The Rhythm of Life and Other EssaysThe Rhythm of Life andOther Essays1- Page 2-The Rhythm of Life and Other EssaysTHE RHYTHM OF LIFEIf life is not always poetical, it is at least metrical. Periodicity rulesover the mental experience of man, according to the path of the orbit of histhoughts. Distances are not gauged, ellipses not measured, velocities notascertained, times not known. Nevertheless, the recurrence is sure. Whatthe mind suffered last week, or last year, it does not suffer now; but it will...　

　Max A. Collins, Sr.- who served in the Pacific　"This week a high officer of the U.S. Army remarked that he knows of no place under the American flag safer than Hawaii-more secure from the onslaught of actual war."　Honolulu Star Bulletin, May 1941　"There is no chivalry in plete war."　 Edgar Rice Burroughs　ONE:　December 5, 1941　　ONE　Boat Day　　In less than forty-eight hours, six Japanese aircraft carriers-220 miles north of the island of Oahu-would launch 350 warplanes in an attack not preceded by any formal declaration of war. Every significant Naval and air installation would feel the brunt of the surprise raid, which lasted less than two hours and cost the United States military three dest　

Down the Mother Lode - Pioneer Tales of CaliforniaBy Vivia HemphillForewordSo many inquiries have been made as to exactly where, and what is the "Mother Lode"!The geologist and the historian agree as to its location and composition, but the old miners and "sojourners" of the vanished golden era give strangely different versions of it. Some of these are here set down, if not all for your enlightenment at least, I hope, for your entertainment.That is, after all, the principal aim of these tales of the old days in California, that are gone "for good." Mark Twain says in his preface to "Roughing It" that there is a great deal of information in his work which he regrets very much but which reall　

MEMOIR OF THE PROPOSED TERRITORY OF ARIZONA.MEMOIR OF THEPROPOSEDTERRITORY OFARIZONA.BY SYLVESTER MOWRY, U. S. A., DELEGATEELECT.WASHINGTON: HENRY POLKINHORN,PRINTER. 1857.1- Page 2-MEMOIR OF THE PROPOSED TERRITORY OF ARIZONA."The NEW TERRITORY of ARIZONA, better known as theGADSDEN PURCHASE, lies between the thirty-first and thirty-thirdparallels of latitude, and is bounded on the north by the Gila River, which...　

The Adventure of the Cardboard BoxThe Adventure of theCardboard BoxBy Sir Arthur Conan Doyle1- Page 2-The Adventure of the Cardboard BoxIn choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable mentalqualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have endeavoured, as far aspossible, to select those which presented the minimum of sensationalism,while offering a fair field for his talents. It is, however, unfortunatelyimpossible entirely to separate the sensational from the criminal, and a...　

The Diary of an Old SoulThe Diary of an Old Soulby George MacDonald1- Page 2-The Diary of an Old SoulDEDICATIONSweet friends, receive my offering. You will find Against each wordedpage a white page set: This is the mirror of each friendly mindReflecting that. In this book we are met. Make it, dear hearts, of worth toyou indeed: Let your white page be ground, my print be seed, Growingto golden ears, that faith and hope shall feed.YOUR OLD SOUL...　

A MILLIONAIRE OF ROUGH-AND-READYA MILLIONAIRE OFROUGH-AND-READYby BRET HARTE1- Page 2-A MILLIONAIRE OF ROUGH-AND-READYPROLOGUEThere was no mistake this time: he had struck gold at last!It had lain there before him a moment agoa misshapen piece ofbrown-stained quartz, interspersed with dull yellow metal; yieldingenough to have allowed the points of his pick to penetrate itshoneycombed recesses, yet heavy enough to drop from the point of his...　

CONDENSED NOVELSCONDENSED NOVELSby BRET HARTE1- Page 2-CONDENSED NOVELSHANDSOME IS AS HANDSOMEDOES.BY CHS RDE.2- Page 3-CONDENSED NOVELSCHAPTER I.The Dodds were dead. For twenty year they had slept under the greengraves of Kittery churchyard. The townfolk still spoke of them kindly. Thekeeper of the alehouse, where David had smoked his pipe, regretted him...　

　　 HIS NAME WAS THORNE. In the ancient language of the runes, it had been longer-Thornevald. But when he became a blood drinker, his name had been changed to Thorne. And Thorne he remained now, centuries later, as he lay in his cave in the ice, dreaming.　 When he had first e to the frozen land, he had hoped he would sleep eternally. But now and then the thirst for blood awakened him and using the Cloud Gift, he rose into the air, and went in search of the Snow Hunters.　 He fed off them, careful never to take too much blood from any one so that none died on account of him. And when he needed furs anc boots he took them as well, and returned to his hiding place.　 These Snow Hunters were n　

　This is what happened. On the night that the worst heat wave in northern New England history finally broke-the night of July 19-the entire western Maine region was lashed with the most vicious thunderstorms I have ever seen.　We lived on Long Lake, and we saw the first of the storms beating its way across the water toward us just before dark. For an hour before, the air had been utterly still. The American flag that my father put up on our boathouse in 1936 lay limp against its pole. Not even its hem fluttered. The heat was like a solid thing, and it seemed as deep as sullen quarry-water. That afternoon the three of us had gone swimming, but the water was no relief unless you went out deep.　

IBill never realized that sex was the cause of it all. If the sun that morning had not been burning so warmly in the brassy sky of Phigerinadon II, and if he had not glimpsed the sugar-white and wine-barrel-wide backside of Inga-Maria Calyphigia, while she bathed in the stream, he might have paid more attention to his plowing than to the burning pressures of heterosexuality and would have driven his furrow to the far side of the hill before the seductive music sounded along the road. He might never have heard it, and his life would have been very, very different. But he did hear it and dropped the handles of the plow that was plugged into the robomule, turned, and gaped.It was indeed a fabu　

And he put on the garments of vengeance for clothing,and was clad with zeal for a cloak.Isaiah 59:17Edmund Loris, once the Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd, stared out to sea through the salt-smeared windowpanes of his tower prison and allowed himself a thin smile. The rare display of self-indulgence did nothing to diminish the fury of the wind shrilling at the ill-fitted glass, but the letter secreted in the breviary under his arm gave its own grim fort. The offer was princely, befitting even the exalted status he had enjoyed before his fall.Exhaling softly of his long-hoarded bitterness, Loris bowed his head and shifted the book to hold it in both hands, wary lest the gest