than broad, finely rugose teeth. Metanotum irregularly reticulated; the central basal area is larger and longer, is obliquely narrowed at the base and becomes narrowed slightly towards the apex. Propleura rugose; the meso- smooth and shining and with some widly [sic] separated striæ at the base. Metapleuræ closely reticulated, abdomen shorter than the thorax, blunty [sic] pointed and covered with white pubescence at the apex.