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While nothing can fully prepare you for the chaos and exhaustion that is working motherhood, many seemingly unrelated experiences from your past can actually ease the transition to this oh-so-special phase of existence. Those mean girls from the high. Working Mother 2 min. Some companies have nurses who can care for your sick children while you work.

Photo: iStock Barely one month of daycare had passed before my baby, Zachary, developed a fever that would keep him out of the center. As if it really mattered what that mite in the cradle, with the golden fuzz on her head, was called. Old Grandmother looked at the tiny sleeping face curiously.

Lorraine's hair but Leander's chin and brow and nose. A fatherless baby with only that foolish Winthrop girl for a mother. Marian has no imagination and Lorraine has too much. Somebody must give that child a few hints to live by, whether she's to be minx or madonna. Then for ten minutes they wrangled over what they would have called it if it had been a boy. They were beginning to get quite warm over it when Aunt Myra took a throbbing in the back of her neck. It can come on so suddenly--go so conveniently. And nobody can prove we haven't got it. Eye strain. You should really wear glasses at your age, Myra.

We'll just have to die. Moorhouse drinks and Dr. Stackley is an evolutionist. And you wouldn't have me go to that woman-doctor, would you? No, of course not. No Lesley would go to that woman-doctor. Woodruff Richards had been practising in Harmony for two years, but no Lesley would have called in a woman-doctor if he had been dying. One might as well commit suicide. Besides, a woman-doctor was an outrageous portent, not to be tolerated or recognised at all.

As Great-Uncle Robert said indignantly, "The weemen are gittin' entirely too intelligent. Klondike Lesley was especially sarcastic about her. Klondike had no use for unfeminine women who aped men. But they talked of her through their coffee and did not again revert to the subject of the baby's name.

They were all feeling a trifle sore over that. It seemed to them all that neither Old Grandmother nor Young Grandmother nor Lorraine had backed them up properly. With the result that all the guests went home with the great question yet unsettled. But these celebrations are red-letter days for us.

Listen to me purr.

My Mother Faked Being Pregnant So We Would Love Her

Things were rather edgy in the Lesley clan for a few weeks. As Uncle Charlie said, they had their tails up. Cousin Sybilla was reported to have gone on a hunger strike--which she called a fast--about it. Stasia and Teresa, two affectionate sisters, quarrelled over it and wouldn't speak to each other. There was a connubial rupture between Uncle Thomas and Aunt Katherine because she wanted to consult Ouija about a name. Obadiah Lesley, who in thirty years had never spoken a cross word to his wife, rated her so bitterly for wanting to call the baby Consuela that she went home to her mother for three days.

An engagement trembled in the balance. Myra's throbbings in the neck became more frequent than ever. Uncle William-over-the-bay vowed he wouldn't play checkers until the child was named. Aunt Josephine was known to be praying about it at a particular hour every day. Nina cried almost ceaselessly over it and gave up peddling poetry for the time being, which led Uncle Paul to remark that it was an ill wind which blew no good.

Young Grandmother preserved an offended silence. Old Grandmother laughed to herself until the bed shook. Salome and the cats held their peace, though Lucifer carefully kept his tail at half-mast. Everybody was more or less cool to Lorraine because she had not taken his or her choice. It really looked as if Leander's baby was never going to get a name. Then--the shadow fell. One day the little lady of Cloud of Spruce seemed fretful and feverish. The next day more so.

The third day Dr. Moorhouse was called--the first time for years that a Lesley had to call in an outside doctor. For three generations there had been a Dr. Lesley at Cloud of Spruce. Now that Leander was gone they were all at sea. Moorhouse was brisk and cheerful. No need to worry--not the slightest. The child would be all right in a day or two. She wasn't. At the end of a week the Lesley clan were thoroughly alarmed. Moorhouse had ceased to pooh-pooh. He came anxiously twice a day. And day by day the shadow deepened. The baby was wasting away to skin and bone. Anguished Lorraine hung over the cradle with eyes that nobody could bear to look at.

Everybody proposed a different remedy but nobody was offended if it wasn't used. Things were too serious for that. Only Nina was almost sent to Coventry because she asked Lorraine one day if infantile paralysis began like that, and Aunt Marcia was frozen out because she heard a dog howling one night. Also, when Flora said she had found a diamond-shaped crease in a clean tablecloth--a sure sign of death in the year--Klondike insulted her. But Klondike was forgiven because he was nearly beside himself over the baby's condition. Moorhouse called in Dr. Stackley, who might be an evolutionist but had a reputation of being good with children.

After a long consultation they changed the treatment; but there was no change in the little patient. Klondike brought a specialist from Charlottetown who looked wise and rubbed his hands and said Dr. Moorhouse was doing all that could be done and that while there was life there was always hope, especially in the case of children. It was at this juncture that Great-Uncle Walter, who hadn't gone to church for thirty years, made a bargain with God that he would go if the child's life was spared, and that Great-Uncle William-over-the-bay recklessly began playing checkers again.

Better break a vow before a death than after it. Teresa and Stasia had made up as soon as the baby took ill, but it was only now that the coolness between Thomas and Katherine totally vanished. Thomas told her for goodness' sake to try Ouija or any darned thing that might help. Even Old Cousin James T. A terrible day came when Dr. Moorhouse told Lorraine gently that he could do nothing more. After he had gone Young Grandmother looked at Old Grandmother. Lorraine gave a bitter cry.

This was equivalent to a death sentence. At Cloud of Spruce, just as with the Murrays down at Blair Water, it was a tradition that dying people must be taken into the spare room. They've only half a brain between them anyhow. Send for that woman-doctor. Young Grandmother looked thunderstruck. She turned to Uncle Klon, who was sitting by the baby's cradle, his haggard face buried in his hands.

She can't do any harm now. Klondike Lesley uncoiled himself and went. He had never seen Dr. Richards before--save at a distance, or spinning past him in her smart little runabout. She was in her office and came forward to meet him gravely sweet. She had a little, square, wide-lipped, straight-browed face like a boy's.

Not pretty but haunting. Wavy brown hair with one teasing, unruly little curl that would fall down on her forehead, giving her a youthful look in spite of her thirty-five years. What a dear face! So wide at the cheekbones--so deep grey-eyed. With such a lovely, smiling, generous mouth. Some old text of Sunday-school days suddenly flitted through Klondike Lesley's dazed brain:. For just a second their eyes met and locked. Only a second. But it did the work of years. The irresistible woman had met the immovable man and the inevitable had happened.

She might have had thick ankles--only she hadn't; her mother might have meowed all over the church. Nothing would have mattered to Klondike Lesley. She made him think of all sorts of lovely things, such as sympathy, kindness, generosity, and women who were not afraid to grow old. He had the most extraordinary feeling that he would like to lay his head on her breast and cry, like a little boy who had got hurt, and have her stroke his head and say,.

Moorhouse has given her up. We are all very fond of her. Her mother will die if she cannot be saved. Won't you come? She came. She said little, but she did some drastic things about diet and sleeping. Old and Young Grandmothers gasped when she ordered the child's cradle moved out on the veranda. Every day for two weeks her light, steady footsteps came and went about Cloud of Spruce. Lorraine and Salome and Young Grandmother hung breathlessly on her briefest word.

Old Grandmother saw her once. She had told Salome to bring "the woman-doctor in," and they had looked at each other for a few minutes in silence. The steady, sweet, grey eyes had gazed unquailingly into the piercing black ones. The little humorous quirk in Dr. Richards's mouth widened to a smile. She looked around her at all the laughing brides of long ago in their billows of tulle. She spoke with her own dignity of "Dr. Richards"--for a short time. Klondike brought Dr.

Richards to Cloud of Spruce and took her away. Her own car was laid up for repairs. But nobody was paying much attention to Klondike just then. At the end of the two weeks it seemed to Lorraine that the shadow had ceased to deepen on the little wasted face. A few more days--was it not lightening--lifting? At the end of three more weeks Dr. Richards told them that the baby was out of danger.

Lorraine fainted and Young Grandmother shook and Klondike broke down and cried unashamedly like a schoolboy. A few days later the clan had another conclave--a smaller and informal one. The aunts and uncles present were all genuine ones. And it was not, as Salome thankfully reflected, on a Friday. The horror of this kept the Lesleys silent for a few minutes. Besides, every one dreaded starting up another argument so soon after those dreadful weeks. Who knew but what it had been a judgment on them for quarrelling over it? Call her after the woman who has saved her life, of course.

The Lesleys looked at each other. A simple, graceful, natural solution of the problem--if only He can tell you, or I'm much mistaken. Every one looked at Klondike. In the anxiety of the past weeks everybody in the clan had been blind to Klondike's goings-on--except perhaps Old Grandmother. Klondike straightened his shoulders and tossed back his mane. It was as good a time as any to tell something that would soon have to be told. The Witch of Endor, being wise in her generation, licked her black paws and said no more, but continued to have her own opinion.

On the evening of Old Grandmother's ninety-eighth birthday there was a sound of laughter on the dark staircase--which meant that Marigold Lesley, who had lived six years and thought the world a very charming place, was dancing downstairs. You generally heard Marigold before you saw her. She seldom walked. A creature of joy, she ran or danced. Her laughter always seemed to go before her. Both Young Grandmother and Mother, to say nothing of Salome and Lazarre, thought that golden trill of laughter echoing through the somewhat prim and stately rooms of Cloud of Spruce the loveliest sound in the world.

Mother often said this. Young Grandmother never said it. That was the difference between Young Grandmother and Mother. Marigold squatted down on the broad, shallow, uneven sandstone steps at the front door and proceeded to think things over--or, as Aunt Marigold, who was a very dear, delightful woman, phrased it, "make magic for herself.

Already, even at six, Marigold found this an entrancing occupation--"int'resting," to use her own pet word. She had picked it up from Aunt Marigold and from then to the end of life things would be for Marigold interesting or uninteresting. Some people might demand of life that it be happy or untroubled or successful. Marigold Lesley would only ask that it be interesting.

Already she was looking with avid eyes on all the exits and entrances of the drama of life. There had been a birthday party for Old Grandmother that day, and Marigold had enjoyed it--especially that part in the pantry about which nobody save she and Salome knew. Young Grandmother would have died of horror if she had known how many of the whipped cream tarts Marigold had actually eaten.

But she was glad to be alone now and think things over. In Young Grandmother's opinion Marigold did entirely too much thinking for so small a creature. Even Mother, who generally understood, sometimes thought so too. It couldn't be good for a child to have its mind prowling in all sorts of corners. But everybody was too tired after the party to bother about Marigold and her thoughts just now, so she was free to indulge in a long delightful reverie.

Marigold was, she would have solemnly told you, "thinking over the past. Whether all her thoughts would have pleased Young Grandmother, or even Mother, if they had known them, there is no saying. But then they did not know them. Long, long ago--when she was only five and a half--Marigold had horrified her family--at least the Grandmotherly part of it--by saying in her nightly prayer, "Thank you, dear God, for 'ranging it so that nobody knows what I think.

But she continued to think privately that God was very wise and good in making thoughts exclusively your own. Marigold hated to have people barging in, as Uncle Klon would have said, on her little soul. But then, as Young Grandmother would have said and did say, Marigold always had ways no orthodox Lesley baby ever thought of having--"the Winthrop coming out in her," Young Grandmother muttered to herself.


All that was good in Marigold was Lesley and Blaisdell. All that was bad or puzzling was Winthrop. For instance, that habit of hers of staring into space with a look of rapture. What did she see? And what right had she to see it? And when you asked her what she was thinking of she stared at you and said, "Nothing. The sky above her was a wonderful soft deep violet.

A wind that had lately blown over clover-meadows came around the ivied shoulder of the house in the little purring puffs that Marigold loved. To her every wind in the world was a friend--even those wild winter ones that blew so fiercely up the harbour. The row of lightning-rod balls along the top of Mr. Donkin's barn across the road seemed like silver fairy worlds floating in the afterlight against the dark trees behind them. The lights across the harbour were twinkling out along the shadowy shore.

Marigold loved to watch the harbour lights. They fed some secret spring of delight in her being. The big spireas that flanked the steps--Old Grandmother always called them Bridal Wreaths, with a sniff for meaningless catalogue names--were like twin snowdrifts in the dusk. The old thorn hedge back of the apple-barn, the roots of which had been brought out from Scotland in some past that was to Marigold of immemorial antiquity, was as white as the spireas, and scented the air all around it.

Cloud of Spruce was such a place always inside and out for sweet, wholesome smells. People found out there that there was such a thing as honeysuckle left in the world. There was the entrancing pale gold of lemon lilies in the shadows under the lilac-trees, and the proud white iris was blooming all along the old brick walk worn smooth by the passing of many feet. Away far down Marigold knew the misty sea was lapping gladly on the windy sands of the dunes. Donkin's dear little pasture-field, full of blue-eyed grass, with the birches all around it, was such a contented field.

She had always envied Mr. Donkin that field. It looked, thought Marigold, as if it just loved being a field and wouldn't be anything else for the world. Right over it was the dearest little grey cloud that was slowly turning to rose like a Quaker lady blushing. And all the trees in sight were whispering in the dusk like old friends--all but the lonely, unsociable Lombardies. Salome was singing lustily in the pantry, where she was washing dishes. Salome couldn't sing, but she always sang and Marigold liked to hear her, especially at twilight.

The bew -tiful-the bew -tiful river? And Marigold saw the beautiful river, looking like the harbour below Cloud of Spruce. Perhaps Evangeline had danced to it. Aunt Marigold had told Marigold the story of Evangeline. A bit of gossip, Old Grandmother always averred, was an aid to digestion. Everybody Marigold loved was near her. She hugged her brown knees with delight, and thought with a vengeance. Marigold had lived her six years, knowing no world but Harmony Harbour and Cloud of Spruce.

All her clan loved her and petted her, though some of them occasionally squashed her for her own good. And Marigold loved them all--even those she hated she loved as part of her clan. And she loved Cloud of Spruce. How lucky she had happened to be born there. She loved everything and everybody about it. To-night everything seemed to drift through her consciousness in a dreamy, jumbled procession of delight, big and little things, past and present, all tangled up together.

The pigeons circling over the old apple-barn; the apple-barn itself--such an odd old barn with a tower and oriel window like a church--and the row of funny little hemlocks beyond it. What if they should suddenly shake their fingers so at her? She would die of it, she knew. But it would be int'resting. The hemlocks were not the only mysterious trees about Cloud of Spruce. That lilac-bush behind the well, for example.

Sometimes it was just lilac-bush. And sometimes, especially in the twilight or early dawn, it was a nodding old woman knitting. It was. And the spruce-tree down at the shore which in twilight or on stormy winter days looked just like a witch leaning out from the bank, her hair streaming wildly behind her. Then there were trees that talked--Marigold heard them. And those Lombardies that kept such stately watch about the old house. At night the wind wandered through them like a grieving spirit.

Elfin laughter and fitful moans sounded in their boughs. You might say what you liked but Marigold would never believe that those Lombardies were just trees. The old garden that faced the fair blue harbour, with its white gate set midway, where darling flowers grew and kittens ran beautiful brief little pilgrimages before they were given away--or vanished mysteriously.

It had all the beauty of old gardens where sweet women have aforetime laughed and wept. Some bit of old clan history was bound up with almost every clump and walk in it, and already Marigold knew most of it. The things that Young Grandmother and Mother would not tell her Salome would, and the things that Salome would not Lazarre would. The road outside the gate--one of the pleasant red roads of "the Island. On the right hand it ran down to the windy seafields at the harbour's mouth and stopped there--as if, thought Marigold, the sea had bitten it off.

On the left it ran through a fern valley, up to the shadowy crest of a steep hill with eager little spruce-trees running up the side of it as if trying to catch up with the big ones at the top. And over it to a new world beyond where there was a church and a school and the village of Harmony. Marigold loved that hill road because it was full of rabbits. You could never go up it without seeing some of the darlings. There was room in Marigold's heart for all the rabbits of the world.

She had horrible suspicions that Lucifer caught baby rabbits--and ate them. Lazarre had as good as given that dark secret away in his rage over some ruined cabbages in the kitchen-garden. Marigold always kept on loving--and hating--when she had once begun. The harbour, with its silent mysterious ships that came and went; Marigold loved it the best of all the outward facts of her life--better, as yet, than even the wonderful green cloud of spruce on the hill eastward that gave her home its name.

She loved it when it was covered with little dancing ripples like songs. She loved it when its water was smooth as blue silk; she loved it when summer showers spun shining threads of rain below its western clouds; she loved it when its lights blossomed out in the blue of summer dusks and the bell of the Anglican Church over the bay rang faint and sweet. She loved it when the mist mirages changed it to some strange enchanted haven of "fairylands forlorn"; she loved it when it was ruffled in rich dark crimson under autumn sunsets; she loved it when silver sails went out of it in the strange white wonder of dawn; but she loved it best on late still afternoons, when it lay like a great gleaming mirror, all faint, prismatic colours like the world in a soap-bubble.

It was so nice and thrilly to stand down on the wharf and see the trees upside down in the water and a great blue sky underneath you. And what if you couldn't stick on but fell down into that sky? Would you fall through it? And she loved the purple-hooded hills that cradled it--those long dark hills that laughed to you and beckoned--but always kept some secret they would never tell. But the other side of the harbour--"over the bay"--continued to hold a lure for Marigold.

Everything, she felt sure, would be different over there. Even the people who lived there had a fascinating name--"over-the-bay-ers"--which when Marigold had been very young, she thought was "over-the-bears. Marigold had been down to the gulf shore on the other side of the dreamy dunes once, with Uncle Klon and Aunt Marigold.

They had lingered there until the sunken sun had sucked all the rosy light out of the great blue bowl of the sky and twilight came down over the crash and the white turmoil of the breakers. For the tide was high and the winds were out and the sea was thundering its mighty march of victory. Marigold would have been terrified if she had not had Uncle Klon's lean brown hand to hold.

But with him to take the edge off those terrible thrills it had been all pure rapture. Next to the harbour Marigold loved the big spruce wood on the hill--though she had been up there only twice in her life. As far back as she could remember that spruce hill had held an irresistible charm for her. She would sit on the steps of Old Grandmother's room and look up it by the hour so long and so steadily that Young Grandmother would wonder uneasily if the child were just "right.

The hill was so high. Long ago she had used to think that if she could get up on that hill she could touch the sky. Even yet she thought if she were there and gave a little spring she might land right in heaven. Nothing lived there except rabbits and squirrels--and perhaps "de leetle green folk," of whom Lazarre had told her. But beyond it--ah, beyond it--was the Hidden Land. It seemed to Marigold she had always called it that--always known about it. The beautiful, wonderful Hidden Land. Oh, to see it, just to climb up that hill to the very top and gaze upon it. And yet when Mother asked her one day if she would like a walk up the hill Marigold had shrunk back and exclaimed,.

If we got to the top we'd be above everything. I'd rather stay down here with things. Mother had laughed and humoured her. But one evening, only two months later, Marigold had daringly done it alone. The lure suddenly proved stronger than the dread. Nobody was around to forbid her or call her back. She walked boldly up the long flight of flat sandstone steps that led right up the middle of the orchard, set into the grass.

She paused at the first step to kiss a young daffodil goodnight--for there were daffodils all about that orchard. Away beyond, the loveliest rose-hued clouds were hanging over the spruces. They had caught the reflection of the west, but Marigold thought they shone so because they looked on the Hidden Land--the land she would see in a moment if her courage only held out. She could be brave so long as it was not dark. She must get up the hill--and back--before it was dark. The gallant small figure ran up the steps to the old lichen-covered fence and sagging green gate where seven slim poplars grew.

But she did not open it. Somehow she could not go right into that spruce wood. Lazarre had told her a story of that spruce wood--or some other spruce wood. Nobody never see heem again roun' dese parts. So no spruce wood for Marigold. And Marigold did not really want to see the devil, though she thought to herself that it would be int'resting. She ran along the fence to the corner of the orchard where the spruces stopped.

How cool and velvety the young grass felt. It felt green. But in the Hidden Land it would be ever so much greener--"living green," as one of Salome's hymns said. She scrambled through a lucky hole in the fence, ran out into Mr. Donkin's wheat-stubble and looked eagerly--confidently for the Hidden Land. For a moment she looked--tears welled up in her eyes--her lips trembled--she almost cried aloud in bitterness of soul. Nothing before her but fields and farmhouses and barns and groves--just the same as along the road to Harmony.

Nothing of the wonderful secret land of her dreams. Marigold turned; she must rush home and find Mother and cry--cry--cry! But she stopped, gazing with a suddenly transfigured face at the sunset over Harmony Harbour. She had never seen the whole harbour at one time before; and the sunset was a rare one even in that island of wonderful sunsets.

Marigold plunged her eyes into those lakes of living gold and supernal crimson and heavenly apple-green--into those rose-coloured waters--those far-off purple seas--and felt as if she were drowning ecstatically in loveliness. Oh, there was the Hidden Land--there beyond those shining hills--beyond that great headland that cut the radiant sea at the harbours mouth--there in that dream city of towers and spires whose gates were of pearl. It was not lost to her.

How foolish she had been to fancy it just over the hill. Of course it couldn't be there--so near home. But she knew where it was now. The horrible disappointment and the sense of bitter loss that was far worse than the disappointment, had all vanished in that moment of sheer ecstasy above the world. She knew. It was growing dark. She could see the lights of Cloud of Spruce blooming out in the dusk below her.

And the night was creeping out of the spruces at her. She looked once timidly in that direction--and there, just over a little bay of bracken at the edge of the wood, beckoning to her from a copse--a Little White Girl. Marigold waved back before she saw it was only a branch of wild, white plum-blossom, wind-shaken. She ran back to the orchard and down the steps to meet Mother at the door of Old Grandmother's room.

Then she had gone up the hill with Mother this spring--only a few weeks ago--to pick arbutus. They had had a lovely time and found a spring there, with ferns thick around its untrampled edges--a delicate dim thing, half shadow, all loveliness. Marigold had pulled the ferns aside and peeped into it--had seen her own face looking up at her. No, not her own face. The Little Girl who lived in the spring, of course, and came out on moonlit nights to dance around it.

Marigold knew naught of Grecian myth or Anglo-Saxon folk-lore but the heart of childhood has its own lovely interpretation of nature in every age and clime, and Marigold was born knowing those things that are hidden forever from the wise and prudent and sceptical. She and Mother had wandered along dear little paths over gnarled roots.

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They had found a beautiful smooth-trunked beech or two. They had walked on sheets of green moss velvety enough for the feet of queens. Later on, Mother told her, there would be June-bells and trilliums and wild orchids and lady's slippers there for the seeking. One day, he just took all his clothes off and jumped in a mess of cactus. I asked him that same question, Why? Vin: He said, "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Our fathers are cowards. O'Reilly: Don't you ever say that again about your fathers, because they are not cowards. You think I am brave because I carry a gun; well, your fathers are much braver because they carry responsibility, for you, your brothers, your sisters, and your mothers.

And this responsibility is like a big rock that weighs a ton. It bends and it twists them until finally it buries them under the ground. And there's nobody says they have to do this. They do it because they love you, and because they want to. I have never had this kind of courage. Running a farm, working like a mule every day with no guarantee anything will ever come of it. This is bravery. Only the farmers won. We lost. We always lose. Seek what they sought. But being as this is a. Well, do ya, punk? The magnificent Arizona sunsets I have watched from my enclosure, I bequeath to all who see not only with their eyes, but with their hearts.

To humans who are tired, worried or discouraged, I bequeath the silence, majesty and peace of our great American desert. To those who walk the trails, I bequeath the early morning voices of the birds and the glory of the flowering desert in the springtime. To the children who have enjoyed seeing me, hearing me purr, and watching me turn my somersaults, I offer the precious gift of laughter and joy.

Julian (emperor)

The world so needs these things. And lastly, I bequeath my own happy spirit, and affection for others, to all who may remember me and my museum where for three years, I did my best to show people that I truly liked them. It is home. The great mass of society, including those to whom it would be of the greatest benefit, is excluded from it. In the nature of the case private parks can never be used by the mass of the people in any country nor by any considerable number even of the rich, except by the favor of a few, and in dependence on them.

Thus without means are taken by government to withhold them from the grasp of individuals, all places favorable in scenery to the recreation of the mind and body will be closed against the great body of the people. For the same reason that the water of rivers should be guarded against private appropriation and the use of it for the purpose of navigation and otherwise protected against obstructions, portions of natural scenery may therefore properly to guarded and cared for by government. To simply reserve them from monopoly by individuals, however, it will be obvious, is not all that is necessary.

It is necessary that they should he laid open to the use of the body of the people. I don't want a clunky answering machine, I want the message it saves, I don't want a CD, I want the music is plays, In other words, I don't want stuff, I want the needs or experiences it fullfills. I would make this day last for all time, Give you a night deep with moonshine. Seuss "A person's a person, no matter how small.

Seuss in Horton hears a Who "Promise me you'll remember, you are braver than you think, stronger than you seem and smarter than you think. Milne but probably from a Disney Winnie the Pooh movie "You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You are on your own. And you know what you know. And you are the one who'll decide where to go.

Seuss "Believe me, every man has his secret sorrows, which the world knows not; and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad. You do not look at it; it looks at you and does not forgive. It's a shame it's so early. One should teach us how to make a living and the other how to live. Surely these should never be confused in the mind of any man who has the slightest inlinkng of what culture is. For most of us it is essential that we should make a living In the complications of modern life and with our increased accumulation of knowledge, it doubtless helps greatly to compress some years of experience into far fewer years by studying for a particular trade or profession in an institution; but that fact should not blind us to another-- namely, that in so doing we are learning a trade or a profession, but are not getting a liberal education as human beings.

Walk to the edge. Play with abandon. Listen well. Choose without regret. Do what you love. Appreciate your friends. Act as if this is all there is. Kemsley "Must we have 'hooter cancer survivors'? Alone among God's primates, he kills for sport or lust or greed. Yea, he will murder his brother to possess his brother's land. Let him not breed in great numbers, for he will make a desert of his home and yours.

Shun him, for he is the harbinger of death. A mad house! Back in five minutes. Summer is good for reading history, for one has plenty of time. The autumn is good for reading ancient philosophers, because of the great diversity of thought and ideas. Finally, spring is suitable for reading modern authors, for in spring one's spirit expands. October in my own land Vermont, in robes of splendor Sings with the woods of Maine, Alternate hallelujahs Of gold and crimson stain. You take the red pill - you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes. It came to me when I tried to classify your species and I realized that you're not actually mammals.

Every mammal on this planet instinctively develops a natural equilibrium with the surrounding environment but you humans do not. You move to an area and you multiply and multiply until every natural resource is consumed and the only way you can survive is to spread to another area.

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There is another organism on this planet that follows the same pattern. Do you know what it is? A virus. Human beings are a disease, a cancer of this planet. You're a plague and we are the cure. Beyond it is another dimension. A dimension of sound. A dimension of sight. A dimension of mind. You are moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into the Twilight Zone. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge.

This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the signpost up ahead - your next stop, the Twilight Zone! Shedd "Faint heart never won fair lady. It is inevitable. Only after the last river has been poisoned. Only after the last fish has been caught.

Only then will you find that money cannot be eaten. I witnessed life at its fullest, Empty handed. Your nose is rather large! Cyrano gravely : Rather. Valvert simpering : Oh well-- Cyrano coolly : Is that all? Valvert turns away with a shrug : Well of course-- Cyrano: Ah no, young sir! You are too simple. Why, you might have said -- Oh a great many things! Mon dieu, why waste your opportunity? You ought to have a cup made specially. Surely we have here the original! Hang your hat over that chandelier-- it hurts my eyes. Call that a nose? Na na-- I be no fool like what you think I be--That there's a blue cucumber!

Or -- parodying Faustus in the play-- "Was this the nose that launched a thousand ships and burned the topless towers of Ilium? A kiss, when all is said, what is it? An oath that's ratified, a sealed promise, A heart's avowal claiming confirmation, A rose-dot on the 'i' of 'adoration'; A secret that to mouth, not ear, is whispered It's too crowded.

You only use it when you travel. I knew the record would stand until it was broken. By a model is meant a mathematical construct which, with the addition of certain verbal interpretations, describes observed phenomena. The justification of such a mathematical construct is solely and precisely that it is expected to work. Some are useful. Box "The scientist does not study nature because it is useful; he studies it because he delights in it, and he delights in it because it is beautiful. If nature were not beautiful, it would not be worth knowing, and if nature were not worth knowing, life would not be worth living.

Fishing is extremely poor, especially in August. That's one of the things wrong with history. My new song must float like a feather on the breath of God. It is the earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature. Tufte "Power corrupts. Powerpoint corrupts absolutely. Tufte "Treat a virus with antibiotics and you get better in 7 days. Do nothing and you are better in a week. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something I can do.

Can't a man alive mistreat me, 'cause I know who I am. Shaking off with one mighty effort the fetters of Habit, the leaden weight of Routine, the cloak of many Cares and the slavery of Home, man feels once more happy. It isn't always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that's okay. The journey changes you; it should change ou. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind. If you are anxious you are living in the future.

If you are at peace you are living in the present. In the pursuit of the Way, everyday something is dropped. You are on Pandora, ladies and gentlemen. Respect that fact every second of every day. Out there beyond that fence every living thing that crawls, flies, or squats in the mud wants to kill you and eat your eyes for jujubes.

We have an indigenous population of humanoids called the Na'vi. They're fond of arrows dipped in a neurotoxin that will stop your heart in one minute - and they have bones reinforced with naturally occurring carbon fiber. They are very hard to kill. As head of security, it is my job to keep you alive.

I will not succeed. Not with all of you. If you wish to survive, you need to cultivate a strong, mental aptitude. You got to obey the rules: Pandora rules. Rule number one Quaritch from movie Avatar "This is the mark of a perfect character - to pass through each day as though it were the last, without agitation, without torpor, and without pretense.

If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that! Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. There goes the shawl again! All I know is that when I consider the way they go about attaining it, I see them carried away headlong, grim and obsessed, in the general onrush of the human herd, unable to stop themselves or to change their direction.

All the while they claim to be just on the point of attaining happiness. When I knew the wind was strong, I attacked myself to make the race as hard as possible. But I'm not talking about a lactate threshold or anything like that; this threshold is harder to define because it's really a combination of physiological, psychological, and environmental factors.

At the same time, every racer who's broken through what I refer to as the "Competitive Threshold" knows what it is, even if they can't really describe it. When your fitness is below a given point relative to your competition you're racing to survive and holding on to a slight hope that if you survive long enough you might be able to launch one all-or-nothing bid for victory. But when improve beyond your Competitive Threshold, survival is no longer an issue and a whole new world of opportunities opens up.

Instead of fighting for wheels so you don't get dropped, you're fighting for wheels based on strategy. Instead of viewing the peloton as a place to find shelter, you start viewing it as a tool you can use to increase your chances of winning. You start acting like a hunter instead of a scavenger. The farther you pedal, the heavier he feels. The harder you push, the tighter he squeezes your chest. The steeper the climb, the deeper he digs his jagged, sharp claws into your muscles. It doesn't matter if you're sprinting for an Olympic medal, a town sign, a trailhead, or the rest stop with the homemade brownies.

If you never confront pain, you're missing the essence of the sport. Without pain, there's no adversity. Without adversity, no challenge. Without challenge, no improvement. No improvement, no sense of accomplishment and no deep-down joy. Might as well be playing Tiddly-Winks. I'm alive. I'm looking. I'm looking around. I'm feeling good. I'm so happy. I've got so many gold medals and ribbons and stuff, and that doesn't count. What counts is getting out there and doing the best I can do and show people what they can do.

It never forgives weakness and extracts an unfair tribute of suffering. The most important factor you can keep in your own hands is yourself. I always placed the greatest emphasis on that. Jane Kelly, The Anchorage Daily News in July "The wonderful things in life are the things you do, not the things you have" -- Reinhold Messner, alpinest "It's always further than it looks. It's always taller than it looks. It's always harder than it looks. Now I have only good days or great days. They are far superior and always have been. Whatever you give a woman, she will make greater.

I you give her sperm she will give you a baby. If you give her a house, she will give you a home. If you give her groceries, she will give you a meal. If you give her a smile, she will give you her heart. She multiples and enlarges what is given to her. So, if you give her any crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit! I have children. When we get home, home is still the same. But something in our mind has been changed, and that changes everything. Several new science papers suggest that getting away is an essential habit of effective thinking.

When we escape from the place we spend most of our time, the mind is suddenly made aware of all those errant ideas we'd previously suppressed. We start thinking about obscure possibilitiebsthat never would have occurred to us if we'd stayed home. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.

Lawrence, "The Seven Pillars of Wisdom" " Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands: but he that filches from me my good name robs me of that which not enriches him, and makes me poor indeed. To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd.

To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.

And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day. Familiar in his mouth as household words Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember'd; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,-- Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips, To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue-- A curse shall light upon the limbs of men; Domestic fury and fierce civil strife Shall cumber all the parts of Italy; Blood and destruction shall be so in use And dreadful objects so familiar That mothers shall but smile when they behold Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war; All pity choked with custom of fell deeds: And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from hell, Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war; That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard. It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come. Good morrow, Kate; for that's your name, I hear. Katharina: Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing: They call me Katharina that do talk of me. Petruchio: You lie, in faith; for you are call'd plain Kate, And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst; But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate, For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate, Take this of me, Kate of my consolation; Hearing thy mildness praised in every town, Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs, Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife.

Katharina: Moved! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.

It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night. It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.

It is my lady, O, it is my love! O, that she knew she were! She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks: Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek! That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. Voice: The Village.

Number 6: What do you want? Voice: Information. Number 6: Whose side are you on? Voice: Now that would be telling. We want information. Number 6: You won't get it. Voice: By hook or crook we will. Number 6: Who are you? Voice: The new number 2. Number 6: Who is number 1? Voice: You are number 6. Number 6: I am not a number. I am a free man!

Open, locks, Whoever knocks! Second Witch: Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg and owlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

ALL: Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Third Witch: Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witches' mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Silver'd in the moon's eclipse, Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips, Finger of birth-strangled babe Ditch-deliver'd by a drab, Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, For the ingredients of our cauldron.

Second Witch: Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledged comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in, Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all: to thine ownself be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

An host of tongues; but let ill tidings tell Themselves when they be felt. He does not seem to know where the center of the earth is. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist. The intelletual life of man consists almost wholly in his substitution of a conceptual order for the persceptual order in which his experience originally comes. If it's in my mouth, it's mine. If I can take it from you, it's mine.

If I had it a little while ago, it's mine. If it's mine, it must never appear to be yours in any way. If I'm chewing something, all the pieces are mine. If it looks just like mine, it is mine. If I saw it first, it's mine. If you are playing with something and you put it down, it automatically becomes mine. Sometimes she wished she were sleeping with the right man instead of with her dog, but she never felt she was sleeping with the wrong dog. You are his life, his love, his leader.

He will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of his heart. You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion" -- anon In order to keep a true perspective of one's importance, everyone should have a dog that will worship him and a cat that will ignore him. Murtogg: No. Mullroy: No. Murtogg: But I have seen a ship with black sails. Is that what you're telling me? Mullroy: Like I said, there's no real ship as can match the Interceptor.

And secondly, you must be a pirate for the Pirate's Code to apply, and you're not. And thirdly, the Code is more what you'd call "guidelines" than actual rules. Welcome aboard the Black Pearl, Miss Turner. But there's no ship as can match the Interceptor for speed. Rooney And now to all the good dogs-- the special ones you loved best, those of ours we still miss -- good-bye, until, on some brighter day, in some fairer place, they run out again to greet us.

What we call each other ultimately becomes what we think of each other, and it matters. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar limbs. The dog has long been bemused by the singular activites and the curious practices of men, cocking his head inquiringly to one side, intently watching and listening to the strangest goings-on in the world. He has seen men sing together and fight one another in the same evening.

He has watched them go to bed when it is time to get up, and get up when it is time to go to bed. He has observed them destroying the soil in vast areas, and nurturing it in small patches. He has stood by while men built strong and solid houses for rest and quiet and then filled them with lights and bells and machinery. His sensitive nose, which can detect what's cooking in the next township, has caught at one and the same time the bewildering smells of the hospital and the munitions factory.

He has seen men raise up great cities to heaven and then blow them to hell. Show him you remember that he is Mr. Well, you know where he is. Confront the problem! Stowe "Man will occasionally stumble across the truth, but will usually pick himself up and carry on. Then YOU feel successful about it; that's how success is measured. Save lives and you are a nurse. Ride to live. Robert Langdon: Father, I simply believe that religion I asked if you believe in God. Robert Langdon: I'm an academic.

Let there be light! Rachel McClelland’s highly-anticipated sequel Fractured Soul | Wynne Channing

My mind tells me I will never understand God. Camerlengo Patrick McKenna: And your heart? Robert Langdon: Tells me I'm not meant to. Faith is a gift that I have yet to receive. The language also serves as a framework within which we organize our ideas about processes. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. Dalberg Acton "Human beings The fact of the matter is that the 'real world' is to a large extent unconsciously built up on the language habits of the group.

Dijkstra "The question of whether computers can think is just like the question of whether submarines can swim. Dijkstra "Computer Science is no more about computers than astronomy is about telescopes. Dijkstra "Computers are dull and boring; humans are clever and imaginative. We humans make computers exciting.

Equipped with computing devices, we use our cleverness to tackle problems we would not dare take on before the age of computing and build systems with functionality limited only by our imaginations. Horning "The traditional mathematician recognizes and appreciates mathematical elegance when he sees it. I propose to go one step further, and to consider elegance an essential ingredient of mathematics: if it's clumsy, it's not mathematics".

Dijkstra "For me, the first challenge for Computer Science is to discover how to maintain order in a finite, but very large, discrete universe that is intricately intertwined.