Romanello Shades Of Autumn painting

Who? Who?" from twenty voices.
"Muff Potter!"
"Hallo, he's stopped! -- Look out, he's turning! Don't let him get away!"
People in the branches of the trees over Tom's head said he wasn't trying to get away -- he only looked doubtful and perplexed.
-121-
"Infernal impudence!" said a bystander; "wanted to come and take a quiet look at his work, I reckon -- didn't expect any company."
The crowd fell apart, now, and the Sheriff came through, ostentatiously leading Potter by the arm. The poor fellow's face was haggard, and his eyes showed the fear that was upon him. When he stood before the murdered man, he shook as with a palsy, and he put his face in his hands and burst into tears.
"I didn't do it, friends," he sobbed; "'pon my word and honor I never done it."

Romanello Spring Melody lll painting

>
"Who's accused you?" shouted a voice.
This shot seemed to carry home. Potter lifted his face and looked around him with a pathetic hopelessness in his eyes. He saw Injun Joe, and exclaimed:
"Oh, Injun Joe, you promised me you'd never -- "
"Is that your knife?" and it was thrust before him by the Sheriff.
Potter would have fallen if they had not caught him and eased him to the ground. Then he said:
"Something told me 't if I didn't come back and get -- " He shuddered; then waved his nerveless hand with a vanquished gesture and said, "Tell 'em, Joe, tell 'em -- it ain't any use any more."
Then Huckleberry and Tom stood dumb and staring, and heard the stony-hearted liar reel off his serene statement, they expecting every moment that the clear sky would deliver God's lightnings upon his head, and wondering to see how long the stroke
-122-was delayed. And when he had finished and still stood alive and whole, their wavering impulse to break their oath and save the poor betrayed prisoner's life faded and vanished away, for plainly this miscreant had sold himself to Satan and it would be fatal to meddle with the property of such a power as that.
"Why didn't you leave? What did you want to come here for?" somebody said.

Romanello Summer Vista painting

I couldn't help it -- I couldn't help it," Potter moaned. "I wanted to run away, but I couldn't seem to come anywhere but here." And he fell to sobbing again.
Injun Joe repeated his statement, just as calmly, a few minutes afterward on the inquest, under oath; and the boys, seeing that the lightnings were still withheld, were confirmed in their belief that Joe had sold himself to the devil. He was now become, to them, the most balefully interesting object they had ever looked upon, and they could not take their fascinated eyes from his face.
They inwardly resolved to watch him nights, when opportunity should offer, in the hope of getting a glimpse of his dread master.
Injun Joe helped to raise the body of the murdered man and put it in a wagon for removal; and it was whispered through the shuddering crowd that the wound bled a little! The boys thought that this happy circumstance would turn suspicion in the right direction; but they were disappointed, for more than one villager remarked:
-123-
"It was within three feet of Muff Potter when it done it."

Decorative painting

"It's p'ison. That's what it is. You just swaller some of it once -- you'll see."
So Tom unwound the thread from one of his needles, and each boy pricked the ball of his thumb and squeezed out a drop of blood. In time, after many squeezes, Tom managed to sign his initials, using
-113-the ball of his little finger for a pen. Then he showed Huckleberry how to make an H and an F, and the oath was complete. They buried the shingle close to the wall, with some dismal ceremonies and incantations, and the fetters that bound their tongues were considered to be locked and the key thrown away.
A figure crept stealthily through a break in the other end of the ruined building, now, but they did not notice it.

Theodore Robinson paintings

Huckleberry's hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed their eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it. They gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst through the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering shadows beyond. By and by their pulses slowed down, and Tom whispered:
"Huckleberry, what do you reckon'll come of this?"
"If Doctor Robinson dies, I reckon hanging'll come of it."
"Do you though?"
"Why, I know it, Tom."
Tom thought a while, then he said:
"Who'll tell? We?"
"What are you talking about? S'pose something happened and Injun Joe didn't hang? Why, he'd kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as we're a laying here."
"That's just what I was thinking to myself, Huck."

Art Painting

were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I plucked up courage and looked about me. The long table was full, and every -- one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especially, who seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in themselves, young couples absorbed in each other, married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall care to have much to do with any of them, except one sweet-faced maiden lady, who looks as if she had something in her.
Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here, she'd have turned her back on him forever because, sad to relate, he had a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a manner which would have horrified `her ladyship'. I didn't mind, for I like `to see folks eat with a relish', as Hannah says, and the poor man must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.
As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling their hats before the hall mirror, and I heard one say low to the other, " Who's the new party?"

Bartolome Esteban Murillo paintings

here, according to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not a very romantic story, but it interested me, and I was glad to hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars. There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he looks. He's almost forty, so it's no harm, Marmee.
After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the big workbasket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week, so goodnight, and more tomorrow.
Tuesday Eve
Had a lively time in my seminary this morning, for the children acted like Sancho, and at one time I really thought I should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needlework like little Mabel `with a willing mind'. I was thanking my stars that I'd learned to make nice buttonholes, when the parlor door opened and shut, and someone began to hum, Kennst du das land, like a big bumblebee. It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn't resist the temptation, and lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer was there, and while he

Degas Portrait in a New Orleans Cotton Office painting

as she got might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was eager to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow for her restless nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and trembling she told Laurie, but to her surprise he took it very quietly. He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant, and when jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, "So I am, and I mean this one shall stay turned."
Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart, for Beth seemed more cheerful, and hoped she was doing the best for all.
"One thing I leave in your especial care," she said, the night before she left.
"You mean your papers?" asked Beth.
"No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't you?"
"Of course I will, but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you sadly."
"It won't hurt him, so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague, pet, and keep in order."
"I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo looked at her so queerly.

Aubrey Beardsley paintings

With her eyes on her work Jo answered soberly, "I want something new. I feel restless and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up, so as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way and try my wings."
"Where will you hop?"
"To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her children and sew. It's rather hard to find just the thing, but I think I should suit if I tried."
"My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house!" And Mrs. March looked surprised, but not displeased.
"It's not exactly going out to service, for Mrs. Kirke is your friend -- the kindest soul that ever lived -- and would make things pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no one knows me there. Don't care if they do. It's honest work, and I'm not ashamed of it."
"Nor I. But your writing?"
"All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get new ideas, and even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring home quantities of material for my rubbish."
"I have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for this sudden fancy?'

Mediterranean paintings

and Amy, who was always trying to do what she couldn't, was Nathaniel Winkle. Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and short comings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and having stared hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he arranged himself properly, began to read:
"THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO" MAY 20, 18 --
POET'S CORNER
ANNIVERSARY ODEAgain we meet to celebrate With badge and solemn rite, Our fifty-second anniversary, In Pickwick Hall, tonight.

Aubrey Beardsley paintings

We all are here in perfect health, None gone from our small band: Again we see each well-known face, And press each friendly hand. Our Pickwick, always at his post, With reverence we greet, As, spectacles on nose, he reads Our well-filled weekly sheet. Although he suffers from a cold, We joy to hear him speak, For words of wisdom from him fall, In spite of croak or squeak. Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high, With elephantine grace, And beams upon the company, With brown and jovial face. Poetic fire lights up his eye, He struggles 'gainst his lot. Behold ambition on his brow, And on his nose, a blot. Next our peaceful Tupman comes, So rosy, plump, and sweet, Who chokes with laughter at the puns, And tumbles off his seat. Prim little Winkle too is here, With every hair in place, A model of propriety, Though he hates to wash his face. The year is gone, we still unite To joke and laugh and read, And tread the path of literature That doth to glory lead.

Anne-Francois-Louis Janmot paintings

"Attend to what I have to say," he said. "From to-day be sure you let Little Swan go where she likes. She has an instinct where to find the best food for herself, and so if she wants to climb higher, you follow her, and it will do the others no harm if they go too; on no account bring her back. A little more climbing won't hurt you, and in this matter she probably knows better than you what is good for her; I want her to give as fine milk as possible. Why are you looking over there as if you wanted to eat somebody? Nobody will interfere with you. So now be off and remember what I say."
Peter was accustomed to give immediate obedience to Uncle, and he marched off with his goats, but with a turn of the head and roll of the eye that showed he had some thought in

Albert Bierstadt paintings

reserve. The goats carried Heidi along with them a little way, which was what Peter wanted. "You will have to come with them," he called to her, "for I shall be obliged to follow Little Swan."
"I cannot," Heidi called back from the midst of her friends, "and I shall not be able to come for a long, long time -- not as long as Clara is with me. Grandfather, however, has promised to go up the mountain with both of us one day."
Heidi had now extricated herself from the goats and she ran back to Clara. Peter doubled his fists and made threatening gestures towards the invalid
-300-on her couch, and then climbed up some distance without pause until he was out of sight, for he was afraid Uncle might have seen him, and he did not care to know what Uncle might have thought of the fists.

Bartolome Esteban Murillo paintings

Clara and Heidi had made so many plans for themselves that they hardly knew where to begin. Heidi suggested that they should first write to grandmamma, to whom they had promised to send word every day, for grandmamma had not felt sure whether it would in the long run suit Clara's health to remain up the mountain, or if she would continue to enjoy herself there. With daily news of her granddaughter she could stay on without anxiety at Ragatz, and be ready to go to Clara at a moment's notice.
"Must we go indoors to write?" asked Clara, who agreed to Heidi's proposal but did not want to move from where she was, as it was so much nicer outside. Heidi was prepared to arrange everything. She ran in and brought out her school-book and writing things and her own little stool. She put her reading book and copy book on Clara's knees, to make a desk for her to write upon, and she herself took her seat on the stool and sat to the bench, and then they both began writing to grandmamma. But Clara paused after every sentence to look about

Carl Fredrik Aagard paintings

her; it was too beautiful for much letter writing. The breeze had sunk a little, and now only gently fanned her face and whispered lightly through the fir trees. Little winged insects hummed and danced around her in the clear air, and a great stillness lay over the far, wide,
-301-sunny pasture lands. Lofty and silent rose the high mountain peaks above her, and below lay the whole broad valley full of quiet peace. Only now and again the call of some shepherd-boy rang out through the air, and echo answered softly from the rocks. The morning passed, the children hardly knew how, and now grandfather came with the mid-day bowls of steaming milk, for the little daughter, he said, was to remain out as long as there was a gleam of sun in the sky. The mid-day meal was set out and eaten as yesterday in the open air. Then Heidi pushed Clara's chair under the fir trees, for they had agreed to spend the afternoon under their shade and there tell each other all that had happened since Heidi left Frankfurt. If everything had gone on there as usual in a general way, there were still all kinds of particular things to tell Heidi about the various people who composed the Sesemann household, and who were all so well known to Heidi.

painting in oil

far away from his father's house, obliged to look after the swine, and he had grown pale and thin from the husks which were all he had to eat. Even the sun seemed here to be less bright and everything looked grey and misty. But there was the third picture still to this tale: here was the old father with outstretched arms running to meet and embrace his returning and repentant son, who was advancing timidly, worn out and emaciated And clad in a ragged coat. That was Heidi's favorite tale, which she read over and over again, aloud and to herself, and she was never tired of hearing the grandmother explain it to her and Clara. But there were other tales in the book besides, and what with reading and looking at the pictures the days passed quickly away, and the time drew near for the grandmother to return home.
greeting for him, but always avoided being drawn into conversation with him, for she found his style of talk somewhat wearisome.
Heidi now appeared and gazed with open-eyed delight and wonder at the beautiful colored pictures in the books which the grandmother gave her to look at. All of a sudden, as the latter turned over one of the pages to a fresh picture, the child gave a cry. For a moment or two she looked at it with brightening eyes, then the tears began to fall, and at last she burst into sobs. The grandmother looked at the picture -- it represented

contemporary abstract painting

It was about a week after this that the tutor asked Frau Sesemann's permission for an interview with her, as he wished to inform her of a remarkable thing that had come to pass. So she invited him to her room, and as he entered she held out her hand in greeting, and pushing a chair towards him, "I am pleased to see you," she said, "pray sit down and tell me what brings you here; nothing bad, no complaints, I hope?"
"Quite the reverse," began the tutor. "Something has happened that I had given up hoping for, and which no one, knowing what has gone before, could have guessed, for, according to all expectations, that which has taken place could only be looked upon
-154-as a miracle, and yet it really has come to pass and in the most extraordinary manner, quite contrary to all that one could anticipate -- "
"Has the child Heidi really learnt to read at last?" put in Frau Sesemann

Famous painting

"It won't take you long now to learn, that I can see; and now we must go down to Clara; bring the books with you." And hand in hand the two returned to the study."
Since the day when Heidi had so longed to go home, and Fräulein Rottenmeier had met her and scolded her on the steps, and told her how wicked and ungrateful she was to try and run away, and what a good thing it was that Herr Sesemann knew nothing about it, a change had come over the child. She had at last understood that day that she could
-151-not go home when she wished as Dete had told her, but that she would have to stay on in Frankfurt for a long, long time, perhaps for ever. She had also understood that Herr Sesemann would think it ungrateful of her if she wished to leave, and she believed that the grandmother and Clara would think the same. So there was nobody to whom she dared confide her

Mediterranean paintings

The bees came and found no one but the Woodman to sting, so they flew at him and broke off all their stings against the tin, without hurting the Woodman at all. And as bees cannot live when their stings are broken that was the end of the black bees, and they lay scattered thick about the Woodman, like little heaps of fine coal.
Then Dorothy and the Lion got up, and the girl helped the Tin Woodman put the straw back into the Scarecrow again, until he was as good as ever. So they started upon their journey once more.
The Wicked Witch was so angry when she saw her black bees in little heaps like fine coal that she stamped her foot and tore her hair and gnashed her teeth. And then she called a dozen of her slaves, who were the Winkies, and gave them sharp spears, telling them to go to the strangers and destroy them.
The Winkies were not a brave people, but they had to do as they were told. So they marched When they returned to the castle the Wicked Witch beat them well with a strap, and sent them back to their work, after which she sat down to think what she should do next. She could not understand how all her plans to destroy these strangers had failed; but she was a powerful Witch, as well as a wicked one, and she soon made up her mind how to act.

contemporary abstract painting

Go to those people," said the Witch, "and tear them to pieces."
"Are you not going to make them your slaves?" asked the leader of the wolves.
"No," she answered, "one is of tin, and one of straw; one is a girl and another a Lion. None of them is fit to work, so you may tear them into small pieces."
"Very well," said the wolf, and he dashed away at full speed, followed by the others.
It was lucky the Scarecrow and the Woodman were wide awake and heard the wolves coming. "This is my fight," said the Woodman, "so get behind me and I will meet them as they come."
He seized his axe, which he had made very sharp, and as the leader of the wolves came on the Tin Woodman swung his arm and chopped the wolf's head from its body, so that it immediately died. As soon as he could raise his axe another wolf came up, and he also fell under the sharp edge of the Tin Woodman's weapon. There were forty wolves, and forty times a wolf was killed, so that at last they all lay dead in a heap before the Woodman.

Famous painting

The Scarecrow listened carefully, and said, "I cannot understand why you should wish to leave this beautiful country and go back to the dry, gray place you call Kansas."
"That is because you have no brains" answered the girl. "No matter how dreary and gray our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would rather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful. There is no place like home."
The Scarecrow sighed.
"Of course I cannot understand it," he said. "If your heads were stuffed with straw, like mine, you would probably all live in the beautiful places, and then Kansas would have no people at all. It is fortunate for Kansas that you have brains."
"Won't you tell me a story, while we are resting?" asked the child.
The Scarecrow looked at her reproachfully, and answered:
"My life has been so short that I really know nothing whatever. I was only made day before yesterday. What happened in the world before that time is all unknown to me. Luckily, when the farmer made my head, one of the first things he did was to paint my ears, so that I heard what was going on. There was another Munchkin with him, and the first thing I heard was the farmer saying, `How do you like those ears?'

Art Painting

When Hendon's term of service in the stocks was finished, he was released and ordered to quit the region and come back no more. His sword was restored to him, and also his mule and his donkey. He mounted and rode off, followed by the king, the crowd opening with quiet respectfulness to let them pass, and then dispersing when they were gone.
Hendon was soon absorbed in thought. There were questions of high import to be answered. What should he do? Whither should he go? Powerful help must be found somewhere, or he must relinquish his inheritance and remain under the imputation of being an impostor besides. Where could he hope to find this powerful help? Where, indeed! It was a knotty question. By and by a thought occurred to him which pointed to a possibility-the slenderest of slender possibilities, certainly, but still worth considering, for lack of any other that promised anything at all. He remembered what old Andrews had said about the young king's goodness and his generous championship of the wronged and unfortunate. Why not go and try to get speech of him and beg for justice? Ah, yes, but could so fantastic a pauper get admission to the august presence of a monarch? Never mind-let that matter take care of

oil painting reproduction

king could not pierce through the rabble that swarmed behind; so he was obliged to follow in the rear, remote from his good friend and servant. The king had been nearly condemned to the stocks himself, for being in such bad company, but had been let off with a lecture and a warning, in consideration of his youth. When the crowd at last halted, he flitted feverishly from point to point around its outer rim, hunting a place to get through; and at last, after a deal of difficulty and delay, succeeded. There sat his poor henchman in the degrading stocks, the sport and butt of a dirty mob-he, the body servant of the king of England! Edward had heard the sentence pronounced, but he had not realized the half that it meant. His anger began to rise as the sense of this new indignity which had been put upon him sank home; it jumped to summer heat the next moment, when he saw an egg sail through the air and crush itself against Hendon's cheek, and heard the crowd roar its enjoyment of the episode. He sprang across the open circle and confronted the officer in charge, crying

Mediterranean paintings

Late in the forenoon he was in a large audience chamber, conversing with the Earl of Hertford and duly awaiting the striking of the hour appointed for a visit of ceremony from a considerable number of great officials and courtiers.
After a little while Tom, who had wandered to a window and become interested in the life and movement of the great highway beyond the palace gates-and not idly interested, but longing with all his heart to take part in person in its stir and freedom-saw the van of a hooting and shouting mob of disorderly men, women, and children of the lowest and poorest degree approaching from up the road.
"I would I knew what "tis about!" he exclaimed, with all a boy's curiosity in such happenings.
"Thou art the king!" solemnly responded the earl, with a reverence. "Have I your grace's leave to act?"
"Oh, blithely, yes! Oh, gladly, yes!" exclaimed Tom, excitedly, adding to himself with a lively sense of satisfaction, "In truth, being a king is not all dreariness-it hath its compensations and conveniences."

Albert Bierstadt paintings

eeling amazingly light-hearted, almost light-headed, Bunting lit the gas-ring to make his wife her morning cup of tea.
While he was doing it, he suddenly heard her call out:
"Bunting!" she cried weakly. "Bunting!" Quickly he hurried in response to her call. "Yes," he said. "What is it, my dear? I won't be a minute with your tea." And he smiled broadly, rather foolishly.
She sat up and looked at him, a dazed expression on her face.
"What are you grinning at?" she asked suspiciously.
"I've had a wonderful piece of luck," he explained. "But you was so cross last night that I simply didn't dare tell you about it."
"Well, tell me now," she said in a low voice.
"I had a sovereign given me by the young lady. You see, it was her birthday party, Ellen, and she'd come into a nice bit of money, and she gave each of us waiters a sovereign."
Mrs. Bunting made no comment. Instead, she lay back and closed her eyes.

Bartolome Esteban Murillo paintings

What time d'you expect Daisy?" she asked languidly. "You didn't say what time Joe was going to fetch her, when we was talking about it yesterday."
"Didn't I? Well, I expect they'll be in to dinner."
"I wonder, how long that old aunt of hers expects us to keep her?" said Mrs. Bunting thoughtfully. All the cheer died out of Bunting's round face. He became sullen and angry. It would be a pretty thing if he couldn't have his own daughter for a bit - especially now that they were doing so well!
"Daisy'll stay here just as long as she can," he said shortly. "It's too bad of you, Ellen, to talk like that! She helps you all she can; and she brisks us both up ever so much. Besides, 'twould be cruel - cruel to take the girl away just now, just as she and that young chap are making friends-like. One would suppose that even you would see the justice o' that!"
But Mrs. Bunting made no answer.
Bunting went off, back into the sitting-room. The water was boiling now, so he made the tea; and then, as he brought the little tray in, his heart softened. Ellen did look really ill - ill and wizened. He wondered if she had a pain about which she wasn't saying anything. She had never been one to grouse about herself.

Berthe Morisot paintings

The lodger and me came in together last night," he observed genially. "He's certainly a funny kind of gentleman. It wasn't the sort of night one would have chosen to go out for a walk, now was it? And yet he must'a been out a long time if what he said was true."
"I don't wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth hates the crowded streets," she said slowly. "They gets worse every day - that they do! But go along now; I want to get up."
He went back into their sitting-room, and, having laid the fire and put a match to it, he sat down comfortably with his newspaper.
Deep down in his heart Bunting looked back to this last night with a feeling of shame and self-rebuke. Whatever had made such horrible thoughts and suspicions as had possessed him suddenly come into his head? And just because of a trifling thing like that blood. No doubt Mr. Sleuth's nose had bled - that was what had happened; though, come to think of it, he had mentioned brushing up against a dead animal.

Caravaggio paintings

such-like. It made one go dotty - that's what it did.
And just as he was telling himself that, there came to the door a loud knock, the peculiar rat-tat-tat of a telegraph boy. But before he had time to get across the room, let alone to the front door, Ellen had rushed through the room, clad only in a petticoat and shawl.
"I'll go," she cried breathlessly. "I'll go, Bunting; don't you trouble."
He stared at her, surprised, and followed her into the hall.
She put out a hand, and hiding herself behind the door, took the telegram from the invisible boy. "You needn't wait," she said. "If there's an answer we'll send it out ourselves." Then she tore the envelope open - "Oh!" she said with a gasp of relief. "It's only from Joe Chandler, to say he can't go over to fetch Daisy this morning. Then you'll have to go."
She walked back into their sitting-room. "There!" she said. "There it is, Bunting. You just read it."
"Am on duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as arranged. - Chandler

Diane Romanello paintings

"I wonder why he's on duty?" said Bunting slowly, uncomfortably. "I thought Joe's hours was as regular as clockwork - that nothing could make any difference to them. However, there it is. I suppose it'll do all right if I start about eleven o'clock? It may have left off snowing by then. I don't feel like going out again just now. I'm pretty tired this morning."
"You start about twelve," said his wife quickly.
"That'll give plenty of time."
The morning went on quietly, uneventfully. Bunting received a letter from Old Aunt saying Daisy must come back next Monday, a little under a week from now. Mr. Sleuth slept soundly, or, at any rate, he made no sign of being awake; and though Mrs. Bunting often, stopped to listen, while she was doing her room, there came no sounds at all from overhead.
Scarcely aware that it was so, both Bunting and his wife felt more cheerful than they had done for a long time. They had quite a pleasant little chat when Mrs. Bunting came and sat down for a bit, before going down to prepare Mr. Sleuth's breakfast.

China oil paintings

And as that facetious question stared up at her in huge print, Mrs. Bunting turned sick - so sick and faint that she did what she had never done before in her life - she pushed her way into a public-house, and, putting two pennies down on the counter, asked for, and received, a glass of cold water.
As she walked along the now gas-lit streets, she found her mind dwelling persistently - not on the inquest at which she had been present, not even on The Avenger, but on his victims.
Shudderingly, she visualised the two cold bodies lying in the mortuary. She seemed also to see that third body, which, though cold, must yet be warmer than the other two, for at this time yesterday The Avenger's last victim had been alive, poor soul - alive and, according to a companion of hers whom the papers had already interviewed, particularly merry and bright.
Hitherto Mrs. Bunting had been spared in any real sense a vision of The Avenger's victims. Now they haunted her, and she wondered wearily if this fresh horror was to be added to the terrible fear which encompassed her night and day.

Gustav Klimt Painting

"What a funny name!" said Bunting wonderingly.
And then Joe broke in: "That's the name of a French chap what wrote detective stories," he said. "Pretty good, some of them are, too!"
"Then this Gaboriyou has come over to study these Avenger murders, I take it?" said Bunting.
"Oh, no," Joe spoke with confidence. "Whoever's written that silly letter just signed that name for fun."
"It is a silly letter," Mrs. Bunting had broken in resentfully. "I wonder a respectable paper prints such rubbish."
"Fancy if The Avenger did turn out to be a gentleman cried Daisy, in an awe-struck voice. "There'd be a how-to-do!"
"There may be something in the notion," said her father thoughtfully. "After all, the monster must be somewhere. This very minute he must be somewhere a-hiding of himself."
"Of course he's somewhere," said Mrs. Bunting scornfully.
She had just heard Mr. Sleuth moving overhead. 'Twould soon be time for the lodger's supper.

William Bouguereau

She hurried on: "But what I do say is that - that - he has nothing to do with the West End. Why, they say it's a sailor from the Docks - that's a good bit more likely, I take it. But there, I'm fair sick of the whole subject! We talk of nothing else in this house. The Avenger this - The Avenger that - "
"I expect Joe has something to tell us new to-night," said Bunting cheerfully. "Well, Joe, is there anything new?"
"I say, father, just listen to this!" Daisy broke in excitedly. She read out:
"BLOODHOUNDS TO BE SERIOUSLY CONSIDERED"
"Bloodhounds?" repeated Mrs. Bunting, and there was terror in her tone. "Why bloodhounds? That do seem to me a most horrible idea!"
Bunting looked across at her, mildly astonished. "Why, 'twould be a very good idea, if 'twas possible to have bloodhounds in a town. But, there, how can that be done in London, full of butchers' shops, to say nothing of slaughter-yards and other places o' that sort?"
But Daisy went on, and to her stepmother's shrinking ear there seemed a horrible thrill of delight; of gloating pleasure, in her fresh young voice.
"Hark to this," she said:

Marc Chagall Painting

with the remissness of the police. More than that one of his pals, a man he'd always looked up to, because the young fellow had the gift of the gab, had actually been among those who had spoken at the big demonstration in Victoria Park, making a violent speech, not only against the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, but also against the Home Secretary.
But Daisy, like most people who believe themselves blessed with the possession of an accomplishment, had no mind to leave off reading just yet.
"Here's another notion!" she exclaimed. "Another letter, father!"
"PARDON TO ACCOMPLICES.
"DEAR Sir - During the last day or two several of the more Intelligent of my acquaintances have suggested that The Avenger, whoever he may be, must be known to a certain number of persons. It is impossible that the perpetrator of such deeds, however nomad he may be in his habits - "
"Now I wonder what 'nomad' can be?" Daisy interrupted herself, and looked round at her little audience.
"I've always declared the fellow had all his senses about him," observed Bunting confidently.
Daisy went on, quite satisfied:

oil painting artist

******
Bunting came back to the fire and looked down at his wife with mild excitement. Then, seeing her pale, apathetic face, her look of weary, mournful absorption, a wave of irritation swept through him. He felt he could have shaken her!
Ellen had hardly taken the trouble to listen when he, Bunting, had come back to bed that morning, and told her what the milkman had said. In fact, she had been quite nasty about it, intimating that she didn't like hearing about such horrid things.
It was a curious fact that though Mrs. Bunting enjoyed tales of pathos and sentiment, and would listen with frigid amusement to the details of a breach of promise action, she shrank from stories of immorality or of physical violence. In the old, happy days, when they could

floral oil painting

Slowly Bunting's brain pieced the loud, indistinct cries into some sort of connected order. Yes, that was it - "Horrible Murder! Murder at St. Pancras!" Bunting remembered vaguely another murder which had been committed near St. Pancras - that of an old lady by her servant-maid. It had happened a great many years ago, but was still vividly remembered, as of special and natural interest, among the class to which he had belonged.
The newsboys - for there were more than one of them, a rather unusual thing in the Marylebone Road - were coming nearer and nearer; now they had adopted another cry, but he could not quite catch what they were crying. They were still shouting hoarsely, excitedly, but he could only hear a word or two now and then. Suddenly "The Avenger! The Avenger at his work again!" broke on his ear.
During the last fortnight four very curious and brutal murders had been committed in London and within a comparatively small area.

nude oil painting

afford to buy a paper, aye, and more than one paper daily, Bunting had often had to choke down his interest in some exciting "case" or "mystery" which was affording him pleasant mental relaxation, because any allusion to it sharply angered Ellen.
But now he was at once too dull and too miserable to care how she felt.
Walking away from the window he took a slow, uncertain step towards the door; when there he turned half round, and there came over his close-shaven, round face the rather sly, pleading look with which a child about to do something naughty glances at its parent.
But Mrs. Bunting remained quite still; her thin, narrow shoulders just showed above the back of the chair on which she was sitting, bolt upright, staring before her as if into vacancy.
Bunting turned round, opened the door, and quickly he went out into the dark hall - they had given up lighting the gas there some time ago - and opened the front door.

the last supper painting

The Lodger
THIS BOOK MAY BE DOWNLOADED, COPIED, DISTRIBUTED OR PERFORMED ONLY IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE FOLLOWING LICENSE AND CONDITIONS, TO WHICH YOU INDICATE AGREEMENT BY TAKING ANY SUCH ACTIONS.
[1] THE SCHOOL. World Wide School is a Washington State corporation with an address at 5421 California Ave SW, Seattle, WA 98136 USA (the "School"). The School owns service mark and other rights in "World Wide School", and international copyrights in the formatting, design and arrangement of the Book's content, the selection of the Book and its combination with other books, and any editorial, explanatory, or instructional material that the School may have added. To the extent the Book may contain text in the public domain, the School makes no claim of ownership.
[2] LICENSE
[A] The School permits this Book to be viewed by anyone online, and to be downloaded and stored as a full or

Rembrandt Painting

'Well?' he repeated.
"'Does that open out any new view to you?'
"There was no mistaking Larsan's bad temper. On re-entering the chateau, I heard him mutter:
"'It would be strange - very strange - if I had deceived myself on that point!'
"He seemed to be talking to me rather than to himself. He added: "'In any case, we shall soon know what to think. The morning will bring light with it.'" We separated on the thresholds of our rooms, with a melancholy shake of the hands. I was glad to have aroused in him a suspicion of error. His was an original brain, very intelligent but - without method. I did not go to bed. I awaited the coming of daylight and then went down to the front of the chateau, and made a detour, examining every trace of footsteps coming towards it or going from it. These, however, were so mixed and confusing that I could make nothing of them. Here I may make a remark, - I am not accustomed to attach an exaggerated importance to exterior signs left in the track of a crime.
"The method which traces the criminal by means of the tracks of his footsteps is altogether primitive. So many footprints are identical. However, in the disturbed state of my mind, I did go into the deserted court and did look at all the footprints I could find there, seeking for some indication, as a basis for reasoning.

Henri Matisse Painting

I still catch myself repeating from the depths of my heart: 'Save her! - save her without his speaking!' Who is he - the murderer? Take him and shut his mouth. But Monsieur Darzac made it clear that in order to shut his mouth he must be killed. Have I the right to kill Mademoiselle Stangerson's murderer? No, I had not. But let him only give me the chance! Let me find out whether he is really a creature of flesh and blood! - Let me see his dead body, since it cannot be taken alive.
"If I could but make this woman, who does not even look at us, understand! She is absorbed by her fears and by her father's distress of mind. And I can do nothing to save her. Yes, I will go to work once more and accomplish wonders.
"I move towards her. I would speak to her. I would entreat her to have confidence in me. I would, in a word, make her understand - she alone - that I know how the murderer escaped from The Yellow Room - that I have guessed the motives for her secrecy - and that I pity her with all my heart. But by her gestures she begged us to leave her alone, expressing weariness and the need for immediate rest. Monsieur Stangerson asked us to go back to our

Van Gogh Painting

rooms and thanked us. Frederic Larsan and I bowed to him and, followed by Daddy Jacques, we regained the gallery. I heard Larsan murmur: 'Strange! strange!' He made a sign to me to go with him into his room. On the threshold he turned towards Daddy Jacques.
"'Did you see him distinctly?' he asked.
"'Who?'
"'The man?'
"'Saw him! - why, he had a big red beard and red hair.'
"'That's how he appeared to me,' I said.
"'And to me,' said Larsan.
"The great Fred and I were alone in his chamber, now, to talk over this thing. We talked for an hour, turning the matter over and viewing it from every side. From the questions put by him, from the explanation which he gives me, it is clear to me that - in spite of all our senses - he is persuaded the man disappeared by some secret passage in the chateau known to him alone.

Art Painting

'I felt his breath on my face!' cried Daddy Jacques.
"'Where is he?' - where is he?' we all cried.
"We raced like madmen along the two galleries; we visited doors and windows - they were closed, hermetically closed. They had not been opened. Besides, the opening of a door or window by this man whom we were hunting, without our having perceived it, would have been more inexplicable than his disappearance.
"Where is he? - where is he? - He could not have got away by a door or a window, nor by any other way. He could not have passed through our bodies!
"I confess that, for the moment, I felt 'done for.' For the gallery was perfectly lighted, and there was neither trap, nor secret door in the walls, nor any sort of hiding-place. We moved the chairs and lifted the pictures. Nothing! - nothing! We would have looked into a flower-pot, if there had been one to look into!"
When this mystery, thanks to Rouletabille, was naturally explained, by the help alone of his masterful mind, we were able to realise that the murderer had got away neither by a door, a window, nor the stairs ?a fact which the judges would not admit.

canvas painting

I know," said my friend slowly; "I know - We shall have to eat red meat - now."
I confess I did not in the least understand what Rouletabille meant by what he had said; but the landlord, as soon as he heard the words, uttered an oath, which he at once stifled, and placed himself at our orders as obediently as Monsieur Robert Darzac had done, when he heard Rouletabille's prophetic sentence - "The presbytery has lost nothing of its charm, nor the garden its brightness." Certainly my friend knew how to make people understand him by the use of wholly incomprehensible phrases. I observed as much to him, but he merely smiled. I should have proposed that he give me some explanation; but he put a finger to his lips, which evidently signified that he had not only determined not to speak, but also enjoined silence on my part.
Meantime the man had pushed open a little side door and called to somebody to bring him half a dozen eggs and a piece of beefsteak. The commission was quickly executed by a strongly-built young woman with beautiful blonde hair and large, handsome eyes, who regarded us with curiosity.

mona lisa painting

I had made my friend understand by a sign that we should do better not to insist; but, being determined to enter the inn, he slipped by the man on the doorstep and was in the common room.
"Come on," he said, "it is very comfortable here."
A good fire was blazing in the chimney, and we held our hands to the warmth it sent out; it was a morning in which the approach of winter was unmistakable. The room was a tolerably large one, furnished with two heavy tables, some stools, a counter decorated with rows of bottles of syrup and alcohol. Three windows looked out on to the road. A coloured advertisement lauded the many merits of a new vermouth. On the mantelpiece was arrayed the innkeeper's collection of figured earthenware pots and stone jugs.
"That's a fine fire for roasting a chicken," said Rouletabille. "We have no chicken - not even a wretched rabbit," said the landlord.

floral oil painting

Yes," said my young friend; "I have an idea."
"So have I," said Fred, "and it must be the same as yours. There are no two ways of reasoning in this affair. I am waiting for the arrival of my chief before offering any explanation to the examining magistrate."
"Ah! Is the Chief of the Surete coming?"
"Yes, this afternoon. He is going to summon, before the magistrate, in the laboratory, all those who have played any part in this tragedy. It will be very interesting. It is a pity you won't be able to be present."
"I shall be present," said Rouletabille confidently.
"Really - you are an extraordinary fellow - for your age!" replied the detective in a tone not wholly free from irony. "You'd make a wonderful detective - if you had a little more method - if you didn't follow your instincts and that bump on your forehead. As I have already several times observed, Monsieur Rouletabille,

painting idea

lightness of the impression made by the wheels along it, in spite of the softness of the ground. If there had been a man on the bicycle, the wheels would have sunk deeply into the soil. No, no; there was but one man there, the murderer on foot."
"Bravo! - bravo!" cried Fred again, and coming suddenly towards us and, planting himself in front of Monsieur Robert Darzac, he said to him:
"If we had a bicycle here, we might demonstrate the correctness of the young man's reasoning, Monsieur Robert Darzac. Do you know whether there is one at the chateau?"
"No!" replied Monsieur Darzac. "There is not. I took mine, four days ago, to Paris, the last time I came to the chateau before the crime."
"That's a pity!" replied Fred, very coldly. Then, turning to Rouletabille, he said: "If we go on at this rate, we'll both come to the same conclusion. Have you any idea, as to how the murderer got away from The Yellow Room?"

Famous painting

marriageable girls in either the old or the new world. It was her father's duty, in spite of the inevitable pain which a separation from her would cause him, to think of her marriage; and he was fully prepared for it. Nevertheless, he buried himself and his child at the Glandier at the moment when his friends were expecting him to bring her out into society. Some of them expressed their astonishment, and to their questions he answered: "It is my daughter's wish. I can refuse her nothing. She has chosen the Glandier."
Interrogated in her turn, the young girl replied calmly: "Where could we work better than in this solitude?" For Mademoiselle Stangerson had already begun to collaborate with her father in his work. It could not at the time be imagined that her passion for science would lead her so far as to refuse all the suitors who presented themselves to her for over fifteen years. So secluded was the life led by the two, father and daughter, that they showed themselves only at a few official receptions and, at certain times in the year, in two or three friendly drawing-rooms, where the fame of the professor and the beauty of Mathilde made a sensation. The young girl's extreme reserve did not at first discourage suitors; but at the end of a few years, they tired of their quest.

Famous artist painting

not try to conceal his satisfaction at coming into possession of this fortune, which enabled him to give himself up to his passion for pure science, he had equally to rejoice, it seemed to him, for another cause. Mademoiselle Stangerson was, at the time when her father returned from America and bought the Glandier estate, twenty years of age. She was exceedingly pretty, having at once the Parisian grace of her mother, who had died in giving her birth, and all the splendour, all the riches of the young American blood of her parental grandfather, William Stangerson. A citizen of Philadelphia, William Stangerson had been obliged to become naturalised in obedience to family exigencies at the time of his marriage with a French lady, she who was to be the mother of the illustrious Stangerson. In that way the professor's French nationality is accounted for.
Twenty years of age, a charming blonde, with blue eyes, milk-white complexion, and radiant with divine health, Mathilde Stangerson was one of the most beautiful

The Birth of Venus

After a minute or two, the same voice cried:
"Get under the window and hold out your hat!"
Tired of reading? Add this page to your Bookmarks or Favorites and finish it later.
Pinocchio had no hat, but he managed to get under the window just in time to feel a shower of ice-cold water pour down on his poor wooden head, his shoulders, and over his whole body.
He returned home as wet as a rag, and tired out from weariness and hunger.
As he no longer had any strength left with which to stand, he sat down on a little stool and put his two feet on the stove to dry them.
There he fell asleep, and while he slept, his wooden feet began to burn. Slowly, very slowly, they blackened and turned to ashes.
Pinocchio snored away happily as if his feet were not his own. At dawn he opened his eyes just as a loud knocking sounded at the door.
"Who is it?" he called, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
"It is I," answered a voice.
It was the voice of Geppetto.

Art Painting

Yes, yes, yes! It is I! Look at me! And you have forgiven me, haven't you? Oh, my dear Father, how good you are! And to think that I--Oh, but if you only knew how many misfortunes have fallen on my head and how many troubles I have had! Just think that on the day you sold your old coat to buy me my A-B-C book so that I could go to school, I ran away to the Marionette Theater and the proprietor caught me and wanted to burn me to cook his roast lamb! He was the one who gave me the five gold pieces for you, but I met the Fox and the Cat, who took me to the Inn of the Red Lobster. There they ate like wolves and I left the Inn alone and I met the Assassins in the wood. I ran and they ran after me, always after me, till they hanged me to the branch of a giant oak tree. Then the Fairy of the Azure Hair sent the coach to rescue me and the doctors, after looking at me, said, `If he is not dead, then he is surely alive,' and then I told a lie and my nose began to grow. It grew and it grew, till I couldn't get it through the door of the room. And then I went with the Fox and the Cat to the Field of Wonders to bury the gold pieces. The Parrot laughed at me and, instead of two thousand gold pieces, I found none. When the Judge heard I had been robbed, he sent me to jail to make the thieves happy; and when I came away I saw a fine bunch of grapes hanging on a vine. The trap caught me and the Farmer put a collar on me and made me a watchdog. He found out I was innocent when I caught the Weasels and he let me go. The Serpent with the tail that smoked started to laugh and a vein in his chest broke and so I went back to the Fairy's house. She was dead, and the Pigeon, seeing me crying, said to me, `I have seen your father building a boat to look for you in America,' and I said to him, `Oh, if I only had wings!' and he said to me, `Do you want to go to your father?' and I said, `Perhaps, but how?' and he said, `Get on my back. I'll take you there.' We flew all night long, and next morning the fishermen were looking toward the

Decorative painting

him) was expounding a recondite matter to us. His grey eyes shone and twinkled, and his usually pale face was flushed and animated. The fire burned brightly, and the soft radiance of the incandescent lights in the lilies of silver caught the bubbles that flashed and passed in our glasses. Our chairs, being his patents, embraced and caressed us rather than submitted to be sat upon, and there was that luxurious after-dinner atmosphere when thought roams gracefully free of the trammels of precision. And he put it to us in this way--marking the points with a lean forefinger--as we sat and lazily admired his earnestness over this new paradox (as we thought it:) and his fecundity.
`You must follow me carefully. I shall have to controvert one or two ideas that are almost universally accepted. The geometry, for instance, they taught you at school is founded on a misconception.'
`Is not that rather a large thing to expect us to begin upon?' said Filby, an argumentative person with red hair.
`I do not mean to ask you to accept anything without reasonable ground for it. You will soon admit as much as I need from you. You know of course that a mathematical line, a line of thickness NIL, has no real existence. They taught you that? Neither has a mathematical plane. These things are mere abstractions.'
`That is all right,' said the Psychologist.

african art painting

was sure he'd not be able to make it. The contagion of Mannix's fear had touched him. And he wondered then if Mannix's fear had been like his own: that no matter what his hatred of the system, of the Marine Corps, might be, some instilled, twisted pride would make him walk until he dropped, and his fear was not of the hike itself, but of dropping. He looked up at Mannix and said, "Do you think you can make it, Al?"
Mannix heavily slapped his knee. He seemed not to have heard the question. The giddy sensation passed, and Culver got up to warm his hands at the lamp.
"I'll bet if Regiment or Division got wind of this they'd lower the boom on the bastard," Mannix said.
"They have already. They said fine." "What do you mean? How do you know?" "He said so, before you came in. He radioed to the base for permission, or so he said."
"The bastard."
"He wouldn't dare without it," Culver said. "What I can't figure out is why Regiment gave him the O.K. on it."
"The swine. The little swine. It's not on account of H & S Company. You know that. It's because it's an exploit. He wants to be known as a tough guy, a boondocker."
"There's one consolation, though," said Culver, after a pause, "if it'll help you any."
"What, for God's sake?"
"Old Rocky, or whatever they call him, is going to hike along, too."
"You think so?" Mannix said doubtfully.
"I know so. So do you. He wouldn't dare not push along with his men."
Mannix was silent for a moment. Then he said viciously, as if obsessed with the

abstract landscape painting

You just don't stroll along, you know. That's like running. That's a regulation two-and-a-half miles per hour with only a ten-minute break each hour. So H & S Company is fouled up. So maybe it is. He can't take green troops like these and do that. After a couple of seven- or ten- or fifteen-mile conditioning hikes, maybe so. If they were young. And rested. Barracks-fresh. But this silly son of a bitch is going to have all these tired, flabby old men flapping around on the ground like a bunch of fish after the first two miles. Christ on a frigging crutch!"
"He's not a bad guy, Al," Culver said,
"he's just a regular. Shot in the ass with the Corps. A bit off his nut, like all of them." But Mannix had made the march seem menacing, there was no doubt about that, and Culver—who for the moment had been regarding the hike as a sort of careless abstraction, a prolonged evening's stroll—felt a solid dread creep into his bones, along with the chill of the night. Involuntarily, he shuddered. He felt suddenly unreal and disoriented, as if through some curious second sight or seventh sense his surroundings had shifted, ever so imperceptibly, into another dimension of space and

landscape art painting

more the voice—as cool and as level as the marshy ground upon which they were sitting—carefully skirted any tone of reproach and was merely explicit: "I don't want you to think I'm taking it out on the Battalion merely because of you, or rather H & S Company. But they aren't reserves. They're marines. Com-prend?" He arose from the chair. "I think," he went on flatly, almost gently, "that there's one thing that we are all tending to overlook these days. We've been trying to differentiate too closely between two particular bodies of men that make up the Marine Corps. Technically it's true that a lot of these new men are reserves—that is, they have an 'R' affixed at the end of the 'USMC But it's only a technical difference, you see. Because first and foremost they're marines. I don't want my marines doping off. They're going to act like marines. They're going to be fit. If they meet an Aggressor enemy next week they might have to march a long, long way. And that's what I want this hike to teach them. Comprend?" He made what could pass for the token of a smile and laid his hand easily and for a lingering second on Mannix's shoulder, in a sort of half-gesture of conciliation, understanding—something—it was hard to tell. It was an odd picture because from where he sat Culver was the only one in the tent who could see, at the same instant, both of their expressions. In the morbid, comfortless light they were like classical Greek masks, made of chrome or tin,

flower oil painting

The Sergeant, still grinning, gestured with his shoulder in the direction of the operations tent. "The Colonel's really got a wild hair, ain't he?" He chuckled and reached down and clutched one of his feet, with an elaborate groan.
Culver abruptly felt cloaked in a gloom that was almost tangible, and he was in no mood to laugh. "You'll be really holding that foot tomorrow morning," he said, "and that's no joke."
The grin persisted. "Ah, Mister Culver," O'Leary said, "don't take it so hard. It's just a little walk through the night. It'll be over before you know it." He paused, prodding with his toe at the pine needles. "Say," he went on, "what's this I heard about some short rounds down in Third Batt?"
"I don't know from nothing, O'Leary. I just read the papers." Another truck came by, loaded with corpsmen, followed by a jeep in which sat the helmeted Major Lawrence, a look of sulky arrogance on his face, his arms folded at his chest like a legionnaire riding through a conquered city. "But from what I understand," Culver went on, turning back, "quite a few guys got hurt."
"That's tough," O'Leary said. "I'll bet you they were using that old stuff they've had

oil painting from picture

纵身跳下去的话，一切的苦厄都不存在了……。
　　我轻蔑的回头看了一眼追上来的陈武，士可杀不可辱，我的性命我要掌握在自已手中，我不能够选择生的贵贱，但我还能决定死的方式，这人世间最后的一次我要轰轰烈烈、与众不同。
　　我再一次仰头凝望了一眼红霞初起的天际，然后笑着耸身跳下百丈危崖，在我的身下，是一条浊浪拍岸、涛卷长空的浩浩江流。我的身体在空中急速的坠落，死原来是如此的轻易，一点都不可怕，而这人世间的一切苦难与痛楚，对于我来说终于都结束了……。一阵童稚气十足的的歌声在我耳边响起，这一份轻柔是如此的熟悉，有一种吴侬软语的腔音，我这是身归故乡了吗？还是已经到了另一个世界，而滞留在此的只是我飘荡不羁的魂魄。
　　我挣扎着想动，身体却毫无知觉。
　　我极力要张口欲呼，却只能发出一丝微弱的声音。
　　“阿姐快来，这个死人醒过来了哎！”方才清亮的童声再一次传入我的耳际。
　　人死了便是死了，怎么可能会有死人复活的事！我睁开眼睛，映入眼眸的是一个梳着对角小辫伶俐乖巧的小童，他正睁着一对水汪汪的大眼睛，一眨不眨的对瞅着我。
　　“哎哟——！”我再一次挣扎着试图翻身起来，全身却是剧烈的疼痛。

nude oil painting

。
　　山势却越发陡峭，越往上爬我就越感到绝望。
　　这是一条绝路！
　　原来一切的挣扎都是徒劳的，我所有的努力换来的，不过是多承受一点痛苦罢了。
　　“你逃呀，你再跑呀，老子看你小子还能逃到哪里去，呆会儿被我逮住，我不打断你的腿，披你的皮就不姓陈……。”陈武恨恨的大声喊道，他开始放慢了追赶的脚步，显然他也意识到了这是一条死路，我再怎么逃都不可能活着出去。
　　“放心……，我不会杀你的，我会请求主公把你赏赐给我，你这个卑贱的杂种！”陈武在我身后不断的恶骂，他已怒到了极点。
　　当我最后爬上了这一道山岭的顶端时，眼前见到的是雾色中有朵朵浮云从身边穿过，在连片山峰层叠的远处，有一座如虚如幻的城池孤悬于半空，隐隐约约间还能看到繁华的街市、叫卖的商贩和穿梭河巷的小船。
　　那是我日思夜想的故乡吴郡，还是浮光中的海蜃楼？我痴痴的看着这异景，臆想着那里是我死后要去的地方，只不知道是天阙还是地宫，不，黄泉路上绝不会有如此美丽的地方的，那里一定是天上神仙居住的琼楼玉宇。

wholesale oil painting

我道：“好，孙伯符果然是将门虎子，不坠汝父之威名！我太史子义服了。”
　　孙策笑道：“将军之英武也是令人钦佩，昨日一战更是畅快淋漓，你我如此阵上结交，方是英雄本色。”
　　孙策听我语气中盛赞其父，又流露出些许归顺的意思，防备之心早去了几分，大喜之余催马迎上前来，两马相对就在这一问一答之中，不觉与孙策身后的亲兵拉开了一段距离。
　　我的心剧烈的跳动着，握住短戟的右手已然沁出了汗珠，此时此刻，我与孙策之间的距离已不到十丈远了。这个时候倏起攻击虽然还不够突然，但也是时候了，毕竟我与太史慈之间有着太多的不一样，再靠近的话，恐怕会被孙策认出来。
　　对于这一次出手成功率我实不敢有丝毫的奢望，唯求能够拼尽全力多把孙策拖住一会，使得太史慈他们有机会突出重围。
　　“杀！”我暗喝了一声，尝试着让消逝的斗志重新燃起。
　　生路，从来都不是给我高宠这样的人留着的，因为，除了这一条命外，我一无所有。
　　摆在我面前的，除了舍死相搏别无他途。
　　以前是如此，现在也是一样。

da vinci painting

这个时候，我的头脑还是相当的清晰和冷静，这着实让我惊讶，大多数人上阵，都是仗越打得最后越是疯狂，而我却刚刚相反。
　　我冷冷的观察着，寻找着最佳的突围方向。
　　刚才的噪动从西北方向的蒋钦部开始，随后是与他相邻的周泰、孙静部，而最后才轮到东南方向的程普、韩当两部，突围的最佳地方应该在西北方，蒋钦与周泰一样新投了孙策不久，其部众的战斗力不会太强，而孙静乃是孙策的叔父，擅长的是谋略，而不是阵前冲杀。
　　混乱在日渐加剧，黑夜里不时传来将领们喝斥麾下士卒的叫喊声，我知道敌人的耐心已到了极限，用不了多久，最后的摊牌时刻就要来到了。
　　我们必须抢先发动，乘着敌兵露出的难得的混乱间隙。
　　想到这里，我提矟上马，一把抢过太史慈卸在马鞍之上的披风，大声道：“子义将军，我去引开孙军的注意力，你速领着大家朝西北方突围！”
　　“少冲，你这是何意，我太史慈岂是贪生怕死之人？”太史慈猛然伸手抓住马缰，怒道。适才他正全神贯注的观测着孙军的调动，不防我有此举动，待回过神来，我已整装待发。
　　我决然道：“将军勇贯三军，陷阵拔营从无惧色，怎是贪生怕死之徒，只是这一次，请让我去。”
　　太史慈狠狠的瞪着我，看他的那样子仿佛要把我吃了，他道：“为何？”

the last supper painting

与程普的这一番战，我吃了大亏，没想到程普的力量会有这么的强劲，而更可怕的是他矛上传过来的那一股奇异的力量，无论是如何的抵挡，好象都无法避开它似影随形的攻击！
　　在我与程普相斗之时，太史慈的舍死冲锋已近尾声了，锐气在一次次砍杀中消磨，疲惫在一点点的加剧，当我们再次会合时，三百精骑已经人数锐减，只剩下了七十骑，而且是人人负伤累累，个个好象血葫芦一般。
　　但他们依然面不改色，手持长矛策马紧紧跟在太史慈身后。
　　我们已深陷重围，只有战死和投降两条路可走。
　　敌人没有再冲上来，他们象一只用爪子逮到了老鼠的猫一样，并不急着品尝猎物，而是要好好的享受一番玩弄于股掌之间的乐趣。
　　孙策的主旗渐渐靠近，围困我们的敌兵自动的让出一条道来，旌旗下孙策端坐马上，一副洋洋自得的神情挂在脸上，显得气定神闲，胜券在握。在他的左右，还有周瑜、程普、韩当、周泰、蒋钦诸将策马分两边促拥着。
　　孙策来到阵前，高声喊道：“孙伯符在此，太史子义何不早降？”

William Bouguereau

２００７年，我国与印尼东固气田签署了每年向福建液化天然气项目供应２６０万吨液化天然气的２５年长期合同，与马来西亚国家石油公司达成每年向上海液化天然气项目供应３００万吨液化天然气的长期供气协议。中国石油天然气股份有限公司２００７年９月先后和壳牌、澳大利亚伍德赛德石油公司签署协议，将在未来２０年内向两家公司每年采购多达４００万吨的液化天然气。
　　上海沪东中华造船（集团）公司总工程师肖红星说，天然气进口无非管道和海运两种方法，比如已在使用的西气东输线路，但从国外远距离、大批量进口天然气，主要还得通过海运。液化天然气船作为天然气供应链中的关键一环和重大装备，直接关系到我国能源规划的顺利实施。
　　容量
　　一船气上海居民用1月
　　在全球造船行业共有两颗"明珠"：一个是比"泰坦尼克号"还要豪华的邮轮"玛利亚号"，另一个就是大型液化天然气运输船（以下简称ＬＮＧ船）。
　　沪东中华昨天向中国液化天然气运输总公司交付的"大鹏昊"轮，造价高达１．６亿美元，几乎等于５艘普通巴拿马型散货轮的总造价。整个船长２９２米、宽４３．３５米、型深２６．２５米，堪称海上"巨无霸"，装载量为１４．７２１万立方米，全部汽化后可以形成９０００万立方米的容量，相当于上海全市居民１个月的天然气使用量。
　　综合专家的讲解，ＬＮＧ船其实像个大冰箱，就是把天然气冷却到零下１６３℃，使之成为液体，体积缩小到气态的１／６００，并在运输过程中保持这种低温。ＬＮＧ船要适应从常温到零下１６３℃的温度剧变，内部有一套复杂的系统。其中，货舱维护系统由两层绝缘箱和两层薄膜组成，它是决定ＬＮＧ船建造成败的关键。仅这一部分，需要的配套零件就在５０万个以上。
　　在沪东中华建造出这艘船之前，全球只有日本、韩国、英国及瑞典的造船厂能够建造ＬＮＧ船。ＬＮＧ船由此形成了国际上公认的"三高"特性--高技术性、高可靠性、高附加值。沪东中华１０年前就着手建造ＬＮＧ船的技术准备，说是"十年磨一剑"绝不为过。

Art Painting

一、韩国政府嚷嚷着让我们"道歉"，甚至一开始就上升到外交层面，这不是成熟国家所为！摆明了是借机找茬！我们领导人任凭他怎么咬，就是不表态，而且外交部发言人姜喻的严正立场就代表了我们政府的声音，"我们的留学生是捍卫火炬尊严，没有恶意！"这一句话就把这件事给彻底定性了，我们再不搭理你了！
　　二、国内各大媒体的"集体沉默"也是对韩国政府无赖挑衅行为的最强回击！既然政府都已经定性了，作为宣传部门理应跟政府保持一致，跟社会公义道德保持一致！你越炒作他，韩国人越上脸！就不理你，怎么了？
　　三、胡主席的讲话一石二鸟！不仅让包括北大在内的外国留学生感受到中国领导人对于留学生工作的重视，也借此阐明了中国政府对待国外留学生的尊重与鼓励的态度！李明博政府应该感到汗颜，看看什么是大国风范吧！看看大国领导人是怎样的胸襟吧！
　　我们的胡哥绝对是大智慧！几句针对北大留学生的肺腑之言，就是对韩国民族主义政府的强有力的回击！
　　我们越是搭理韩国人，他越蹬鼻子上脸！本来一件非常普通的治安冲突，非要上升到外交和政治高度，而且鼓动韩国民众攻击威胁我们的留学生，不仅学业上前途未卜，而且连生命安全都受到威胁！作为一个口口声声以中国儒家思想为治国理念的韩国政府，就是这样对待孔子他老人家所从事的教育事业的？就是这样对待学子的？儒家思想哪一本书里教给韩国人这么对待学生的？？？

wholesale oil painting

11日，德军的装甲部队全线突破了盟军的防线，隆美尔指挥的第七装甲师当日下午推进到马斯河，古德里安指挥的3个装甲师也在第二天抵达马斯河北岸并攻下军事重镇色当……此时，在德军通往巴黎的道路上，已经再也没有像样的抵抗工事和力量，而马其诺防线就像一条被敲碎了七寸的巨蟒一样，瘫软在法德边境上变得一文不值。 马其诺防线 是二战中最大的“废物”工程 不对，“马其诺防线”的建设目的和主要作用就是防御来自德国方向的入侵，事实上，德军并没有突破“马其诺防线”，防线本身抵御住了德国的攻击，也就是说它达到了它建设之初的目的，如果没有“马其诺防线”的存在，那么德军的攻击会更加顺利，根本就不需将荷兰及比利时卷入战争，如果西欧有这两个中立国家存在的话，对于德国的经济和对外贸易是有很大好处的！不对,2战中最大的废物工程是德国兴建的大西洋壁垒.马其诺防线的建立逼使德军改变的进攻方向,而大西洋壁垒则没有起到什么作用,反而使得德国浪费了大量的人力和物力.

da vinci painting

。”我们再从无国界记者过去从事的活动来看，02年委内瑞拉的右翼政变，无国界记者两名驻委内瑞拉的成员反对委内瑞拉的执政当局，为政变摇旗呐喊，被世人讥刺为“政变无国界”。04年又以“推动古巴民主化”为借口，准备在古巴发动政变，颠覆古巴的合法政权。从无国界记者参与的活动中，有一条很重要的线索就是，只要是对美国利益有影响的国家，往往就是无国界记者指责的国家。在被无国界记者视为敌人的国家中全是和美国不怎么友好的国家，既然视为敌人，这已经就很难让无国界记者与中立联系起来。 这个组织习惯以民主的名义行事，但却不管普通民众的感受。说白了，他们把追求民主的过程当作自己的目的，一叶障目般行事，只管自己的名声。老梅敢说真话，而且说的很对，揭他的老底，什么狗屁无国界妓者组织，几个在新闻行业做不出名堂，转而跑去做政客的狗腿子的无赖！记者无国界组织只不过就是一群无脊梁的狗而已,给钱什么都做.可怜那些西方的白痴老百姓被这几个畜生忽悠蒙了.

the last supper painting

李定国等当时与郑成功仍然保持着秘密联系,当然知道永历并未航闽,仍在缅甸.1660年白文选再次率明军推进到缅甸都城阿瓦城下. 九月间永历朝廷收到晋王李定国迎驾疏和致廷臣书，其中写道：“前此三十余疏，未知得达否？今此缅王相约，何地交递？而诸公只顾在内安乐，全不关切出险一 事，奈何？奈何？”缅甸当局又要求永历帝发敕书退兵，明军等候多日，不得要领，只好拔营而回。
　　1661年,白文选再次率军入缅迎驾,并买通缅人与永历取得联系.此时永历的日子已很不好过.在回给李定国,白文选的玺书中恳切的盼望他们的迎驾行动 可以成功,但是这次军事行动由于被缅方察觉, 缅军砍断明军所架浮桥,明军不能渡河而归于失败.在这之后,李定国通过秘密使者与永历建立起了联系,其中多有信息往来,且定国与其他明朝文武大臣也想尽办 法做迎驾的准备,只是为时已晚,缅甸当局已经决定将永历交与清庭.
四﹑永历帝被俘杀
　　1659年初,南明晋王李定国于腾冲附近的磨盘山伏击清军,由于临阵叛徒告密,未能取得全胜,但也给进攻西南的清军以很大杀伤,清军不得不退回昆明等地休整,滇西战线暂时得到稳定.
　　吴三桂等一面在这段时间里向清庭催粮催饷催援军,一面对孤立的明军部队剿扶并用,明军由于前面所说的原因一部分溃败,大部分则相继降清.至1660年 8月,吴三桂经过一年多的准备,得到清庭批准后发兵直趋缅甸,同年12月,已兵临缅都阿瓦城下.缅王大惊,决定交出永历父子,以免本国卷入明﹑清之间的交 战.

african art painting

那么我们就制造银元，不断地换银子过来，然后再造，几年之后我们不就发了吗？”
　　“是这样的，但是我们离南方路途遥远，银元的影响力可能小了点。”
　　赵刚听见李宏龄肯定了自己的想法，心里十分高兴，没有什么比开机器造钱更能赚钱的了
　　“没问题，如果我派巨舰护送银元南下，你要多久能够占领南方的银元市场？”
　　李宏龄低头，将手拢到袖子里算了算：
　　“两年之内， 6亿枚银元。”
　　赵刚点头：“好，就这样办。”
　　交通部 每年新修铁路2000公里。
　　这个议题的题案者是赵刚，最初的提议事每年修建1万公里铁路，就连最忠实的支持者。交通部长詹天佑也不得不放弃了对这个疯狂提案的支持。几经封杀后赵刚甚至动用了一次总统特权，但是经过全体部长反对之后（总统有强制推行权利，十位部长如果有七位反对，可以否定总统强制推行的任何提案。）这个方案搁浅了。今天提的议案是赵刚私下与几位部长通气后，十分委屈的写上去的。
　　当然这只是赵刚的认识，并不等于别人也认同这一点

art work painting

“不过世上之事千万，如果事必躬亲，即算武侯再世，亦无能为力。凡办事者，必先提纲挈领，任它千头万绪，我只拿起要紧处，顺势而作，事半而功倍矣。”
　　“此三事做到，则必成一代名将，然如欲更上一层楼。则要每日稽核所做之事，三省吾身。每日一小记，一旬一中记，一年一大计，当后事胜前为优。”
　　赵刚说完，看着黑牛
　　“黑牛，你懂了没有？”
　　“赵巡检，我觉得你说的都很有道理，但是这么多话，我都忘得差不多了。”
　　“无妨，待回府之后，我抄一份给你。”
　　“赵巡检，谢谢你了，一前我看你那么劳累，还不明白原因，现在终于明白了。”
　　“黑牛，我一向把你当作我的亲弟弟看待，有些话我也不想瞒你。大清朝虽然看起来鲜花锦簇，但世风浮华，终不免烈火烹油之事，国势将颓、乱世不远。黑牛，我辈当此危难乱世，要做英雄，舍劳苦之外没有捷径，切不可以高官自居而稍有松懈。”
　　赵刚的这些话，一方面在勉励黑牛，另一方面也是在勉励自己。
　　大沽口海战之后，再回旅顺的路上，赵刚已经开始考虑未来的路要如何走：
　　“扯旗造反？”这条路有些困难，因为在与各行各业的人士接触过之后，赵刚悲哀的发现，清朝这个落后腐朽的朝廷，竟然没有失去人心。如果扯旗造反的，自己那些部下不会有几个人跟自己干。这条路显然不行。”

Rembrandt Painting

何萍的记忆中，《社会记录》的出现纯属偶然。2003年5月1日新闻频道试播，此前一个月，频道整体方案上报到中宣部和国家广电总局，一位主要领导提出新闻频道应该有一期纪录片节目，《社会记录》由此而生。在央视一个著名的纪录片栏目《生活空间》（《百姓故事》的前身）拍了近10年老百姓的李伦，得以竞聘成为这个新栏目的制片人。
“在央视这棵大树下，成为一个栏目的制片人，就意味着弄了一块地做小地主，有了种什么和怎么种，以及请什么人来种的相对自由。”原南方报业集团记者姚一五，在《社会记录》开播不久后即应李伦之邀北上加盟，多年后如此评价李伦和《社会记录》刚开播时的情形。
39岁的李伦，一头长发，见人先带三分笑，在新闻评论部以做人低调和好脾气著称，以致刚开播的时候，栏目组里新来的实习生们总把这个点头哈腰的制片人误作打杂的司机。但后来，这个精瘦的北京人很快就让大家见识到了他的狠劲。

Edward Hopper Painting

李伦决定倾全栏目之力让邱孟煌——这个登上前台说新闻的小品演员外在的差异化特质内化为亲切、睿智的人格特质和电视传播符号，即脸上嬉笑怒骂，心里是非分明。主持人阿丘的名字，迅速蹿红。 CFP
人民网5月3日报道 3月份的一天，央视新闻频道编导何萍给北京一家都市报的女记者打了个电话。何在电话里痛斥对方：“你看过《士兵突击》吗，我告诉你，你就是702团里面编团报的那个傻叉宣传干事!”
何是央视新闻频道一个刚被撤销栏目《社会记录》的编导，她的愤怒不仅是栏目被撤销，而是这家都市报记者在报道中称“《社会记录》被撤销是因为央视每年底对栏目收视率和观众满意度调查的结果”。 “这是一种羞辱。”何表达的是对栏目死得不明不白的愤怒，她不能容忍栏目撤销的原因被这样解释，而她的同事们却是另外一种忧伤——实际上《社会记录》被撤销的消息，早在1月中旬就已悄悄传开。