"Dost thou not know some one of rank to keep me company?" she asked, presently, with some petulance.


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scientific investigation, the better sort of literary work, and every occupation that involves the persistent free use of thought, must bring the mind more and more towards the definite recognition of our social incoherence and waste. But this by no means exhausts the professions that ought to have a distinct bias for Socialism. The engineer, the architect, the mechanical inventor, the industrial organizer, and every sort of maker must be at one in their desire for emancipation from servitude to the promoter, the trader, the lawyer, and the forestaller, from the perpetually recurring obstruction of the claim of the private proprietor to every large and hopeful enterprise, and ready to respond to the immense creative element in the Socialist idea. Only it is that creative element which has so far found least expression in Socialist literature, which appears neither in the “class war” literature of the working class Socialist nor the litigious, inspecting, fining, and regulating tracts and proposals of the administrative Socialist. To too many

"I regret his death more deeply than I can tell you," Hartford said. "Renkei and Pia my friend are both dead now. This is what Renkei told me: aru-majiki koto, a thing that ought not to be."

“Go out of this,” cried the farmer’s wife, angrily; “you are a wicked old wretch, and have poisoned my best cow.” And she bade the farm servants drive her off with sticks.

“Ridest by the woodland, Ludwig, Ludwig,

“It’s become a regular habit hereabouts, seems like,” whispered Amos, always noticing things that appeared strange to him, “to duck as you walk. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that a lot of fellows have paid dearly for standing up too straight and making targets of themselves. Then again it may be these Kangaroos from the other side of the world have some queer ways of their own. All the same, I’m doing it myself, thank you.”

“Remember what we had last spring in our history class about that general besieging ancient Rome, and who had a young Roman brought before him, caught in the camp. The youth told him he was one of a hundred who had sworn to take the life of the vandal general; and to show his fearless nature, thrust his hand into a fire and held it there until it was consumed.”

My dear Sir:

"He did mention it," Arthur admitted.

“See if you can find a sheet, or anything white, that can be fastened up to show we do not mean to offer resistance,” he told Amos, who soon had the “flag of truce,” as he called it, in place.


There was an explosive burst of flame from the ground between the official and himself. The official fled. With him fled all the Witnesses, some even losing their headgear in their haste to get away.


2.“The trouble with me,” he cried, “is that I have been too gentle, too lenient with you. My patience is exhausted and I am going to take you by force.”


Where, indeed? I did not allow Lady Elgar’s rather violent political prejudices to interfere with my appetite, and she appeared to be perfectly satisfied with an occasional sudden lift of my eyebrows, and such ejaculations as: “Oh, quite! Quite!” “Most assuredly!” and “Incredible!” If she thought about me at all—and I am persuaded she did not—she must have believed me also to be a Tory. After all, had not I called her husband “aristocratic,” and is that the sort of word used by a Radical save in contempt?


Outside of a football field after a close and exciting game Jack believed he had never before heard such a racket. The brave fellows up on the hill, who had thrown the Turks out of their trenches by bayonet thrusts, and close in-and-out fighting, waved their hats, and let their lungs have full play.


But Little Harpe’s career was not finished. He continued the life of an outlaw and after a few years, as we shall see, received his deserts at the hands of frontier justice.


I am an old man now, and have seen every hope of the Cause I once held dearer than life blasted beyond recovery; but no personal knowledge of the pitiable failure, no evil report of the heart-breaking degradation, the selfishness, and self-destruction of all that was noble and kinglike in that beautiful young life—God pity me I should write such words of one so dear!—have availed even to dim the Godlike presence that revealed itself before us so graciously on that November afternoon in the Palace of the Santi Apostoli.



. . .