Mistho

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The annual CES tech extravaganza is where the biggest industry players put their best ideas on display. But even amongst titans, NVIDIA has a reputation for consistently pushing boundaries and setting the pace of innovation. Their showing at CES2024 was no exception, with announcements that made clear their ambition: to lead humanity into an AI-powered future. By the way, if you want to be ahead of AI trends, find out about new groundbreaking projects, and take free mini-courses on AI, subscribe to my weekly It’s absolutely free! newsletter ‘ AI Hunters’ . Revolutionizing the Possible with Generative AI First up was a major breakthrough for large language models. NVIDIA revealed the Tensor RT LLM library, turbocharging the performance of models like Llama 2 and Mistol running on Windows. This upgrade isn't just numbers - it means AI that can converse, comprehend and even collaborate at lightning speed. The new Chat with RTX playground exemplifies this, allowing users to engage in AI-augmented conversations linked to documents or videos. Imagine consultations with "doctors" having real-time access to your full medical history. The implications are profound. Levelling Up Gaming to the Next Dimension For hardcore gamers, NVIDIA served up some next-level treats. Their new Automatic 1111 app brings Stable Diffusion to RTX hardware for a 60% speed increase. The technology like NVIDIA Ace brings digital avatars to life, while collaborations with platforms like Convey push the boundaries of AI-integrated gaming characters. NVIDIA also announced the RTX 480 Super and RTX 470 Super series, boasting enhanced cores, faster memory, and superior performance at competitive prices. These new additions promise to redefine the gaming experience. And, as NVIDIA and its partners rewrite the rules of play, interactive stories and online worlds may soon seem limitless. Innovations in Visual Design and Broadcasting Nvidia has also ventured into visual design with IOCK by Getty Images, a generative AI service that simplifies and enhances image composition. In broadcasting, a partnership with Twitch and OBS introduces enhanced broadcasting capabilities, allowing streamers to transmit streams at multiple resolutions for an optimized viewer experience. Whether designing visuals or going live, broadcasters and creators are working environments transformed by NVIDIA's innovations. The Future is Now - And It’s Powered by NVIDIA The company's robotics platform, NVIDIA Isaac, brings the massive potential of generative AI to robotics, highlighting the use of AI in building AI-powered robots. Boston Dynamics' robot guide "Spot" also got a star turn, a sign that even the realm of physical robots is being transformed. In addition, NVIDIA announced a new wave of RTX laptops, designed to cater to the most demanding gaming and AI applications. From new laptops optimized for cutting-edge AI work to robotics platforms like Isaac democratizing generative automation - NVIDIA wants to place transformative tech in the hands of creators everywhere. When the dust settles on CES2024, one thing is clear: NVIDIA's visionary leadership means the timeline of technological progress just got moved up considerably. We can hardly wait to see what they have in store for us next. P.S. Check out my previous articles on AI at HackerNoon: How to Build Your Personal GPTs: From Zero to AI Hero GPT-4 Turbo: The Most Monumental Update Since ChatGPT's Debut! Essential Insights from 'State of AI 2023' GPT-4V Unveiled: From Detecting Emotions to Ordering Food - You Won't Believe What Else It Can Do! ChatGPT Now Speaks, Listens, and Understands: All You Need to Know Fine-Tuning for GPT-3.5 Turbo: AI Game Changer The Rise of AI-Generated Films: Lights, Camera, Algorithm! NFT Marketing Guide - The Most Complete and Detailed Playbook 2023

How NVIDIA’s Latest AI Creations at CES2024 Redefine How We Live, Work And Play

CES2024-এ NVIDIA-এর সর্বশেষ AI সৃষ্টিগুলি কীভাবে আমরা বাঁচি, কাজ করি এবং খেলি তা পুনরায় সংজ্ঞায়িত করে

Wie NVIDIAs neueste KI-Kreationen auf der CES2024 die Art und Weise, wie wir leben, arbeiten und spielen, neu definieren

Cómo las últimas creaciones de inteligencia artificial de NVIDIA en CES2024 redefinen nuestra forma de vivir, trabajar y jugar

Comment les dernières créations d'IA de NVIDIA au CES2024 redéfinissent notre façon de vivre, de travailler et de jouer

CES2024 में NVIDIA की नवीनतम AI रचनाएं हमारे जीने, काम करने और खेलने के तरीके को फिर से परिभाषित करती हैं

CES2024 での NVIDIA の最新 AI 作品が私たちの生活、仕事、遊び方をどのように再定義するか

CES2024에서 NVIDIA의 최신 AI 창작물이 우리가 살고 일하고 즐기는 방식을 재정의하는 방법

Como as mais recentes criações de IA da NVIDIA na CES2024 redefinem a forma como vivemos, trabalhamos e nos divertimos

Как последние разработки NVIDIA в области искусственного интеллекта на выставке CES2024 меняют представление о том, как мы живем, работаем и играем

NVIDIA'nın CES2024'teki En Yeni Yapay Zeka Tasarımları Yaşama, Çalışma ve Oyun Oynama Şeklimizi Nasıl Yeniden Tanımlıyor?

Những sáng tạo AI mới nhất của NVIDIA tại CES2024 định nghĩa lại cách chúng ta sống, làm việc và giải trí như thế nào

NVIDIA 在 CES2024 上的最新 AI 创作如何重新定义我们的生活、工作和娱乐方式

We Buy Ugly Houses! The Ugly Truth They're Hiding From You

আমরা কুৎসিত ঘর কিনতে! কুৎসিত সত্য তারা আপনার কাছ থেকে লুকাচ্ছে

Wir kaufen hässliche Häuser! Die hässliche Wahrheit, die sie vor dir verbergen

¡Compramos casas feas! La fea verdad que te están ocultando

Nous achetons des maisons laides ! La vilaine vérité qu’ils vous cachent

हम बदसूरत मकान खरीदते हैं! वह घिनौना सच जो वे आपसे छिपा रहे हैं

醜い家も買い取ります！彼らがあなたに隠している醜い真実

우리는 못생긴 집을 구입합니다! 그들이 당신에게 숨기고 있는 추악한 진실

Compramos casas feias! A horrível verdade que eles estão escondendo de você

Мы покупаем уродливые дома! Ужасная правда, которую от вас скрывают

Çirkin Evler Alıyoruz! Sizden Sakladıkları Çirkin Gerçek

Chúng tôi mua những ngôi nhà xấu xí! Sự thật xấu xí họ đang giấu bạn

我们买丑房子！他们向你隐瞒的丑陋真相

On the Future Prospects of Manufactures, as Connected with Science

PROMISES FULFILLED.

Scientific American Supplement, No. 799, April 25, 1891 by Various, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . MARBLE AND MOSAIC. here MARBLE AND MOSAIC. By T.R. SPENCE. I do not propose to enter into any historical details as to the first and subsequent application of mosaics. In a general sense we understand mosaic as a combination of various more or less imperishable materials—fixed together by cement or other adhesive substances—and laid over walls, floors, etc., with a view to permanent decorative effect. The substance of the tesseræ is of many kinds, namely, glass, cheap and precious marbles, hard stone, and burnt clay, these mentioned being mainly in use for architectural purposes. For decorative schemes we collect as many gradations of color as are obtainable in such durable materials in their natural or manufactured state, and thus form a color palette which we regard in the same sense as a painter would his pigments. Of course, the first proceeding is to prepare a design on a small scale, which shall embrace your notions of color only. Then follows a full-sized cartoon, which I need hardly add shall embrace your best efforts in drawing. A tracing is made of the latter and transferred to sheets of cardboard. This cardboard is cut to the size of certain sections of your design, and, for convenience, should not be more than, say, 20 in. square. Of course, it will not always be square, but will bear the same relation to your complete cartoon as a map of the counties would to that of all England. Now, working from the small design (of color), the tesseræ are cut to the forms required, laid face downward, and glued on to the cardboard sections containing your enlarged cartoon. When the design is all worked out on these sections they are ready for fixing on walls or floor by laying them home on a float of cement. When the cement sets, the cardboard sticking to the face is washed off, and the joints of tesseræ flushed over with cement and cleaned off, leaving all joints filled up level. There are other processes used for the same end. The technical processes need not occupy our attention at present. There is one process that may appeal to you, and that is executing the work by floating on a limited expanse of cement, and sticking on the tesseræ at once. It has the advantage of enabling the artist or architect to see the effect of his efforts under the fixed conditions of light and height. in situ I shall confine myself to vitreous or glass mosaic, which for durability, extended scales of primary colors and their numerous semi-transparent gradations is unequaled by any substance yet used for wall or floor decoration. I am surprised, having all these fine qualities, it is not more used by architects. If you require proofs of its triumphs, go to St. Mark's, of Venice, and stand under its mellow golden roof. There you will find its domes and vaulted aisles, nave and transepts entirely overlaid with gold mosaic, into which ground is worked—in the deepest and richest colors and their gradations that contemporary manufacturers could produce—subjects selected from the creation down to the life of Christ, in addition containing a complete alphabet of early Christian symbolism. The roof surfaces being one succession of over-arching curves become receptive of innumerable waves of light and broad unities of soft shadows, giving the whole an incomparable quality of tone and low juicy color. Never use your gold but on curved or undulating surfaces. Flat planes of gold only give the effect of a monotonous metallic yellow, and can never be beautiful, owing to the absence of the variations that come with waves of shadow. By letting out the reins of imagination we might feel that in this a tenth century Giorgione has given off the mental impressions of all the golden autumn of his life. His material gave him an advantage over his great followers of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, insomuch that glass has a living and glowing quality of light not existing in the somewhat clouded purity of oil or fresco. In St. Mark's we have an example of the superb treatment in deepest and most Titianesque scales applied to curved forms, but to find a similarly complete example of the use of lighter tones and on flat surfaces, we must turn to Ravenna. I can give you no adequate description of the wall mosaics of Ravenna. In the sense of delicate color they remind me of some of the subtile harmonies of many of the finest works of the modern French school—of the Impressionists and others who combine that quality with a true instinct for design. In standing before them you feel that the Dagnan Bouverets, the Mersons, the Cazins, the Puvis de Chavannes, etc., of the fifth century have had a hand in the conception and realization of the beautiful compositions to be found on the nave walls of the two churches of St. Appollinare Nuovo and St. Appollinare in Classe. Here all the scales are of delicate degrees of light tones, supreme in their beauty, completeness, and, most important to us, their true decorative instinct. In the Baptistery we find what I may term a third essay in color, by weaving in rich, dark, and glowing colors on figures and bold sinuous forms of ornament in such a skillful and judicious manner that the whole dome seems to be alive with harmonies, although they are mostly primaries. As you know, rules for the disposition of color are futile, yet some details that struck me as eminently satisfactory may interest you. In all cases the tesseræ are of small dimensions, about a quarter of an inch square. The stucco joints are large and open, surfaces far from level, but undulating considerably. The tesseræ stick up in parts, brilliant edges showing. Absence of flatness gives play to the light. The gray of the stucco joints brings the whole composition together, serving as cool grays in a picture to give tender unity. Gold, apart from backgrounds and large surfaces, is used very cleverly in small pieces in borders of garments, and more especially in thin outlines to make out the drawing and certain flowing forms of ornament. Brilliant pieces of glass actually moulded at the kiln into forms of jewels add brilliancy to crowns, borders, etc. These stick boldly out from the surface. I noticed in the Baptistery below the springing of the dome a frieze about 2 ft. 6 in. deep, having the ground entirely in black, through which was woven in thin gold lines a delicate foliated design. This, in conjunction with the upper surfaces in dark, rich color, had a most delightful effect. We, as students, can learn most from the Ravenna examples, for great are the needs of light and silvery color in this country, where gray and gloomy days far outnumber those in which the sun gives liberally of his light. I may say, in passing, as our subject is really a matter of decoration, that our nineteenth century efforts in this direction are all of a somewhat gloomy tendency. We fill our rooms with imitations of somber Spanish leather, stain and paint our woodwork in leathery and muddy tones, to arrive at what is now a sort of decorator's god. Quaintness is the name of that god. Many are the sins for which he has to answer. Had we not better worship a deity called beauty, whose place is a little higher up Parnassus? Why should we not in our endeavors attempt in some measure to transfix the brilliant harmonies that follow the sun in his liberal and gracious course? This muddy quaintness is certainly pleasant for brief periods, when lamps are low and fire light gilds and deepens its parts. Turn the sunlight on these so-called triumphs of the modern decorator's art, and then you feel the lack of many a phase of color that might have been borrowed from the thousand and one examples that in nature he vivifies and makes brilliant. Referring again to the Ravenna mosaics, I can only add that at the present day an extended palette of colored glass is available. The technical difficulties are not great, and there is no question as to the fine qualities of design and color that are to be obtained in this material. The great point in this, as in all other schemes of decoration, is the art, the mental quality of conception, and the sense of color and fitness. If we hold the precious heritage of an artist's mind—that divine and rare something which gives form, color, and completeness to a story, a dream or a vision—then very little difficulty follows in making vitreous mosaic a valued servant in the realization of a fine creation. It is the function of architects to design suitable spaces for color decoration, so bound in by dignified mouldings and other details of his constructive art, in such a manner that the addition of decorative color shall in no way mar the scheme of his complete work, but shall (under these well ordered distributions) have set on them the seal and crown of color which is inseparable from a perfect piece of architecture. In such spaces he may dream his dreams, tell his stories, and stamp on them for centuries his subtilest and divinest thoughts. May I not urge that to such spaces must be given the best that is in you? for once placed so shall they remain unchanged through generations, time being powerless to add any mellow garment of tone or softening quality whatever. I mistook the title of the subject in thinking that it was mosaic only, and at the last moment found it was marble and mosaic. However, the same dominant principles shall underlie the treatment of marble. It is a question of the finer instincts for form and color. In recent years the demand for choice decorative materials has been the means of opening out many marble quarries all over the world. Transit being easy, a large scale of varieties is available. One fine addition is the Mexican onyx. My feeling is that the most beautiful marbles are those where the soft and sinuous veins melt and die into the general body, comparatively sharp markings dying right away at the edges into innumerable gradations. Marbles having strong and hardly marked veins present great difficulties in distribution. If they are near, they offend you with their coarseness; and, placed at a distance, the hard vein lines have very little decorative value. I should say use these in narrow slips, with very little moulded profile or as parts of intazzio. Mouldings should be specially designed for different marbles. I should say mainly on the principle of sudden contrasts; that is, large members with very little curve bound with members very small in detail, thus obtaining sharp lines, having little surface to be influenced or distorted by the veined markings, and serving to sharpen up and give form to the broader members (which show the color qualities of the marble), much as you sharpen up an ink drawing by underlining. These small members serve the architect's purpose for the expression of vertical and horizontal lines, and where decisive and cutting shadows are required in the composition of his work. If delicate carving forms part of your design, I should say statuary is the best, as you have no veins to distort your detail. I need hardly add that economy should be studied in using precious marbles, without injuring the durability of the work. Contours may be built up in thin sections. Intazzio is a beautiful form of treating marble on an inexpensive ground. Gem-like effects may be obtained by inlaying with smaller pieces, following such ornamental forms as your inventive brains shall dictate. Perhaps the pockets of your clients will be the chief dictator. Heraldic emblazonings, inlaid in marble, are highly effective. The conditions of the heraldry necessitate the use of many varieties, but in such small quantities that on a large simple field they are rarely out of harmony. In addition they map out a large and interesting variety that will save the worry of creation of designs coming entirely from your own brain, and you know the worry of an architect's life makes him hail with pleasure at times a rest from the strain of creation. This heraldic work may be seen to perfection in the chapel of the tombs of the Medici at Florence. At the Pitti Palace are some tables which you may know where marble intazzio can no further go. Alabaster does not appeal to me, it is somewhat sugary in results. If you are fortunate enough to have a sculptor who is a sort of nineteenth century Donatello, let him work his will on statuary or such restful marble. The celebrated monument in the church of S. Giovanni Paulo, at Venice, which Ruskin says is the finest monument in the world, if my recollection serves me correctly, is in white marble, and its beauty comes entirely from the sculptor's art. Such monuments give you much better than any words of mine ample suggestions for marble treatment. I may quote such names as Nicolo Pisano and Verocchio. Photos of some of their work I have brought. Note Pisano's beautiful white altar at Bologna, and Mina de Fiesole's work in Florence. They all show the sculptor as supreme. Why should not we encourage individual young sculptors more? Give them portions of your work in which they can put all the fervor and enthusiasm of young manhood. Their powers may not be ripe, but they possess a verve and intensity that may have forever fled when in later years the imagination is less enthusiastic and the pulses slower. I am sure there are many young sculptors now wanting commissions who have been trained at the academy, and better still, in the best French schools. I maintain that the contemporary French school of sculpture is in its line equal to any school of sculpture that has ever existed, not excepting that of Phidias or that of the Italian Renaissance of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. I believe history will confirm this. Why not give these men an opportunity, and help on the movement to found a truly English school of sculpture, rather than give all such work to trading firms of carvers, who will do you any number of superficial feet, properly priced and scheduled, and in the bills of quantities, of any style you please, from prehistoric to Victorian Gothic? Of course, this is our British way of founding a great school. There is one method of treatment that appeals to me very strongly, and that is the application of colored metals to marble, more especially bronze and copper. I may quote as a successful example near the Wellington Memorial at St. Paul's. Another suggestion—although it is not used in combination with marble, but it nevertheless suggests what might be done in the way of bronze panels—that is, the Fawcett Memorial, by Gilbert, in the west chapel at Westminster Abbey. A paper recently read before the Architectural Association, London.— . From the Architect About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Various (2004). Scientific American Supplement, No. 799, April 25, 1891. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/11649/pg11649-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

MARBLE AND MOSAIC

Like every single other developer on the planet, I've been somewhat inundated with GenAI over the past year or so. I find it as fascinating as most folks (ask me about the number of times I've had cat-related conversions with ChatGPT) but while it's fun to play with, I've also been thinking a lot about the aspects of it, especially via API and integrations. I am still new to all this and, I'll admit, still fuzzy on a lot of details, but I thought I'd share some initial impressions I've had working with Google's LLM, . practical incredibly way PaLM 2 First and foremost, note that the PaLM API, and MakerSuite, which is a web-based front-end, requires a Google login, and at least the API itself requires asking for access. For me, this took less then twenty-four hours, and I believe this time is even quicker now as Google is shrinking the waitlist. As I said, I had a pretty quick approval and I expect that's what most folks will have, but YMMV. When you load up MakerSuite, you are presented a set of different prompts to start playing with the API: When I first got here, I went right into the "Text prompt" option as I figured that would be the simplest and most recognizable of the options. Right away, I really appreciated the samples to help get started: I started with this prompt: Write a story about a magic cat who can only do magic when speaking in reverse. 
Also, their magic normally backfires in a humorous and harmless manner. 
The story should be appropriate for a young child. And got: Once upon a time, there was a magic cat named Mr. Mistoffelees. He was a 
very special cat, because he could only do magic when he spoke in reverse.

One day, Mr. Mistoffelees was walking down the street when he saw a 
little girl crying. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I lost my doll," the little girl said. "I've looked everywhere for it, 
but I can't find it."

Mr. Mistoffelees thought for a moment. "I can help you find your doll,"
 he said. "But I can only do it if you speak in reverse."

The little girl was confused, but she agreed. "Okay," she said. "I'll try."

"Dolla," the little girl said. "Lose, I did."

Mr. Mistoffelees smiled. "Your doll is under the bed," he said.

The little girl ran to her house and looked under the bed. Sure enough, 
there was her doll. She picked it up and hugged it tightly. 
"Thank you," she said to Mr. Mistoffelees. "You're a very kind cat."

"You're welcome," Mr. Mistoffelees said. "I'm always happy to help."

Mr. Mistoffelees continued to use his magic to help people. He made 
lost children find their way home, he helped people find their lost 
pets, and he even helped people find their lost keys. But sometimes, 
his magic would backfire in a humorous way.

One day, Mr. Mistoffelees was trying to help a woman find her 
lost car. He said the magic words in reverse, but instead of making 
the car appear, it made the woman's hair stand on end. The woman 
laughed so hard that she forgot all about her car.

Another time, Mr. Mistoffelees was trying to help a man get a job. He 
said the magic words in reverse, but instead of getting the man a job,
it made the man's tie fall off. The man laughed so hard that he forgot
all about his interview.

Mr. Mistoffelees' magic was always a lot of fun, and it always made 
people happy. He was a very special cat, and he used his magic to 
make the world a better place. This is pretty much on par with what I'd expect from ChatGPT and other services, although I was a bit surprised by the spelling of the cat. For folks curious, it looks to be a misspelling of , although if it was going for a pun on "fleas," then that's pretty cool. Mephistopheles What I gravitated towards right away was the "Get code" button top. Clicking on this brings up four unique options: While it oddly included the response in the code, I absolutely loved how simple this was! Here's the JavaScript after I manually removed the response: const { TextServiceClient } = require("@google-ai/generativelanguage");
const { GoogleAuth } = require("google-auth-library");

const MODEL_NAME = "models/text-bison-001";
const API_KEY = "YOUR API KEY";

const client = new TextServiceClient({
  authClient: new GoogleAuth().fromAPIKey(API_KEY),
});

const promptString = `Write a story about a magic cat who can only do magic when speaking in reverse. Also, their magic normally backfires in a humorous and harmless manner. The story should be appropriate for a young child.`;
const stopSequences = [];

client.generateText({
  // required, which model to use to generate the result
  model: MODEL_NAME,
  // optional, 0.0 always uses the highest-probability result
  temperature: 0.7,
  // optional, how many candidate results to generate
  candidateCount: 1,
  // optional, number of most probable tokens to consider for generation
  top_k: 40,
  // optional, for nucleus sampling decoding strategy
  top_p: 0.95,
  // optional, maximum number of output tokens to generate
  max_output_tokens: 1024,
  // optional, sequences at which to stop model generation
  stop_sequences: stopSequences,
  // optional, safety settings
  safety_settings: [{"category":"HARM_CATEGORY_DEROGATORY","threshold":1},{"category":"HARM_CATEGORY_TOXICITY","threshold":1},{"category":"HARM_CATEGORY_VIOLENCE","threshold":2},{"category":"HARM_CATEGORY_SEXUAL","threshold":2},{"category":"HARM_CATEGORY_MEDICAL","threshold":2},{"category":"HARM_CATEGORY_DANGEROUS","threshold":2}],
  prompt: {
    text: promptString,
  },
}).then(result => {
  console.log(JSON.stringify(result, null, 2));
}); First off, look how easy the authentication is - I literally need to paste in my key. I've used a lot of Google APIs in the past, and nearly every time, the authentication is a pain in the rear. (That's probably completely my fault!) Also, note the great use of commenting here for the sample code. I'll be honest and say even with the comments, there's stuff here I don't quite get, but outside of that, I had this running locally nearly immediately. Here's the result of that: [
  {
    "candidates": [
      {
        "safetyRatings": [
          {
            "category": "HARM_CATEGORY_DEROGATORY",
            "probability": "NEGLIGIBLE"
          },
          {
            "category": "HARM_CATEGORY_TOXICITY",
            "probability": "NEGLIGIBLE"
          },
          {
            "category": "HARM_CATEGORY_VIOLENCE",
            "probability": "NEGLIGIBLE"
          },
          {
            "category": "HARM_CATEGORY_SEXUAL",
            "probability": "NEGLIGIBLE"
          },
          {
            "category": "HARM_CATEGORY_MEDICAL",
            "probability": "NEGLIGIBLE"
          },
          {
            "category": "HARM_CATEGORY_DANGEROUS",
            "probability": "NEGLIGIBLE"
          }
        ],
        "output": "Once upon a time, there was a magic cat named Mr. Mistoffelees. He was a very special cat, because he could only do magic when he spoke in reverse.\n\nOne day, Mr. Mistoffelees was playing in the forest when he saw a little girl who was crying. \"What's wrong?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'm lost,\" the little girl said. \"I can't find my way home.\"\n\nMr. Mistoffelees smiled. \"Don't worry,\" he said. \"I can help you.\"\n\nHe took a deep breath and said, \"Sdrawkcab eht revo spmuj I.\"\n\nSuddenly, the little girl was surrounded by a bright light. When the light faded, she was standing in front of her house.\n\n\"Thank you!\" she said. \"You're a lifesaver!\"\n\nMr. Mistoffelees smiled. \"You're welcome,\" he said. \"Just remember, my magic only works when I speak in reverse.\"\n\nThe little girl nodded. \"I'll remember,\" she said.\n\nThe next day, the little girl was playing in the forest again when she saw a group of boys picking on a smaller boy.\n\n\"Leave him alone!\" she shouted.\n\nThe boys turned to look at her. \"What are you going to do about it?\" one of them asked.\n\nThe little girl took a deep breath and said, \"Sdrawkcab eht revo spmuj I.\"\n\nSuddenly, the boys were surrounded by a bright light. When the light faded, they were all wearing dresses.\n\nThe boys started to laugh. \"What happened to our clothes?\" they asked.\n\n\"That's what you get for picking on a smaller boy,\" the little girl said.\n\nThe boys ran away, laughing.\n\nThe little girl smiled. \"I guess my magic really does work,\" she said.\n\nMr. Mistoffelees was watching from a nearby tree. He smiled. \"I'm glad my magic could help you,\" he said.\n\nThe little girl smiled back. \"Thanks, Mr. Mistoffelees,\" she said. \"You're the best.\"\n\nMr. Mistoffelees purred. \"You're welcome,\" he said. \"I'm always happy to help.\"\n\nThe little girl and Mr. Mistoffelees continued to play in the forest together. They had many more adventures, and Mr. Mistoffelees' magic always helped them out. But even though his magic was powerful, it was also very silly. And it always seemed to backfire in a humorous way.\n\nOne day, Mr. Mistoffelees was trying to help the little girl get a bird out of a tree. He said, \"Sdrawkcab eht revo spmuj I.\"\n\nSuddenly, the bird flew out of the tree and landed on the little girl's head.\n\nThe little girl laughed. \"Thanks, Mr. Mistoffelees,\" she said. \"But I think I would have been able to get the bird out of the tree myself.\"\n\nMr. Mistoffelees purred. \"You're welcome,\" he said. \"I'm just glad I could help.\"\n\nThe little girl and Mr. Mistoffelees continued to play together. They had many more adventures, and Mr. Mistoffelees' magic always helped them out. And even though his magic was silly, it was always kind and helpful."
      }
    ],
    "filters": [],
    "safetyFeedback": []
  },
  null,
  null
] I find the safety ratings aspect the most fascinating, as it looks to be a great way to add 'guardrails' to your automated responses. After I had played with this, I took a look at the "Data prompt" feature: From what I could tell, this feature lets you take a sample list of data, and based on that input, you can then add rows of data and have PaLM specify the corresponding second column. I used the 'Opposites' sample as it seemed the simplest: additional Running with their sample works as expected: I tried "Dumb", "Cold", and "Left", and got: As you can see, it failed to find an opposite to dumb but worked correctly for the others. The code for this, from what I can see, simply 'formats' the tabular data in a prompt: const { TextServiceClient } = require("@google-ai/generativelanguage");
const { GoogleAuth } = require("google-auth-library");

const MODEL_NAME = "models/text-bison-001";
const API_KEY = "YOUR API KEY";

const client = new TextServiceClient({
  authClient: new GoogleAuth().fromAPIKey(API_KEY),
});

const Word = 'Left';
const promptString = `Find a word or phrase with opposite meaning.
Word: Strong
Opposite: Weak
Word: Thick
Opposite: Thin
Word: Sparse
Opposite: Dense
Word: Sloppy
Opposite: Organized
Word: ${Word}
Opposite:`;
const stopSequences = [];

client.generateText({
  // required, which model to use to generate the result
  model: MODEL_NAME,
  // optional, 0.0 always uses the highest-probability result
  temperature: 0.7,
  // optional, how many candidate results to generate
  candidateCount: 1,
  // optional, number of most probable tokens to consider for generation
  top_k: 40,
  // optional, for nucleus sampling decoding strategy
  top_p: 0.95,
  // optional, maximum number of output tokens to generate
  max_output_tokens: 1024,
  // optional, sequences at which to stop model generation
  stop_sequences: stopSequences,
  // optional, safety settings
  safety_settings: [{"category":"HARM_CATEGORY_DEROGATORY","threshold":1},{"category":"HARM_CATEGORY_TOXICITY","threshold":1},{"category":"HARM_CATEGORY_VIOLENCE","threshold":2},{"category":"HARM_CATEGORY_SEXUAL","threshold":2},{"category":"HARM_CATEGORY_MEDICAL","threshold":2},{"category":"HARM_CATEGORY_DANGEROUS","threshold":2}],
  prompt: {
    text: promptString,
  },
}).then(result => {
  console.log(JSON.stringify(result, null, 2));
}); One thing to note, though, is that variables are allowed in prompts, which is pretty cool. When I ran this, the output (specifically the value in JSON, I'm ignoring the result of the result) was short and sweet: "Right," which is nice. My guess is the more complex and complete your table, the better this will work. output So... first impressions - I'm digging how well MakerSuite lets me test on the web and how quickly I'm able to take that to code and start working. I was so impressed that yesterday, I built a "real" demo with this in about twenty minutes. really Also published . here

How Good is Google's PaLM API?

Google এর PaLM API কতটা ভালো?

Wie gut ist die PaLM API von Google?

¿Qué tan buena es la API PaLM de Google?

Quelle est la qualité de l'API PaLM de Google ?

Google का PaLM API कितना अच्छा है?

Google の PaLM API はどの程度優れていますか?

Google의 PaLM API는 얼마나 좋은가요?

Quão boa é a API PaLM do Google?

Насколько хорош API PaLM от Google?

Google'ın PaLM API'si Ne Kadar İyi?

API PaLM của Google tốt đến mức nào?

Google 的 PaLM API 有多好？

Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions by Edwin Abbott Abbott is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Of the Ancient Practice of Painting here Of the Ancient Practice of Painting If my Readers have followed me with any attention up to this point, they will not be surprised to hear that life is somewhat dull in Flatland. I do not, of course, mean that there are not battles, conspiracies, tumults, factions, and all those other phenomena which are supposed to make History interesting; nor would I deny that the strange mixture of the problems of life and the problems of Mathematics, continually inducing conjecture and giving the opportunity of immediate verification, imparts to our existence a zest which you in Spaceland can hardly comprehend. I speak now from the aesthetic and artistic point of view when I say that life with us is dull; aesthetically and artistically, very dull indeed. How can it be otherwise, when all one's prospect, all one's landscapes, historical pieces, portraits, flowers, still life, are nothing but a single line, with no varieties except degrees of brightness and obscurity? It was not always thus. Colour, if Tradition speaks the truth, once for the space of half a dozen centuries or more, threw a transient splendour over the lives of our ancestors in the remotest ages. Some private individual—a Pentagon whose name is variously reported—having casually discovered the constituents of the simpler colours and a rudimentary method of painting, is said to have begun decorating first his house, then his slaves, then his Father, his Sons, and Grandsons, lastly himself. The convenience as well as the beauty of the results commended themselves to all. Wherever Chromatistes,—for by that name the most trustworthy authorities concur in calling him,—turned his variegated frame, there he at once excited attention, and attracted respect. No one now needed to "feel" him; no one mistook his front for his back; all his movements were readily ascertained by his neighbours without the slightest strain on their powers of calculation; no one jostled him, or failed to make way for him; his voice was saved the labour of that exhausting utterance by which we colourless Squares and Pentagons are often forced to proclaim our individuality when we move amid a crowd of ignorant Isosceles. The fashion spread like wildfire. Before a week was over, every Square and Triangle in the district had copied the example of Chromatistes, and only a few of the more conservative Pentagons still held out. A month or two found even the Dodecagons infected with the innovation. A year had not elapsed before the habit had spread to all but the very highest of the Nobility. Needless to say, the custom soon made its way from the district of Chromatistes to surrounding regions; and within two generations no one in all Flatland was colourless except the Women and the Priests. Here Nature herself appeared to erect a barrier, and to plead against extending the innovation to these two classes. Many-sidedness was almost essential as a pretext for the Innovators. "Distinction of sides is intended by Nature to imply distinction of colours"—such was the sophism which in those days flew from mouth to mouth, converting whole towns at a time to the new culture. But manifestly to our Priests and Women this adage did not apply. The latter had only one side, and therefore—plurally and pedantically speaking—NO SIDES. The former—if at least they would assert their claim to be really and truly Circles, and not mere high-class Polygons with an infinitely large number of infinitesimally small sides—were in the habit of boasting (what Women confessed and deplored) that they also had no sides, being blessed with a perimeter of one line, or, in other words, a Circumference. Hence it came to pass that these two Classes could see no force in the so-called axiom about "Distinction of Sides implying Distinction of Colour"; and when all others had succumbed to the fascinations of corporal decoration, the Priests and the Women alone still remained pure from the pollution of paint. Immoral, licentious, anarchical, unscientific—call them by what names you will—yet, from an aesthetic point of view, those ancient days of the Colour Revolt were the glorious childhood of Art in Flatland—a childhood, alas, that never ripened into manhood, nor even reached the blossom of youth. To live was then in itself a delight, because living implied seeing. Even at a small party, the company was a pleasure to behold; the richly varied hues of the assembly in a church or theatre are said to have more than once proved too distracting for our greatest teachers and actors; but most ravishing of all is said to have been the unspeakable magnificence of a military review. The sight of a line of battle of twenty thousand Isosceles suddenly facing about, and exchanging the sombre black of their bases for the orange and purple of the two sides including their acute angle; the militia of the Equilateral Triangles tricoloured in red, white, and blue; the mauve, ultra-marine, gamboge, and burnt umber of the Square artillerymen rapidly rotating near their vermilion guns; the dashing and flashing of the five-coloured and six-coloured Pentagons and Hexagons careering across the field in their offices of surgeons, geometricians and aides-de-camp—all these may well have been sufficient to render credible the famous story how an illustrious Circle, overcome by the artistic beauty of the forces under his command, threw aside his marshal's baton and his royal crown, exclaiming that he henceforth exchanged them for the artist's pencil. How great and glorious the sensuous development of these days must have been is in part indicated by the very language and vocabulary of the period. The commonest utterances of the commonest citizens in the time of the Colour Revolt seem to have been suffused with a richer tinge of word or thought; and to that era we are even now indebted for our finest poetry and for whatever rhythm still remains in the more scientific utterance of these modern days. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Edwin Abbott Abbott (1995). Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/201/pg201-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Of the Ancient Practice of Painting

Mrs. Greenow's Little Dinner in the Close

Another Love Scene

Tom Towers, Dr Anticant, and Mr Sentiment

The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . RUBY RUGGLES HEARS A LOVE TALE here RUBY RUGGLES HEARS A LOVE TALE. Miss Ruby Ruggles, the granddaughter of old Daniel Ruggles, of Sheep's Acre, in the parish of Sheepstone, close to Bungay, received the following letter from the hands of the rural post letter-carrier on that Sunday morning;—"A friend will be somewhere near Sheepstone Birches between four and five o'clock on Sunday afternoon." There was not another word in the letter, but Miss Ruby Ruggles knew well from whom it came. Daniel Ruggles was a farmer, who had the reputation of considerable wealth, but who was not very well looked on in the neighbourhood as being somewhat of a curmudgeon and a miser. His wife was dead;—he had quarrelled with his only son, whose wife was also dead, and had banished him from his home;—his daughters were married and away; and the only member of his family who lived with him was his granddaughter Ruby. And this granddaughter was a great trouble to the old man. She was twenty-three years old, and had been engaged to a prosperous young man at Bungay in the meal and pollard line, to whom old Ruggles had promised to give £500 on their marriage. But Ruby had taken it into her foolish young head that she did not like meal and pollard, and now she had received the above very dangerous letter. Though the writer had not dared to sign his name she knew well that it came from Sir Felix Carbury,—the most beautiful gentleman she had ever set her eyes upon. Poor Ruby Ruggles! Living down at Sheep's Acre, on the Waveney, she had heard both too much and too little of the great world beyond her ken. There were, she thought, many glorious things to be seen which she would never see were she in these her early years to become the wife of John Crumb, the dealer in meal and pollard at Bungay. Therefore she was full of a wild joy, half joy half fear, when she got her letter; and, therefore, punctually at four o'clock on that Sunday she was ensconced among the Sheepstone Birches, so that she might see without much danger of being seen. Poor Ruby Ruggles, who was left to be so much mistress of herself at the time of her life in which she most required the kindness of a controlling hand! Mr. Ruggles held his land, or the greater part of it, on what is called a bishop's lease, Sheep's Acre Farm being a part of the property which did belong to the bishopric of Elmham, and which was still set apart for its sustentation;—but he also held a small extent of outlying meadow which belonged to the Carbury estate, so that he was one of the tenants of Roger Carbury. Those Sheepstone Birches, at which Felix made his appointment, belonged to Roger. On a former occasion, when the feeling between the two cousins was kinder than that which now existed, Felix had ridden over with the landlord to call on the old man, and had then first seen Ruby;—and had heard from Roger something of Ruby's history up to that date. It had then been just made known that she was to marry John Crumb. Since that time not a word had been spoken between the men respecting the girl. Mr. Carbury had heard, with sorrow, that the marriage was either postponed or abandoned,—but his growing dislike to the baronet had made it very improbable that there should be any conversation between them on the subject. Sir Felix, however, had probably heard more of Ruby Ruggles than her grandfather's landlord. There is, perhaps, no condition of mind more difficult for the ordinarily well-instructed inhabitant of a city to realise than that of such a girl as Ruby Ruggles. The rural day labourer and his wife live on a level surface which is comparatively open to the eye. Their aspirations, whether for good or evil,—whether for food and drink to be honestly earned for themselves and children, or for drink first, to be come by either honestly or dishonestly,—are, if looked at at all, fairly visible. And with the men of the Ruggles class one can generally find out what they would be at, and in what direction their minds are at work. But the Ruggles woman,—especially the Ruggles young woman,—is better educated, has higher aspirations and a brighter imagination, and is infinitely more cunning than the man. If she be good-looking and relieved from the pressure of want, her thoughts soar into a world which is as unknown to her as heaven is to us, and in regard to which her longings are apt to be infinitely stronger than are ours for heaven. Her education has been much better than that of the man. She can read, whereas he can only spell words from a book. She can write a letter after her fashion, whereas he can barely spell words out on a paper. Her tongue is more glib, and her intellect sharper. But her ignorance as to the reality of things is much more gross than his. By such contact as he has with men in markets, in the streets of the towns he frequents, and even in the fields, he learns something unconsciously of the relative condition of his countrymen,—and, as to that which he does not learn, his imagination is obtuse. But the woman builds castles in the air, and wonders, and longs. To the young farmer the squire's daughter is a superior being very much out of his way. To the farmer's daughter the young squire is an Apollo, whom to look at is a pleasure,—by whom to be looked at is a delight. The danger for the most part is soon over. The girl marries after her kind, and then husband and children put the matter at rest for ever. A mind more absolutely uninstructed than that of Ruby Ruggles as to the world beyond Suffolk and Norfolk it would be impossible to find. But her thoughts were as wide as they were vague, and as active as they were erroneous. Why should she with all her prettiness, and all her cleverness,—with all her fortune to boot,—marry that dustiest of all men, John Crumb, before she had seen something of the beauties of the things of which she had read in the books which came in her way? John Crumb was not bad-looking. He was a sturdy, honest fellow, too,—slow of speech but sure of his points when he had got them within his grip,—fond of his beer but not often drunk, and the very soul of industry at his work. But though she had known him all her life she had never known him otherwise than dusty. The meal had so gotten within his hair, and skin, and raiment, that it never came out altogether even on Sundays. His normal complexion was a healthy pallor, through which indeed some records of hidden ruddiness would make themselves visible, but which was so judiciously assimilated to his hat and coat and waistcoat, that he was more like a stout ghost than a healthy young man. Nevertheless it was said of him that he could thrash any man in Bungay, and carry two hundred weight of flour upon his back. And Ruby also knew this of him,—that he worshipped the very ground on which she trod. But, alas, she thought there might be something better than such worship; and, therefore, when Felix Carbury came in her way, with his beautiful oval face, and his rich brown colour, and his bright hair and lovely moustache, she was lost in a feeling which she mistook for love; and when he sneaked over to her a second and a third time, she thought more of his listless praise than ever she had thought of John Crumb's honest promises. But, though she was an utter fool, she was not a fool without a principle. She was miserably ignorant; but she did understand that there was a degradation which it behoved her to avoid. She thought, as the moths seem to think, that she might fly into the flame and not burn her wings. After her fashion she was pretty, with long glossy ringlets, which those about the farm on week days would see confined in curl-papers, and large round dark eyes, and a clear dark complexion, in which the blood showed itself plainly beneath the soft brown skin. She was strong, and healthy, and tall,—and had a will of her own which gave infinite trouble to old Daniel Ruggles, her grandfather. Felix Carbury took himself two miles out of his way in order that he might return by Sheepstone Birches, which was a little copse distant not above half a mile from Sheep's Acre farmhouse. A narrow angle of the little wood came up to the road, by which there was a gate leading into a grass meadow, which Sir Felix had remembered when he made his appointment. The road was no more than a country lane, unfrequented at all times, and almost sure to be deserted on Sundays. He approached the gate in a walk, and then stood awhile looking into the wood. He had not stood long before he saw the girl's bonnet beneath a tree standing just outside the wood, in the meadow, but on the bank of the ditch. Thinking for a moment what he would do about his horse, he rode him into the field, and then, dismounting, fastened him to a rail which ran down the side of the copse. Then he sauntered on till he stood looking down upon Ruby Ruggles as she sat beneath the tree. "I like your impudence," she said, "in calling yourself a friend." "Ain't I a friend, Ruby?" "A pretty sort of friend, you! When you was going away, you was to be back at Carbury in a fortnight; and that is,—oh, ever so long ago now." "But I wrote to you, Ruby." "What's letters? And the postman to know all as in 'em for anything anybody knows, and grandfather to be almost sure to see 'em. I don't call letters no good at all, and I beg you won't write 'em any more." "Did he see them?" "No thanks to you if he didn't. I don't know why you are come here, Sir Felix,—nor yet I don't know why I should come and meet you. It's all just folly like." "Because I love you;—that's why I come; eh, Ruby? And you have come because you love me; eh, Ruby? Is not that about it?" Then he threw himself on the ground beside her, and got his arm round her waist. It would boot little to tell here all that they said to each other. The happiness of Ruby Ruggles for that half hour was no doubt complete. She had her London lover beside her; and though in every word he spoke there was a tone of contempt, still he talked of love, and made her promises, and told her that she was pretty. He probably did not enjoy it much; he cared very little about her, and carried on the liaison simply because it was the proper sort of thing for a young man to do. He had begun to think that the odour of patchouli was unpleasant, and that the flies were troublesome, and the ground hard, before the half hour was over. She felt that she could be content to sit there for ever and to listen to him. This was a realisation of those delights of life of which she had read in the thrice-thumbed old novels which she had gotten from the little circulating library at Bungay. But what was to come next? She had not dared to ask him to marry her,—had not dared to say those very words; and he had not dared to ask her to be his mistress. There was an animal courage about her, and an amount of strength also, and a fire in her eye, of which he had learned to be aware. Before the half hour was over I think that he wished himself away;—but when he did go, he made a promise to see her again on the Tuesday morning. Her grandfather would be at Harlestone market, and she would meet him at about noon at the bottom of the kitchen garden belonging to the farm. As he made the promise he resolved that he would not keep it. He would write to her again, and bid her come to him in London, and would send her money for the journey. "I suppose I am to be his wedded wife," said Ruby to herself, as she crept away down from the road, away also from her own home;—so that on her return her presence should not be associated with that of the young man, should any one chance to see the young man on the road. "I'll never be nothing unless I'm that," she said to herself. Then she allowed her mind to lose itself in expatiating on the difference between John Crumb and Sir Felix Carbury. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Anthony Trollope (2004). The Way We Live Now. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/5231/pg5231-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

RUBY RUGGLES HEARS A LOVE TALE

The Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson by Mark Twain, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Driscoll Spares His Slaves here Driscoll Spares His Slaves Adam was but human—this explains it all. He did not want the apple for the apple’s sake, he wanted it only because it was forbidden. The mistake was in not forbidding the serpent; then he would have eaten the serpent. —Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar. Pudd’nhead Wilson had a trifle of money when he arrived, and he bought a small house on the extreme western verge of the town. Between it and Judge Driscoll’s house there was only a grassy yard, with a paling fence dividing the properties in the middle. He hired a small office down in the town and hung out a tin sign with these words on it: DAVID WILSON. ATTORNEY AND COUNSELOR-AT-LAW. SURVEYING, CONVEYANCING, ETC. But his deadly remark had ruined his chance—at least in the law. No clients came. He took down his sign, after a while, and put it up on his own house with the law features knocked out of it. It offered his services now in the humble capacities of land-surveyor and expert accountant. Now and then he got a job of surveying to do, and now and then a merchant got him to straighten out his books. With Scotch patience and pluck he resolved to live down his reputation and work his way into the legal field yet. Poor fellow, he could not foresee that it was going to take him such a weary long time to do it. He had a rich abundance of idle time, but it never hung heavy on his hands, for he interested himself in every new thing that was born into the universe of ideas, and studied it and experimented upon it at his house. One of his pet fads was palmistry. To another one he gave no name, neither would he explain to anybody what its purpose was, but merely said it was an amusement. In fact he had found that his fads added to his reputation as a pudd’nhead; therefore he was growing chary of being too communicative about them. The fad without a name was one which dealt with people’s finger-marks. He carried in his coat pocket a shallow box with grooves in it, and in the grooves strips of glass five inches long and three inches wide. Along the lower edge of each strip was pasted a slip of white paper. He asked people to pass their hands through their hair (thus collecting upon them a thin coating of the natural oil) and then make a thumb-mark on a glass strip, following it with the mark of the ball of each finger in succession. Under this row of faint grease-prints he would write a record on the strip of white paper—thus: John Smith, — right hand and add the day of the month and the year, then take Smith’s left hand on another glass strip, and add name and date and the words “left hand.” The strips were now returned to the grooved box, and took their place among what Wilson called his “records.” He often studied his records, examining and poring over them with absorbing interest until far into the night; but what he found there—if he found anything—he revealed to no one. Sometimes he copied on paper the involved and delicate pattern left by the ball of a finger, and then vastly enlarged it with a pantograph so that he could examine its web of curving lines with ease and convenience. One sweltering afternoon—it was the first day of July, 1830—he was at work over a set of tangled account-books in his work-room, which looked westward over a stretch of vacant lots, when a conversation outside disturbed him. It was carried on in yells, which showed that the people engaged in it were not close together: “Say, Roxy, how does yo’ baby come on?” This from the distant voice. “Fust-rate; how does come on, Jasper?” This yell was from close by. you “Oh, I’s middlin’; hain’t got noth’n’ to complain of. I’s gwine to come a-court’n’ you bimeby, Roxy.” “ is, you black mud-cat! Yah—yah—yah! I got somep’n’ better to do den ’sociat’n’ wid niggers as black as you is. Is ole Miss Cooper’s Nancy done give you de mitten?” Roxy followed this sally with another discharge of care-free laughter. You “You’s jealous, Roxy, dat’s what’s de matter wid , you hussy—yah—yah—yah! Dat’s de time I got you!” you “Oh, yes, got me, hain’t you. ’Clah to goodness if dat conceit o’ yo’n strikes in, Jasper, it gwine to kill you sho’. If you b’longed to me I’d sell you down de river ’fo’ you git too fur gone. Fust time I runs acrost yo’ marster, I’s gwine to tell him so.” you This idle and aimless jabber went on and on, both parties enjoying the friendly duel and each well satisfied with his own share of the wit exchanged—for wit they considered it. Wilson stepped to the window to observe the combatants; he could not work while their chatter continued. Over in the vacant lots was Jasper, young, coal-black and of magnificent build, sitting on a wheelbarrow in the pelting sun—at work, supposably, whereas he was in fact only preparing for it by taking an hour’s rest before beginning. In front of Wilson’s porch stood Roxy, with a local hand-made baby-wagon, in which sat her two charges—one at each end and facing each other. From Roxy’s manner of speech, a stranger would have expected her to be black, but she was not. Only one sixteenth of her was black, and that sixteenth did not show. She was of majestic form and stature, her attitudes were imposing and statuesque, and her gestures and movements distinguished by a noble and stately grace. Her complexion was very fair, with the rosy glow of vigorous health in the cheeks, her face was full of character and expression, her eyes were brown and liquid, and she had a heavy suit of fine soft hair which was also brown, but the fact was not apparent because her head was bound about with a checkered handkerchief and the hair was concealed under it. Her face was shapely, intelligent and comely—even beautiful. She had an easy, independent carriage—when she was among her own caste—and a high and “sassy” way, withal; but of course she was meek and humble enough where white people were. To all intents and purposes Roxy was as white as anybody, but the one sixteenth of her which was black outvoted the other fifteen parts and made her a negro. She was a slave, and salable as such. Her child was thirty-one parts white, and he, too, was a slave, and by a fiction of law and custom a negro. He had blue eyes and flaxen curls like his white comrade, but even the father of the white child was able to tell the children apart—little as he had commerce with them—by their clothes: for the white babe wore ruffled soft muslin and a coral necklace, while the other wore merely a coarse tow-linen shirt which barely reached to its knees, and no jewelry. The white child’s name was Thomas à Becket Driscoll, the other’s name was Valet de Chambre: no surname—slaves hadn’t the privilege. Roxana had heard that phrase somewhere, the fine sound of it had pleased her ear, and as she had supposed it was a name, she loaded it on to her darling. It soon got shorted to “Chambers,” of course. Wilson knew Roxy by sight, and when the duel of wit began to play out, he stepped outside to gather in a record or two. Jasper went to work energetically, at once, perceiving that his leisure was observed. Wilson inspected the children and asked— “How old are they, Roxy?” “Bofe de same age, sir—five months. Bawn de fust o’ Feb’uary.” “They’re handsome little chaps. One’s just as handsome as the other, too.” A delighted smile exposed the girl’s white teeth, and she said: “Bless yo’ soul, Misto Wilson, it’s pow’ful nice o’ you to say dat, ’ca’se one of ’em ain’t on’y a nigger. Mighty prime little nigger, al’ays says, but dat’s ’ca’se it’s mine, o’ course.” I “How do you tell them apart, Roxy, when they haven’t any clothes on?” Roxy laughed a laugh proportioned to her size, and said: “Oh, kin tell ’em ’part, Misto Wilson, but I bet Marse Percy couldn’t, not to save his life.” I Wilson chatted along for awhile, and presently got Roxy’s finger-prints for his collection—right hand and left—on a couple of his glass strips; then labeled and dated them, and took the “records” of both children, and labeled and dated them also. Two months later, on the 3d of September, he took this trio of finger-marks again. He liked to have a “series,” two or three “takings” at intervals during the period of childhood, these to be followed by others at intervals of several years. The next day—that is to say, on the 4th of September—something occurred which profoundly impressed Roxana. Mr. Driscoll missed another small sum of money—which is a way of saying that this was not a new thing, but had happened before. In truth it had happened three times before. Driscoll’s patience was exhausted. He was a fairly humane man toward slaves and other animals; he was an exceedingly humane man toward the erring of his own race. Theft he could not abide, and plainly there was a thief in his house. Necessarily the thief must be one of his negroes. Sharp measures must be taken. He called his servants before him. There were three of these, besides Roxy: a man, a woman, and a boy twelve years old. They were not related. Mr. Driscoll said: “You have all been warned before. It has done no good. This time I will teach you a lesson. I will sell the thief. Which of you is the guilty one?” They all shuddered at the threat, for here they had a good home, and a new one was likely to be a change for the worse. The denial was general. None had stolen anything—not money, anyway—a little sugar, or cake, or honey, or something like that, that “Marse Percy wouldn’t mind or miss,” but not money—never a cent of money. They were eloquent in their protestations, but Mr. Driscoll was not moved by them. He answered each in turn with a stern “Name the thief!” The truth was, all were guilty but Roxana; she suspected that the others were guilty, but she did not know them to be so. She was horrified to think how near she had come to being guilty herself; she had been saved in the nick of time by a revival in the colored Methodist Church, a fortnight before, at which time and place she “got religion.” The very next day after that gracious experience, while her change of style was fresh upon her and she was vain of her purified condition, her master left a couple dollars lying unprotected on his desk, and she happened upon that temptation when she was polishing around with a dust-rag. She looked at the money awhile with a steady rising resentment, then she burst out with— “Dad blame dat revival, I wisht it had ’a’ be’n put off till to-morrow!” Then she covered the tempter with a book, and another member of the kitchen cabinet got it. She made this sacrifice as a matter of religious etiquette; as a thing necessary just now, but by no means to be wrested into a precedent; no, a week or two would limber up her piety, then she would be rational again, and the next two dollars that got left out in the cold would find a comforter—and she could name the comforter. Was she bad? Was she worse than the general run of her race? No. They had an unfair show in the battle of life, and they held it no sin to take military advantage of the enemy—in a small way; in a small way, but not in a large one. They would smouch provisions from the pantry whenever they got a chance; or a brass thimble, or a cake of wax, or an emery-bag, or a paper of needles, or a silver spoon, or a dollar bill, or small articles of clothing, or any other property of light value; and so far were they from considering such reprisals sinful, that they would go to church and shout and pray the loudest and sincerest with their plunder in their pockets. A farm smoke-house had to be kept heavily padlocked, for even the colored deacon himself could not resist a ham when Providence showed him in a dream, or otherwise, where such a thing hung lonesome and longed for some one to love. But with a hundred hanging before him the deacon would not take two—that is, on the same night. On frosty nights the humane negro prowler would warm the end of a plank and put it up under the cold claws of chickens roosting in a tree; a drowsy hen would step on to the comfortable board, softly clucking her gratitude, and the prowler would dump her into his bag, and later into his stomach, perfectly sure that in taking this trifle from the man who daily robbed him of an inestimable treasure—his liberty—he was not committing any sin that God would remember against him in the Last Great Day. “Name the thief!” For the fourth time Mr. Driscoll had said it, and always in the same hard tone. And now he added these words of awful import: “I give you one minute”—he took out his watch. “If at the end of that time you have not confessed, I will not only sell all four of you, —I will sell you down the river!” but It was equivalent to condemning them to hell! No Missouri negro doubted this. Roxy reeled in her tracks and the color vanished out of her face; the others dropped to their knees as if they had been shot; tears gushed from their eyes, their supplicating hands went up, and three answers came in the one instant: “I done it!” “I done it!” “I done it!—have mercy, marster—Lord have mercy on us po’ niggers!” “Very good,” said the master, putting up his watch, “I will sell you though you don’t 40deserve it. You ought to be sold down the river.” here The culprits flung themselves prone, in an ecstasy of gratitude, and kissed his feet, declaring that they would never forget his goodness and never cease to pray for him as long as they lived. They were sincere, for like a god he had stretched forth his mighty hand and closed the gates of hell against them. He knew, himself, that he had done a noble and gracious thing, and was privately well pleased with his magnanimity; and that night he set the incident down in his diary, so that his son might read it in after years, and be thereby moved to deeds of gentleness and humanity himself. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Mark Twain (2004). The Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/102/pg102-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Driscoll Spares His Slaves

Days and days went by now, and no Satan

Dick Sands the Boy Captain by Jules Verne, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . DRIFTING DOWN THE STREAM here DRIFTING DOWN THE STREAM. "Off we go!" It was the voice of Hercules addressing Dick Sands, who, frightfully debilitated by recent sufferings, was leaning against Cousin Benedict for support. Dingo was lying at his feet. Mrs. Weldon gradually recovered her consciousness. Looking around her in amazement she caught sight of Dick. "Dick, is it you?" she muttered feebly. The lad with some difficulty arose, and took her hand in his, while Jack overwhelmed him with kisses. "And who would have thought it was you, Hercules, that carried us away?" said the child; "I did not know you a bit; you were so dreadfully ugly." "I was a sort of a devil, you know, Master Jack," Hercules answered; "and the devil is not particularly handsome;" and he began rubbing his chest vigorously to get rid of the white pattern with which he had adorned it. Mrs. Weldon held out her hand to him with a grateful smile. "Yes, Mrs. Weldon, he has saved you, and although he does not own it, he has saved me too," said Dick. "Saved!" repeated Hercules, "you must not talk about safety, for you are not saved yet." And pointing to Benedict, he continued,- "That's where your thanks are due; unless he had come and informed me all about you and where you were, I should have known nothing, and should have been powerless to aid you." It was now five days since he had fallen in with the entomologist as he was chasing the manticora, and unceremoniously had carried him off. As the canoe drifted rapidly along the stream, Hercules briefly related his adventures since his escape from the encampment on the Coanza. He described how he had followed the kitanda which was conveying Mrs. Weldon; how in the course of his march he had found Dingo badly wounded; how he and the dog together had reached the neighbourhood of KazonndÃ©, and how he had contrived to send a note to Dick, intending to inform him of Mrs. Weldon's destination. Then he went on to say that since his unexpected with Cousin Benedict he had watched very closely for a chance to get into the guardeddÃ©pÃ´t, but until now had entirely failed. A celebrated had been passing on his way through the forest, and he had resolved upon impersonating him as a means of gaining the admittance he wanted. His strength made the undertaking sufficiently easy; and having stripped the magician of his paraphernalia, and bound him securely to a tree, he painted his own body with a pattern like that which he observed on his victim's chest, and having attired himself with the magical garments was quite equipped to impose upon the credulous natives. The result of his stratagem they had all that day witnessed. rencontre mganga He had hardly finished his account of himself when Mrs. Weldon, smiling at his success, turned to Dick. "And how, all this time, my dear boy, has it fared with you?" she asked. Dick said,- "I remember very little to tell you. I recollect being fastened to a stake in the river-bed and the water rising and rising till it was above my head. My last thoughts were about yourself and Jack. Then everything became a blank, and I knew nothing more until I found myself amongst the papyrus on the river-bank, with Hercules tending me like a nurse." "You see I am the right sort of " interposed Hercules; "I am a doctor as well as a conjurer." mganga "But tell me, Hercules, how did you save him?" "Oh, it was not a difficult matter by any means," answered Hercules modestly; "it was dark, you know, so that at the proper moment it was quite possible to wade in amongst the poor wretches at the bottom of the trench, and to wrench the stake from its socket. Anybody could have done it. Cousin Benedict could have done it. Dingo, too, might have done it. Perhaps, after all, it was Dingo that did it." "No, no, Hercules, that won't do," cried Jack; "besides, look, Dingo is shaking his head; he is telling you he didn't do it." "Dingo must not tell tales, Master Jack," said Hercules, laughing. But, nevertheless, although the brave fellow's modesty prompted him to conceal it, it was clear that he had accomplished a daring feat, of which few would have ventured to incur the risk. Inquiry was next made after Tom, Bat, ActÃ¦on, and Austin. His countenance fell, and large tears gathered in his eyes as Hercules told how he had seen them pass through the forest in a slave-caravan. They were gone; he feared they were gone for ever. Mrs. Weldon tried to console him with the hope that they might still be spared to meet again some day; but he shook his head mournfully. She then communicated to Dick the terms of the compact that had been entered into for her own release, and observed that under the circumstances it might really have been more prudent for her to remain in KazonndÃ©. "Then I have made a mistake; I have been an idiot, in bringing you away," said Hercules, ever ready to depreciate his own actions. "No," said Dick; "you have made no mistake; you could not have done better; those rascals, ten chances to one, will only get Mr. Weldon into some trap. We must get to Mossamedes before Negoro arrives; once there, we shall find that the Portuguese authorities will lend us their protection, and when old Alvez arrives to claim his 100,000 dollars-" "He shall receive a good thrashing for his pains," said Hercules, finishing Dick's sentence, and chuckling heartily at the prospect. It was agreed on all hands that it was most important that Negoro's arrival at Mossamedes should be forestalled. The plan which Dick had so long contemplated of reaching the coast by descending some river seemed now in a fair way of being accomplished, and from the northerly direction in which they were proceeding it was quite probable that they would ultimately reach the Zaire, and in that case not actually arrive at S. Paul de Loanda; but that would be immaterial, as they would be sure of finding help anywhere in the colonies of Lower Guinea. On finding himself on the river-bank, Dick's first thought had been to embark upon one of the floating islands that are continually to be seen upon the surface of the African streams, but it happened that Hercules during one of his rambles found a native boat that had run adrift. It was just the discovery that suited their need. It was one of the long, narrow canoes, thirty feet in length by three or four in breadth, that with a large number of paddles can be driven with immense velocity, but by the aid of a single scull can be safely guided down the current of a stream. Dick was somewhat afraid that, to elude observation, it would be necessary to proceed only by night, but as the loss of twelve hours out of the twenty-four would double the length of the voyage, he devised the plan of covering the canoe with a roof of long grass, supported by a horizontal pole from stem to stern, and this not only afforded a shelter from the sun, but so effectually concealed the craft, rudder-scull and all, that the very birds mistook it for one of the natural islets, and red-beaked gulls, black and grey and white kingfishers would frequently alight upon it in search of food. arringhas Though comparatively free from fatigue, the voyage must necessarily be long, and by no means free from danger, and the daily supply of provisions was not easy to procure. If fishing failed, Dick had the one gun which Hercules had carried away with him from the ant-hill, and as he was by no means a bad shot, he hoped to find plenty of game, either along the banks or by firing through a loophole in the thatch. The rate of the current, as far as he could tell, was about two miles an hour, enough to carry them about fifty miles a day; it was a speed, however, that made it necessary for them to keep a sharp look-out for any rocks or submerged trunks of trees, as well as to be on their guard against rapids and cataracts. Dick's strength and spirits all revived at the delight of having Mrs. Weldon and Jack restored to him, and he assumed his post at the bow of the canoe, directing Hercules how to use the scull at the stern. A litter of soft grass was made for Mrs. Weldon, who spent most of her time lying thoughtfully in the shade. Cousin Benedict was very taciturn; he had not recovered the loss of the manticora, and frowned ever and again at Hercules, as if he had not yet forgiven him for stopping him in the chase. Jack, who had been told that he must not be noisy, amused himself by playing with Dingo. The first two days passed without any special incident. The stock of provisions was quite enough for that time, so that there was no need to disembark, and Dick merely lay to for a few hours in the night to take a little necessary repose. The stream nowhere exceeded 150 feet in breadth. The floating islands moved at the same pace as the canoe, and except from some unforeseen circumstance, there could be no apprehension of a collision. The banks were destitute of human inhabitants, but were richly clothed with wild plants, of which the blossoms were of the most gorgeous colours; the asclepiae, the gladiolus, the clematis, lilies, aloes, umbelliferae, arborescent ferns and fragrant shrubs, combining on either hand to make a border of surpassing beauty. Here and there the forest extended to the very [Illustration: Hercules could leave the boat without much fear of detection.] shore, and copal-trees, acacias with their stiff foliage, bauhinias clothed with lichen, fig-trees with their masses of pendant roots, and other trees of splendid growth rose to the height of a hundred feet, forming a shade which the rays of the sun utterly failed to penetrate. Occasionally a wreath of creepers would form an arch from shore to shore, and on the 27th, to Jack's great delight, a group of monkeys was seen crossing one of these natural bridges, holding on most carefully by their tails, lest the aerial pathway should snap beneath their weight. These monkeys, belonging to a smaller kind of chimpanzee, which are known in Central Africa by the name of , were hideous creatures with low foreheads, bright yellow faces, and long, upright ears; they herd in troops of about ten, bark like dogs, and are much dreaded by the natives on account of their alleged propensity to carry off young children; there is no telling what predatory designs they might have formed against Master Jack if they had spied him out, but Dick's artifice effectually screened him from their observation. sokos Twenty miles further on the canoe came to a sudden standstill. "What's the matter now, captain?" cried Hercules from the stern. "We have drifted on to a grass barrier, and there is no hope for it, we shall have to cut our way through," answered Dick. "All right, I dare say we shall manage it," promptly replied Hercules, leaving his rudder to come in front. The obstruction was formed by the interlacing of masses of the tough, glossy grass known by the name of , which, when compressed, affords a surface so compact and resisting that travellers have been known by means of it to cross rivers dry-footed. Splendid specimens of lotus plants had taken root amongst the vegetation. tikatika As it was nearly dark, Hercules could leave the boat without much fear of detection, and so effectually did he wield his hatchet that, in two hours after the stoppage, the barrier was hewn asunder, and the light craft resumed the channel. It must be owned that it was with a sense of reluctance that Benedict felt the boat was again beginning to move forward; the whole voyage appeared to him to be perfectly uninteresting and unnecessary; not a single insect had he observed since he left KazonndÃ©, and his most ardent wish was that he could return there and regain possession of his invaluable tin box. But an unlooked for gratification was in store for him. Hercules, who had been his pupil long enough to have an eye for the kind of creature Benedict was ever trying to secure, on coming back from his exertions on the grass-barrier, brought a horrible-looking animal, and submitted it to the sullen entomologist. "Is this of any use to you?" The amateur lifted it up carefully, and having almost poked it into his near-sighted eyes, uttered a cry of delight,- "Bravo, Hercules! you are making amends for your past mischief; it is splendid! it is unique!" "Is it really very curious?" said Mrs. Weldon. "Yes, indeed," answered the enraptured naturalist; "it is really unique; it belongs to neither of the ten orders; it can be classed neither with the coleoptera, neuroptera, nor to the hymenoptera: if it had eight legs I should know how to classify it; I should place it amongst the second section of the arachnida; but it is a hexapod, a genuine hexapod; a spider with six legs; a grand discovery; it must be entered on the catalogue as 'Hexapodes Benedictus.' " Once again mounted on his hobby, the worthy enthusiast continued to discourse with an unwonted vivacity to his indulgent ii* not over attentive audience. Meanwhile the canoe was steadily threading its way over the dark waters, the silence of the night broken only by the rattle of the scales of some crocodiles, or by the snorting of hippopotamuses in the neighbourhood. Once the travellers were startled by a loud noise, such as might [Illustration: It was caused by a troop of a hundred or more elephants.] proceed from some ponderous machinery in motion: it was caused by a troop of a hundred or more elephants that, after feasting through the day on the roots of the forest, had come to quench their thirst at the river-side. But no danger was to be apprehended; lighted by the pale moon that rose over the tall trees, the canoe throughout the night pursued in safety its solitary voyage. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jules Verne (2005). Dick sands, the boy Captain. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3250.html.images This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

DRIFTING DOWN THE STREAM

Dick Sands the Boy Captain by Jules Verne, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . WHITE ANTS here WHITE ANTS. The storm had now burst in full fury, and fortunate it was that a refuge had been found. The rain did not fall in separate drops as in temperate zones, but descended like the waters of a cataract, in one solid and compact mass, in a way that could only suggest the outpour of some vast aerial basin containing the waters of an entire ocean. Contrary, too, to the storms of higher latitudes, of which the duration seems ordinarily to be in inverse ratio to their violence, these African tempests, whatever their magnitude, often last for whole days, furrowing the soil into deep ravines, changing plains to lakes and brooks to torrents, and causing rivers to overflow and cover vast districts with their inundations. It is hard to understand whence such volumes of vapour and electric fluid can accumulate. The earth, upon these occasions, might almost seem to be carried back to the remote period which has been called "the diluvian age." Happily, the walls of the ant-hill were very thick; no beaver-hut formed of pounded earth could be more perfectly water-tight, and a torrent might have passed over it without a particle of moisture making its way through its substance. As soon as the party had taken possession of the tenement, a lantern was lighted, and they proceeded to examine the interior. The cone, which was about twelve feet high inside, was eleven feet wide at the base, gradually narrowing to a sugar-loaf top. The walls and partitions between the tiers of cells were nowhere less than a foot thick throughout. These wonderful erections, the result of the combined labour of innumerable insects, are by no means uncommon in the heart of Africa. Smeathman, a Dutch traveller of the last century, has recorded how he and four companions all at one time occupied the summit of one of them in LoundÃ©. Livingstone noticed some made of red clay, of which the height varied from fifteen to twenty feet; and in NyangwÃ©, Cameron several times mistook one of these colonies for a native camp pitched upon the plain. He described some of these strange edifices as being flanked with small spires, giving them the appearance of a cathedral-dome. The reddish clay of which the ant-hill was composed could leave no doubt upon the mind of a naturalist that it had been formed by the species known as "termes bellicosus;" had it been made of grey or black alluvial soil, it might have been attributed to the "termes mordax" or "termes atrox," formidable names that must awaken anything but pleasure in the minds of all but enthusiast entomologists. In the centre was an open space, surrounded by roomy compartments, ranged one upon another, like the berths of a ship's cabin, and lined with the millions of cells that had been occupied by the ants. This central space was inadequate to hold the whole party that had now made their hurried resort to it, but as each of the compartments was sufficiently capacious to admit one person to occupy it in a sitting posture, Mrs. Weldon, Jack, Nan, and Cousin Benedict were exalted to the upper tier, Austin, Bat, and ActÃ¦on occupied the next story, whilst Tom and Hercules, and Dick Sands himself remained below. Dick soon found that the soil beneath his feet was beginning to get damp, and insisted upon having some of the dry clay spread over it from the base of the cone. "It is a long time," he said, "since we have slept with a roof over our heads; and I am anxious to make our refuge as secure as possible. It may be that we shall have to [Illustration: Cousin Benedict's curiosity was awakened.] stay here for a whole day or more; on the first opportunity I shall go and explore; it may turn out that we are near the stream we are seeking; and perhaps we shall have to build a raft before we start again." Under his direction, therefore, Hercules took his hatchet, and proceeded to break down the lowest range of cells and to spread the dry, brittle clay of which they were composed a good foot thick over the damp floor, taking care not in any way to block up the aperture by which the fresh air penetrated into the interior. It was indeed fortunate that the termites had abandoned their home; had it swarmed with its multitudes of voracious Neuroptera, the ant-hill would have been utterly untenable for human beings. Cousin Benedict's curiosity was awakened, and he was intensely interested in the question of the evacuation, so that he proceeded at once to investigate, if he could, whether the emigration had been recent or otherwise. He took the lantern, and as the result of his scrutiny he soon discovered in a recess what he described as the termites' "storehouse," or the place where the indefatigable insects keep their provisions. It was a large cavity, not far from the royal cell, which, together with the cells for the reception of the young larvae, had been destroyed by Hercules in the course of his flooring operations. Out of this receptacle Benedict drew a considerable quantity of gum and vegetable juices, all in a state so liquid as to demonstrate that they had been deposited there quite recently. "They have only just gone," he exclaimed, with an air of authority, as if he imagined that some one was about to challenge his assertion. "We are not going to dispute your word, Mr. Benedict," said Dick; "here we are; we have taken their place, and shall be quite content for them to keep out of the way, without caring when they went, or where they have gone." "But we must care," retorted Benedict testily; "why they have gone concerns us a good deal; these juices make it evident, from the liquid state in which we find them, that the ants were here this morning, they have not only gone, but they have carried off their young larvae with them; they have been sagacious enough to take warning of some impending danger." "Perhaps they heard that we were coming," said Hercules, laughing. A look of withering scorn was the only answer that the entomologist deigned to give. "Yes, I say," repeated Hercules, "perhaps they heard that we were coming." "Pshaw!" said Benedict contemptuously; "do you imagine they would be afraid of you? they would reduce your carcase to a skeleton in no time, if they found it across their path." "No doubt, if I were dead," replied Hercules, "they could pick my bones pretty clean; but while I had the use of my limbs I think I could crush them by thousands." "Thousands!" ejaculated Benedict, with increasing warmth; "you think you could demolish thousands; but what if they were hundreds of thousands, millions, hundreds of millions? Alive as much as dead, I tell you, they wouldn't be long in consuming every morsel of you." During this brisk little discussion Dick Sands had been pondering over what Benedict had said. There was no doubt that the amateur naturalist was well acquainted with the habits of white ants, and if, as he affirmed, the insects had instinctively quitted their abode on account of some approaching danger, Dick asked himself whether it was safe or prudent for his party to remain. But the fury of the storm was still so great that all possibility of removing from the shelter seemed precluded for the present, and, without inquiring farther into the mystery, he merely said, "Although the ants, Mr. Benedict, have left us their provisions, we must not forget that we have brought our own. We will have our supper now, and to-morrow, when the storm is over, we will see what is to be done." Fatigue had not taken away the appetite of the energetic travellers, and they gladly set about the preparation of their meal. The provisions, of which they had enough for [Illustration: The naturalist now fairly mounted on a favourite hobby.] another two days, had not been injured by the rain. For some minutes the crunching of hard biscuit was the only sound to be heard; Hercules, in particular, seemed to pound away with his huge jaws as with a pair of millstones. Mrs. Weldon was the only one of the party who ate little; and that little was only taken at Dick's earnest solicitation; he could not help noticing, with much concern, that although Jack seemed to be satisfactorily recovering, and, without sign of fever, was sleeping calmly enough on a bed made up of clothes spread out in one of the cells, yet his mother had lost much of her courage, and seemed preoccupied and depressed. Cousin Benedict did due honour to the simple evening repast; not on account of its quantity or quality, but because it gave him an opportunity of holding forth upon the subject of termites. He was much vexed that he had been unable to discover a single specimen in the deserted anthill with which he might illustrate his lecture, but notwithstanding this deficiency he continued to talk, heedless whether any one was listening. "They are wonderful insects," he said; "they belong to the order of the Neuroptera, which have the antennae longer than the head; their mandibles are well-developed, and the inferior pair of wings is generally as large as the superior. There are five families of them; the Panorpide, the Myrmellonide, the Hemerobiide, the Termitine, and the Perlide. I need hardly say that what we are now occupying is a dwelling of the Termitine." At this point Dick became all attention; he was anxious to ascertain whether this discovery of white ants had aroused any suspicion in Benedict's mind that they must be on African soil. The naturalist, now fairly mounted on a favourite hobby, went on with his discourse. "I am sorry not to have a specimen to show you, but these Termitine have four joints in the tarsi, and strong horny mandibles. The family includes, as genera, the Mantispa, the Raphidia, and the Termes, the last commonly known as white ants, amongst which are 'Termes fatalis, Termes lucifugans, Termes mordax,' and several others more or less rare." "And which of them built this ant-hill?" inquired Dick. "The bellicosi!" replied Benedict, pronouncing the name with as much pride as if he were eulogizing the Macedonians or some warlike nation of antiquity. "Bellicosi," he continued, "are to be found of every size. There is as much difference between the largest and the smallest of them as there is between Hercules and a dwarf; the workers are about one-fifth of an inch long; the soldiers, or fighting-ants, are half an inch; whilst the males and females measure four fifths of an inch. There is another curious species, called 'sirafoos,' which are about half an inch long, and have pincers instead of mandibles, and heads larger than their bodies, like sharks. In fact, if sharks and sirafoos were placed in competition, I should be inclined to back the sharks." "And where are these sirafoos most generally to be found?" said Dick cautiously. "In Africa, in the southern and central provinces. Africa may truly be termed the land of ants. Livingstone, in the notes brought home by Stanley, describes a battle which he was fortunate enough to witness between an army of black ants and an army of red. The black ants, or drivers, which are what the natives call sirafoos, got the best of it; and the red ants, or 'tchoongoos,' after a very resolute defence, were obliged to retire defeated, carrying their eggs and young ones with them. Livingstone avows that he never saw the warlike instinct so strongly developed as in these sirafoos; the stoutest man, the largest animal, a lion or an elephant, quails before the grip of their mandibles: no obstacle impedes their progress; no tree is too lofty for them to scale, and they contrive to cross wide streams by forming their own bodies into a kind of suspension bridge. Equally amazing are their numbers; Du Chaillu, another African traveller, relates how it took more than twelve hours for a column of ants to file pass him, without a moment's pause in their march. These numbers, however cease to be so surprising when it is explained that their fecundity is such that a single female of the termites bellicosi has been estimated to produce as many as sixty thousand eggs a day. These Neuroptera furnish the natives with a favourite food, grilled ants being considered a great delicacy." "Have you ever tasted them?" asked Hercules, with a grin. "Never," answered the naturalist; "but I am in hopes I shall have a chance of doing so very soon." "Surely you don't imagine yourself in Africa!" said Tom suddenly. "Africa! no; why should I?" replied Benedict; "but, as I have already seen a tzetsy in America, I do not despair of having the satisfaction of discovering white ants there too. You do not know the sensation I shall make in Europe when I publish my folio volume and its illustrations." It was evident that no inkling of the truth had yet entered poor Benedict's brain, and it seemed likely that it would require demonstration far more striking than any natural phenomena to undeceive the minds of such of the party as were not already in possession of the fatal secret. Although it was nine o'clock, Cousin Benedict went on talking incessantly, regardless of the fact that one by one his audience were falling to sleep in their separate cells. Dick Sands did not sleep, but neither did he interrupt the entomologist by farther questions; Hercules kept up his attention longer than the rest, but at length he too succumbed to weariness, and his eyes and ears were closed to all external sights and sounds. But endurance has limits, and at last Cousin Benedict, having worn himself out, clambered up to the topmost cell of the cone, which he had chosen for his dormitory, and fell into a peaceful slumber. The lantern had been already extinguished. All was darkness and silence within, whilst the storm without still raged with a violence that gave no sign of abatement. Dick Sands himself was the only one of the party who was not partaking in the repose that was so indispensable to them all; but he could not sleep; his every thought was absorbed in the responsibility that rested on him to rescue those under his charge from the dangers that threatened them. Again and again he recalled every incident that had occurred since the loss of Captain Hull and his crew; he remembered the occasion when he had stood with his pistol pointed at Negoro's head; why, oh why, had his hand faltered then? why had he not at that moment hurled the miserable wretch overboard, and thus relieved himself and his partners in trouble from the catastrophe that had since befallen them? Peril was still staring them in the face, and his sole drop of consolation in the bitter cup of despondency was that Mrs. Weldon was still ignorant of their real situation. At that moment, just in the fever of his agony, he felt a light breath upon his forehead; a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a gentle voice murmured in his ear,- "My poor boy, I know everything. God will help us! His will be done!" [Illustration: "My poor boy, I know everything."] About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jules Verne (2005). Dick sands, the boy Captain. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3250.html.images This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

WHITE ANTS

THE RICH BOY

A Journey to the Center of the Earth by Jules Verne, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . THE ASCENT OF MOUNT SNEFFELS here CHAPTER XII - THE ASCENT OF MOUNT SNEFFELS The huge volcano which was the first stage of our daring experiment is above five thousand feet high. Sneffels is the termination of a long range of volcanic mountains, of a different character to the system of the island itself. One of its peculiarities is its two huge pointed summits. From whence we started it was impossible to make out the real outlines of the peak against the grey field of sky. All we could distinguish was a vast dome of white, which fell downwards from the head of the giant. The commencement of the great undertaking filled me with awe. Now that we had actually started, I began to believe in the reality of the undertaking! Our party formed quite a procession. We walked in single file, preceded by Hans, the imperturbable eider-duck hunter. He calmly led us by narrow paths where two persons could by no possibility walk abreast. Conversation was wholly impossible. We had all the more opportunity to reflect and admire the awful grandeur of the scene around. Beyond the extraordinary basaltic wall of the fjord of Stapi we found ourselves making our way through fibrous turf, over which grew a scanty vegetation of grass, the residuum of the ancient vegetation of the swampy peninsula. The vast mass of this combustible, the field of which as yet is utterly unexplored, would suffice to warm Iceland for a whole century. This mighty turf pit, measured from the bottom of certain ravines, is often not less than seventy feet deep, and presents to the eye the view of successive layers of black burned-up rocky detritus, separated by thin streaks of porous sandstone. The grandeur of the spectacle was undoubted, as well as its arid and deserted air. As a true nephew of the great Professor Hardwigg, and despite my preoccupation and doleful fears of what was to come, I observed with great interest the vast collection of mineralogical curiosities spread out before me in this vast museum of natural history. Looking back to my recent studies, I went over in thought the whole geological history of Iceland. This extraordinary and curious island must have made its appearance from out of the great world of waters at a comparatively recent date. Like the coral islands of the Pacific, it may, for aught we know, be still rising by slow and imperceptible degrees. If this really be the case, its origin can be attributed to only one cause—that of the continued action of subterranean fires. This was a happy thought. If so, if this were true, away with the theories of Sir Humphry Davy; away with the authority of the parchment of Arne Saknussemm; the wonderful pretensions to discovery on the part of my uncle—and to our journey! All must end in smoke. Charmed with the idea, I began more carefully to look about me. A serious study of the soil was necessary to negative or confirm my hypothesis. I took in every item of what I saw, and I began to comprehend the succession of phenomena which had preceded its formation. Iceland, being absolutely without sedimentary soil, is composed exclusively of volcanic tufa; that is to say, of an agglomeration of stones and of rocks of a porous texture. Long before the existence of volcanoes, it was composed of a solid body of massive trap rock lifted bodily and slowly out of the sea, by the action of the centrifugal force at work in the earth. The internal fires, however, had not as yet burst their bounds and flooded the exterior cake of Mother Earth with hot and raging lava. My readers must excuse this brief and somewhat pedantic geological lecture. But it is necessary to the complete understanding of what follows. At a later period in the world's history, a huge and mighty fissure must, reasoning by analogy, have been dug diagonally from the southwest to the northeast of the island, through which by degrees flowed the volcanic crust. The great and wondrous phenomenon then went on without violence—the outpouring was enormous, and the seething fused matter, ejected from the bowels of the earth, spread slowly and peacefully in the form of vast level plains, or what are called mamelons or mounds. It was at this epoch that the rocks called feldspars, syenites, and porphyries appeared. But as a natural consequence of this overflow, the depth of the island increased. It can readily be believed what an enormous quantity of elastic fluids were piled up within its centre, when at last it afforded no other openings, after the process of cooling the crust had taken place. At length a time came when despite the enormous thickness and weight of the upper crust, the mechanical forces of the combustible gases below became so great, that they actually upheaved the weighty back and made for themselves huge and gigantic shafts. Hence the volcanoes which suddenly arose through the upper crust, and next the craters, which burst forth at the summit of these new creations. It will be seen that the first phenomena in connection with the formation of the island were simply eruptive; to these, however, shortly succeeded the volcanic phenomena. Through the newly formed openings, escaped the marvelous mass of basaltic stones with which the plain we were now crossing was covered. We were trampling our way over heavy rocks of dark grey color, which, while cooling, had been moulded into six-sided prisms. In the "back distance" we could see a number of flattened cones, which formerly were so many fire-vomiting mouths. After the basaltic eruption was appeased and set at rest, the volcano, the force of which increased with that of the extinct craters, gave free passage to the fiery overflow of lava, and to the mass of cinders and pumice stone, now scattered over the sides of the mountain, like disheveled hair on the shoulders of a Bacchante. Here, in a nutshell, I had the whole history of the phenomena from which Iceland arose. All take their rise in the fierce action of interior fires, and to believe that the central mass did not remain in a state of liquid fire, white hot, was simply and purely madness. This being satisfactorily proved (Q.E.D.), what insensate folly to pretend to penetrate into the interior of the mighty earth! This mental lecture delivered to myself while proceeding on a journey, did me good. I was quite reassured as to the fate of our enterprise; and therefore went, like a brave soldier mounting a bristling battery, to the assault of old Sneffels. As we advanced, the road became every moment more difficult. The soil was broken and dangerous. The rocks broke and gave way under our feet, and we had to be scrupulously careful in order to avoid dangerous and constant falls. Hans advanced as calmly as if he had been walking over Salisbury Plain; sometimes he would disappear behind huge blocks of stone, and we momentarily lost sight of him. There was a little period of anxiety and then there was a shrill whistle, just to tell us where to look for him. Occasionally he would take it into his head to stop to pick up lumps of rock, and silently pile them up into small heaps, in order that we might not lose our way on our return. He had no idea of the journey we were about to undertake. At all events, the precaution was a good one; though how utterly useless and unnecessary—but I must not anticipate. Three hours of terrible fatigue, walking incessantly, had only brought us to the foot of the great mountain. This will give some notion of what we had still to undergo. Suddenly, however, Hans cried a halt—that is, he made signs to that effect—and a summary kind of breakfast was laid out on the lava before us. My uncle, who now was simply Professor Hardwigg, was so eager to advance, that he bolted his food like a greedy clown. This halt for refreshment was also a halt for repose. The Professor was therefore compelled to wait the good pleasure of his imperturbable guide, who did not give the signal for departure for a good hour. The three Icelanders, who were as taciturn as their comrade, did not say a word; but went on eating and drinking very quietly and soberly. From this, our first real stage, we began to ascend the slopes of the Sneffels volcano. Its magnificent snowy nightcap, as we began to call it, by an optical delusion very common in mountains, appeared to me to be close at hand; and yet how many long weary hours must elapse before we reached its summit. What unheard-of fatigue must we endure! The stones on the mountain side, held together by no cement of soil, bound together by no roots or creeping herbs, gave way continually under our feet, and went rushing below into the plains, like a series of small avalanches. In certain places the sides of this stupendous mountain were at an angle so steep that it was impossible to climb upwards, and we were compelled to get round these obstacles as best we might. Those who understand Alpine climbing will comprehend our difficulties. Often we were obliged to help each other along by means of our climbing poles. I must say this for my uncle, that he stuck as close to me as possible. He never lost sight of me, and on many occasions his arm supplied me with firm and solid support. He was strong, wiry, and apparently insensible to fatigue. Another great advantage with him was that he had the innate sentiment of equilibrium—for he never slipped or failed in his steps. The Icelanders, though heavily loaded, climbed with the agility of mountaineers. Looking up, every now and then, at the height of the great volcano of Sneffels, it appeared to me wholly impossible to reach to the summit on that side; at all events, if the angle of inclination did not speedily change. Fortunately, after an hour of unheard-of fatigues, and of gymnastic exercises that would have been trying to an acrobat, we came to a vast field of ice, which wholly surrounded the bottom of the cone of the volcano. The natives called it the tablecloth, probably from some such reason as the dwellers in the Cape of Good Hope call their mountain Table Mountain, and their roads Table Bay. Here, to our mutual surprise, we found an actual flight of stone steps, which wonderfully assisted our ascent. This singular flight of stairs was, like everything else, volcanic. It had been formed by one of those torrents of stones cast up by the eruptions, and of which the Icelandic name is stina. If this singular torrent had not been checked in its descent by the peculiar shape of the flanks of the mountain, it would have swept into the sea, and would have formed new islands. Such as it was, it served us admirably. The abrupt character of the slopes momentarily increased, but these remarkable stone steps, a little less difficult than those of the Egyptian pyramids, were the one simple natural means by which we were enabled to proceed. About seven in the evening of that day, after having clambered up two thousand of these rough steps, we found ourselves overlooking a kind of spur or projection of the mountain—a sort of buttress upon which the conelike crater, properly so called, leaned for support. The ocean lay beneath us at a depth of more than three thousand two hundred feet—a grand and mighty spectacle. We had reached the region of eternal snows. The cold was keen, searching and intense. The wind blew with extraordinary violence. I was utterly exhausted. My worthy uncle, the Professor, saw clearly that my legs refused further service, and that, in fact, I was utterly exhausted. Despite his hot and feverish impatience, he decided, with a sigh, upon a halt. He called the eider-duck hunter to his side. That worthy, however, shook his head. "Ofvanfor," was his sole spoken reply. "It appears," says my uncle with a woebegone look, "that we must go higher." He then turned to Hans, and asked him to give some reason for this decisive response. "Mistour," replied the guide. "Ja, mistour—yes, the mistour," cried one of the Icelandic guides in a terrified tone. It was the first time he had spoken. "What does this mysterious word signify?" I anxiously inquired. "Look," said my uncle. I looked down upon the plain below, and I saw a vast, a prodigious volume of pulverized pumice stone, of sand, of dust, rising to the heavens in the form of a mighty waterspout. It resembled the fearful phenomenon of a similar character known to the travelers in the desert of the great Sahara. The wind was driving it directly towards that side of Sneffels on which we were perched. This opaque veil standing up between us and the sun projected a deep shadow on the flanks of the mountain. If this sand spout broke over us, we must all be infallibly destroyed, crushed in its fearful embraces. This extraordinary phenomenon, very common when the wind shakes the glaciers, and sweeps over the arid plains, is in the Icelandic tongue called "mistour." "Hastigt, hastigt!" cried our guide. Now I certainly knew nothing of Danish, but I thoroughly understood that his gestures were meant to quicken us. The guide turned rapidly in a direction which would take us to the back of the crater, all the while ascending slightly. We followed rapidly, despite our excessive fatigue. A quarter of an hour later Hans paused to enable us to look back. The mighty whirlwind of sand was spreading up the slope of the mountain to the very spot where we had proposed to halt. Huge stones were caught up, cast into the air, and thrown about as during an eruption. We were happily a little out of the direction of the wind, and therefore out of reach of danger. But for the precaution and knowledge of our guide, our dislocated bodies, our crushed and broken limbs, would have been cast to the wind, like dust from some unknown meteor. Hans, however, did not think it prudent to pass the night on the bare side of the cone. We therefore continued our journey in a zigzag direction. The fifteen hundred feet which remained to be accomplished took us at least five hours. The turnings and windings, the no-thoroughfares, the marches and marches, turned that insignificant distance into at least three leagues. I never felt such misery, fatigue and exhaustion in my life. I was ready to faint from hunger and cold. The rarefied air at the same time painfully acted upon my lungs. At last, when I thought myself at my last gasp, about eleven at night, it being in that region quite dark, we reached the summit of Mount Sneffels! It was in an awful mood of mind, that despite my fatigue, before I descended into the crater which was to shelter us for the night, I paused to behold the sun rise at midnight on the very day of its lowest declension, and enjoyed the spectacle of its ghastly pale rays cast upon the isle which lay sleeping at our feet! I no longer wondered at people traveling all the way from England to Norway to behold this magical and wondrous spectacle. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jules Verne (2006). A Journey to the Center of the Earth. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/files/18857/18857-h/18857-h.htm This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

THE ASCENT OF MOUNT SNEFFELS

In the night of the 15th of January 1343

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