Neowise

neowise

Scientific American, Volume XLIII., No. 25, December 18, 1880, by Various, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . VARIEGATION OF LEAVES. here VARIEGATION OF LEAVES. BY JAMES HOGG. At the meeting of the Association of Nurserymen in Chicago, last July, one of our prominent horticulturists described leaf variegation as a disease. Incidentally this brought up the question: Does the graft affect the stock upon which it is inserted? Much confusion of ideas exists upon this subject, largely due to a loose application of the term disease. Strictly speaking, this term is only applicable to that which shows the health of the plant to be impaired. It should be distinguished from aberrant or abnormal forms, for these are not necessarily indicative of disease. Nobody thinks of saying that red or striped roses are diseased because they are departures in color from the white flower of the type species; or that white, yellow, or striped roses are diseased when the color of the type species is red. Nobody thinks of saying that double flowers are evidences of disease in the plant, or that diminution in the size of leaves or variation in their form is a disease. Why then should it be said that because leaves may become of some other color than green, or become party-colored, therefore they are diseased? If it be said that flowers are not leaves, and that therefore the analogy is not a good one, the reply is, that flowers in all their parts, and fruits also, are only leaves differently developed from the type. This fact is a proven one, and so admitted to be by all botanists and vegetable physiologists of the present day. If it be objected that by becoming double, flowers lose the power of reproducing the variety or species, the answer is, that this loss of power is not necessarily the result of disease, but may arise from various other causes. Because an animal is castrated, it surely will not be claimed that therefore it is diseased. In man and in the higher animals the power of reproduction ceases at certain ages, but it cannot therefore be said that such men or animals are diseased. Neither is a redundancy of parts an unequivocal evidence of disease. Topknot fowls and ducks are as healthy as those which do not have such appendages, and a Shetland pony is as healthy as a Percheron horse, notwithstanding the difference in their size and weight. Again, color in block or in variegation is not positive evidence of disease in animal life. The white Caucasian is as healthy as the negro, the copper-colored Malay as the red Indian. The horse, ox, and hog run through white and red to black both in solid and party-color, and all are equally healthy; so with the rabbit, dog, cat, and others of our domestic animals. In wild animals, birds, reptiles, fishes, and insects, it is the same, so that mere difference in color or combinations of color are not evidence of disease. prima facie But some will say this may be true of animal life, but not of plant life. That there is a strong and evident analogy, the one with the other, is now universally admitted by physiologists. Formerly many physiologists considered leaf variegation a disease, because it generally ran in stripes lengthwise of the leaf or in spots. In the former case it was supposed to originate from disease in the leaf cells of the leaf stalk, which, as the cells grow longitudinally, naturally prolonged it to the end of the leaf. But the originating of varieties in which the variegation did not assume this form, with other considerations, has done much to upset this theory. In the variegated leaved snowberry we have the center and border of the leaf green, separated the one from the other by an isolated white or yellow zone. In the zebra-leaved eulalia and the zebra-leaved juncus, from Japan, we have the variegation of the leaf transversely instead of longitudinally, so that according to the old theory we have the anomaly of a healthy portion of the leaf producing an unhealthy portion, and that again a healthy one, and thus alternately along the whole length of the leaf. When we dissect a leaf in its primal development, we find that its cells contain colorless globules, by botanists called chlorophyl or phyto-color; these undergo changes according as they are acted upon by light, oxygen, or other agents, producing green, yellow, red, and other tints. This chlorophyl only exists in the outer or superficial cells of the parenchyma or cellular tissue of the leaf, and thus differs from starch and other substances produced in the internal cells, from which the light is more or less excluded. It is a fatty or wax-like substance, readily dissolved in alcohol or ether. The primal color of all leaves and flowers is white or a pale yellowish hue, as can readily be seen by cutting open a leaf or flower bud. The seed leaves of the French bean are white when they come out of the earth, but they become green an hour afterward under the influence of bright sunshine. A case is on record where in a certain section, some miles in extent, in this country, about the time of the trees coming into leaf, the sun did not shine for twenty days; the leaves developed to nearly their full size, but were of a pale or whitish color; finally, one forenoon the sun shone out fully, and by the middle of the afternoon the trees were in full summer dress. These facts show that the green color of leaves is due to the action of light. Variegation is sometimes produced independently of the chlorophyl, as in and , in which it is produced by a layer of air interposed between the epidermis or outer skin of the leaf and the cells beneath; this gives the leaf a bright, silvery appearance. Begonia argyrostigma Carduus marianus To what, then, are we to ascribe leaf variegation? I think that it is entirely due to diminished root power; by this I do not mean that the roots are diseased, but that they are either in an aberrant or abnormal state; but disease cannot be predicated upon either of these states. To explain: everybody knows to be a strong growing shrub, having umbels of rosy-colored flowers and strong, stout roots; the white flowered variety is quite dwarf, is more leafy and bushy than the species, and has more fibrous and delicate roots than the type; the crisp-leaved variety is still more dwarf, very bushy, and very leafy, and has very fine threadlike roots. This would indicate that the aberrance is in the roots; the two varieties are much more leafy in proportion to their size than the species, so that if the leaves controlled the roots, the latter should have been larger in proportion than those of the species. Again, once when, in the autumn, I was preparing my greenhouse plants for their winter quarters, I cut back a "Lady Plymouth" geranium, which chanced to be set away in a cool and somewhat damp cellar. When discovered the following February and started into growth in the greenhouse it produced nothing but solid green leaves, and never afterward produced a variegated leaf. This I attributed to its having gained greater root power during its long season of rest. By this I mean that the roots had grown and greatly increased in size, although there had not been any leaf growth. That roots under certain circumstances do so is well known. The roots of fir trees have been found alive and growing forty five years after the trunks were felled. The same has occurred in an ash tree after its trunk had been sawn off level with the ground. A root of has been known to keep on growing for twelve years after its top had been destroyed by frost; and in all that time it never made buds or leaves, yet it increased to seven times its original weight. The tuberous roots of some of the will continue to grow and increase in size after the tops have been accidentally broken off; and potatoes buried so deep in the earth that they cannot produce tops will produce a crop of new potatoes. Spirea callosa Ipomea sellowii Tropæolums On the other hand, I have had an oak-leaved geranium overlooked in a corner of the greenhouse until it was almost dried up for lack of water. When its branches were pruned back and it was started into growth only one branch showed the almost black center of the leaf, all the rest were clear green. This was an evident case of diminished root power, but the plant grew as thriftily as ever. The lack of the dark marking in the leaves was equivalent to the variegation in other varieties, only in a reverse direction. In practice, when gardeners wish to produce an abnormal condition in a tree or plant, they will, if they wish to dwarf it, graft it on a species or variety of diminished root power, and contrariwise, if they wish to increase its growth, will graft it upon a stock of strong root power. But in neither case can the graft be said to be diseased by the action of the roots of the stock. When this root power is so far diminished as to produce complete albinism, the shoots from such roots appear to partake of this diminished power, and to lose the power of making roots, and thus become very difficult to propagate. It is sometimes said that albino cuttings cannot be rooted at all, but this is a mistake, for I have succeeded in striking such cuttings from the variegated leaved . It required much care to do it; they did not, however, retain their albino character after they rooted and started into growth. Hydrangea Albinism and white variegation in leaves appear to be due to the chlorophyl in such leaves being able to resist the action of the three (red, yellow, and blue) rays of light. What we call color in any substance or thing is due to its reflecting these different rays in various proportions of combination and absorbing the rest of them, the various proportions giving the various shades of color. White is due to the reflection of all of them, and black to the absorption of them. In some plants with variegated foliage we have the curious fact that the cells containing chlorophyl reflecting one color produce cells which reflect an entirely different color. In the coleus "Lady Burrill," for instance, the lower half of the leaf is of a deep violet-crimson color, and the upper half is golden yellow. In other varieties of coleus, in , and other plants, we have foliage without a particle of green in it, and yet they are perfectly healthy. This shows that green leaves are not absolutely necessary to the health of a plant. Perilla nankiensis As a proof of leaf variegation being a disease, the speaker alluded to cited a case in which a green leaved abutilon, upon which a variegated leaved variety had been grafted, threw out a variegated leaved shoot below the graft. This can easily be explained. The growth of the trunk or stem of all exogenous plants, or those which increase in size on the outside of the stem, is brought about by the descent of certain formative tissue called cambium, elaborated by the leaves and descending between the old wood and the bark, where it is formed into alburnum or woody matter. Some think that it is also formed by the roots and ascends from them as well as descending from the leaves. Be this as it may, there is no doubt about its descent. In such comparatively soft-wooded, free growing plants as the abutilon the descent of the cambium is very free and in considerable quantity, so that the stock would soon be inclosed in a layer of it descending from the graft. When being converted into woody matter it also forms adventitious buds which under certain favorable circumstances will emit shoots of the same character as the graft from which it was derived. The graft is such cases may be said to inclose the stock in a tube of its own substance, leaving the stock unaffected otherwise. The variegated shoot in this case was in reality derived from the downward growth of the graft and not from the original stock, which was not therefore contaminated by the graft. In cases where the stock is of much slower growth than the graft, or the graft is inserted upon a stock of some other species, the descending cambium does not inclose the stock, but makes layers of wood on the stem of the graft, which thus, as is frequently seen, overgrows the stock, sometimes to such an extent as to make it unsightly. Nobody ever saw an apple shoot from a crab stock, a pear from a quince stock, or a peach shoot from a plum stock. This is one of the arguments in favor of the view that cambium also rises from the roots. Again, to show that the stock is not affected by the graft, or the graft by the stock, except as to root power, let any person graft a white beet upon a red beet, or contrariwise, when about the size of a goosequill, and when they have attained their full growth, by dividing the beet lengthwise he will find the line of demarkation between the colors perfectly distinct, neither of them running into the other. The theory that leaf variegation is a disease has been held by many distinguished botanists and is in nowise new. But this theory has been controverted, and we think successfully, by other botanists, and it is not now accepted by the more advanced vegetable physiologists. There are now so many acute and industrious students and observers in every department of science, and the accumulation of facts is so rapid and so great, that very many of the older theories are being set aside as not in accord with the newly discovered facts. A student brought up in institutions where the old theories are inculcated has afterward to spend half his time in unlearning what he had been previously taught, and the other half in studying the new facts brought to his notice and testing the theories promulgated by men of science. Botanical science does not wholly consist in the classification and nomenclature of plants, but largely consists in a knowledge of vegetable anatomy and physiology, and these require much study and some knowledge of other sciences, such as chemistry, meteorology, geology, etc. Without such general knowledge it is difficult to form a harmonious theory in regard to any of the phenomena of plant life. 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 (2007). Scientific American, Volume XLIII., No. 25, December 18, 1880. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/21081/pg21081-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

VARIEGATION OF LEAVES

North and South by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . CHAPTER XLVII. here CHAPTER XLVII. SOMETHING WANTING. “Experience, like a pale musician, holds A dulcimer of patience in his hand; Whence harmonies we cannot understand, Of God’s will in His worlds, the strain unfolds In sad, perplexed minors.” Mrs. Browning. About this time Dixon returned from Milton, and assumed her post as Margaret’s maid. She brought endless pieces of Milton gossip: How Martha had gone to live with Miss Thornton, on the latter’s marriage; with an account of the bridesmaids, dresses and breakfasts, at that interesting ceremony; how people thought that Mr. Thornton had made too grand a wedding of it, considering he had lost a deal by the strike, and had had to pay so much for the failure of his contracts; how little money articles of furniture—long cherished by Dixon—had fetched at the sale, which was a shame considering how rich folks were at Milton; how Mrs. Thornton had come one day and got two or three good bargains, and Mr. Thornton had come the next, and in his desire to obtain one or two things, had bid against himself, much to the enjoyment of the bystanders, so as Dixon observed, that made things even; if Mrs. Thornton paid too little, Mr. Thornton paid too much. Mr. Bell had sent all sorts of orders about the books; there was no understanding him, he was so particular; if he had come himself it would have been all right, but letters always were and always will be more puzzling than they are worth. Dixon had not much to tell about the Higginses. Her memory had an aristocratic bias, and was very treacherous whenever she tried to recall any circumstance connected with those below her in life. Nicholas was very well she believed. He had been several times at the house asking for news of Miss Margaret—the only person who ever did ask, except once Mr. Thornton. And Mary? oh! of course she was very well, a great, stout, slatternly thing! She did hear, or perhaps it was only a dream of hers, though it would be strange if she had dreamt of such people as the Higginses, that Mary had gone to work at Mr. Thornton’s mill, because her father wished her to know how to cook; but what nonsense that could mean she didn’t know. Margaret rather agreed with her that the story was incoherent enough to be like a dream. Still it was pleasant to have some one now with whom she could talk of Milton, and Milton people. Dixon was not over-fond of the subject, rather wishing to leave that part of her life in shadow. She liked much more to dwell upon speeches of Mr. Bell’s, which had suggested an idea to her of what was really his intention—making Margaret his heiress. But her young lady gave her no encouragement, nor in any way gratified her insinuating enquiries, however disguised in the form of suspicions or assertions. All this time Margaret had a strange undefined longing to hear that Mr. Bell had gone to pay one of his business visits to Milton; for it had been well understood between them, at the time of their conversation at Helstone, that the explanation she had desired should only be given to Mr. Thornton by word of mouth, and even in that manner should be in nowise forced upon him. Mr. Bell was no great correspondent, but he wrote from time to time long or short letters, as the humour took him, and although Margaret was not conscious of any definite hope, on receiving them, yet she always put away his notes with a little feeling of disappointment. He was not going to Milton; he said nothing about it at any rate. Well! she must be patient. Sooner or later the mists would be cleared away. Mr. Bell’s letters were hardly like his usual self; they were short, and complaining, with every now and then a little touch of bitterness that was unusual. He did not look forward to the future; he rather seemed to regret the past, and be weary of the present. Margaret fancied that he could not be well; but in answer to some enquiry of hers as to his health, he sent her a short note, saying there was an oldfashioned complaint called the spleen; that he was suffering from that, and it was for her to decide if it was more mental or physical; but that he should like to indulge himself in grumbling, without being obliged to send a bulletin every time. In consequence of this note, Margaret made no more enquiries about his health. One day Edith let out accidentally a fragment of a conversation which she had had with Mr. Bell, when he was last in London, which possessed Margaret with the idea that he had some notion of taking her to pay a visit to her brother and new sister-in-law, at Cadiz, in the autumn. She questioned and cross-questioned Edith, till the latter was weary, and declared that there was nothing more to remember; all he had said was that he half-thought he should go, and hear for himself what Frederick had to say about the mutiny; and that it would be a good opportunity for Margaret to become acquainted with her new sister-in-law; that he always went somewhere during the long vacation, and did not see why he should not go to Spain as well as anywhere else. That was all. Edith hoped Margaret did not want to leave them, that she was so anxious about all this. And then, having nothing else particular to do, she cried, and said that she knew she cared much more for Margaret than Margaret did for her. Margaret comforted her as well as she could, but she could hardly explain to her how this idea of Spain, mere Château en Espagne as it might be, charmed and delighted her. Edith was in the mood to think that any pleasure enjoyed away from her was a tacit affront, or at best a proof of indifference. So Margaret had to keep her pleasure to herself, and could only let it escape by the safety-valve of asking Dixon, when she dressed for dinner, if she would not like to see Master Frederick and his new wife very much indeed? “She’s a Papist, Miss, isn’t she?” “I believe—oh yes, certainly!” said Margaret, a little damped for an instant at this recollection. “And they live in a Popish country?” “Yes.” “Then I’m afraid I must say, that my soul is dearer to me than even Master Frederick, his own dear self. I should be in a perpetual terror, Miss, lest I should be converted.” “Oh,” said Margaret, “I do not know that I am going; and if I go, I am not such a fine lady as to be unable to travel without you. No! dear old Dixon, you shall have a long holiday, if we go. But I’m afraid it is a long ‘if.’” Now Dixon did not like this speech. In the first place, she did not like Margaret’s trick of calling her ‘dear old Dixon’ whenever she was particularly demonstrative. She knew that Miss Hale was apt to call all people that she liked “old,” as a sort of term of endearment; but Dixon always winced away from the application of the word to herself, who, being not much past fifty, was, she thought, in the very prime of life. Secondly, she did not like being so easily taken at her word; she had, with all her terror, a lurking curiosity about Spain, the Inquisition, and Popish mysteries. So, after clearing her throat, as if to show her willingness to do away with difficulties, she asked Miss Hale whether she thought, if she took care never to see a priest, or enter into one of their churches, there would be so very much danger of her being converted? Master Frederick, to be sure, had gone over unaccountably. “I fancy it was love that first predisposed him to conversion,” said Margaret, sighing. “Indeed, Miss!” said Dixon; “well! I can preserve myself from priests, and from churches; but love steals in unawares! I think it’s as well I should not go.” Margaret was afraid of letting her mind run too much upon this Spanish plan. But it took off her thoughts from too impatiently dwelling upon her desire to have all explained to Mr. Thornton. Mr. Bell appeared for the present to be stationary at Oxford, and to have no immediate purpose of going to Milton, and some secret restraint seemed to hang over Margaret, and prevent her from even asking, or alluding again to any probability of such a visit on his part. Nor did she feel at liberty to name what Edith had told her of the idea he had entertained,—it might be but for five minutes,—of going to Spain. He had never named it at Helstone, during all that sunny day of leisure; it was very probably but the fancy of a moment,—but if it were true, what a bright outlet it would be from the monotony of her present life, which was beginning to fall upon her. One of the great pleasures of Margaret’s life at this time was in Edith’s boy. He was the pride and plaything of both father and mother, as long as he was good; but he had a strong will of his own, and as soon as he burst out into one of his stormy passions, Edith would throw herself back in despair and fatigue, and sigh out, “Oh dear, what shall I do with him! Do, Margaret, please ring the bell for Hanley.” But Margaret almost liked him better in these manifestations of character than in his good blue-sashed moods. She would carry him off into a room, where they two alone battled it out; she with a firm power which subdued him into peace, while every sudden charm and wile she possessed was exerted on the side of right, until he would rub his little hot and tear-smeared face all over hers, kissing and caressing till he often fell asleep in her arms or on her shoulder. Those were Margaret’s sweetest moments. They gave her a taste of the feeling that she believed would be denied to her for ever. Mr. Henry Lennox added a new and not disagreeable element to the course of the household life by his frequent presence. Margaret thought him colder, if more brilliant than formerly; but there were strong intellectual tastes, and much and varied knowledge, which gave flavour to the otherwise rather insipid conversation. Margaret saw glimpses in him of a slight contempt for his brother and sister-in-law, and for their mode of life, which he seemed to consider as frivolous and purposeless. He once or twice spoke to his brother, in Margaret’s presence, in a pretty sharp tone of enquiry, as to whether he meant entirely to relinquish his profession; and on Captain Lennox’s reply, that he had quite enough to live upon, she had seen Mr. Lennox’s curl of the lip as he said, “And is that all you live for?” But the brothers were much attached to each other, in the way that any two persons are, when the one is cleverer and always leads the other, and this last is patiently content to be led. Mr. Lennox was pushing on in his profession; cultivating, with profound calculation, all those connections that might eventually be of service to him; keen-sighted, far-seeing, intelligent, sarcastic, and proud. Since the one long conversation relating to Frederick’s affairs, which she had with him the first evening in Mr. Bell’s presence, she had had no great intercourse with him, further than that which arose out of their close relations with the same household. But this was enough to wear off the shyness on her side, and any symptoms of mortified pride and vanity on his. They met, continually, of course, but she thought that he rather avoided being alone with her; she fancied that he, as well as she, perceived that they had drifted strangely apart from their former anchorage, side by side, in many of their opinions, and all their tastes. And yet, when he had spoken unusually well, or with remarkable epigrammatic point, she felt that his eye sought the expression of her countenance first of all, if but for an instant; and that, in the family intercourse which constantly threw them together, her opinion was the one to which he listened with a deference,—the more complete, because it was reluctantly paid, and concealed as much as possible. 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. Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell (2003). North and South. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/4276/pg4276-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

SOMETHING WANTING.

MAGNETISM IN ITS RELATION TO INDUCED ELECTROMOTIVE FORCE AND CURRENT

Scientific American Supplement, No. 717, September 28, 1889, by Various, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . PRESERVATION OF SPIDERS FOR THE CABINET. here PRESERVATION OF SPIDERS FOR THE CABINET. For several years past, I have devoted a portion of my leisure time to the arrangement of the collection of Arachnidæ of the Natural History Museum of the University of Gand. This collection, which is partially a result of my own captures, is quite a large one, for a university museum, since it comprises more than six hundred European and foreign specimens. Each group of individuals of the small forms and each individual of the large forms is contained in a bottle of alcohol closed with a ground glass stopper, and, whenever possible, the specimens have been spread out and fixed upon strips of glass. The loss of alcohol through evaporation is almost entirely prevented by paraffining the stoppers and tying a piece of bladder over them. Properly labeled, the series has a very satisfactory aspect, and is easily consulted for study. The reader, however, will readily understand how much time and patience such work requires, and can easily imagine how great an amount of space the collection occupies, it being at least twenty times greater than that that would be taken up by a collection of an equal number of insects mounted in the ordinary way on pins and kept in boxes. These inconveniences led me to endeavor to find out whether there was not some way of preserving spiders, properly so called, in a dry state, and without distortion or notable modification of their colors. Experience long ago taught me that pure and simple desiccation, after a more or less prolonged immersion in alcohol, gives passable results only with scorpions, galeodes, phrynes, and mygales, and consequently with arachnides having thick integuments, while it is entirely unsuccessful with most of the spiders. The abdomen of these shrivels, the characteristic colors disappear in great part, and the animals become unrecognizable. Something else was therefore necessary, and I thought of carbolated glycerine. My process, which I have tried only upon the common species of the country— , , , etc., having furnished me with preparations that were generally satisfactory. I think I shall be doing collectors a service by publishing it in the . Tegenaria domestica Epeira cucurbitina Zilla inclinata Naturaliste The specimens should first be deprived of moisture, that is to say, they should be allowed to remain eight or ten days in succession in 50 per cent. alcohol and in pure commercial alcohol. Absolute alcohol is not necessary. After being taken from the alcohol, and allowed to drain, the specimens are immersed in a mixture compound of Pure glycerine 2 volumes, Pure carbolic acid in crystals 1 volume. In this they ought to remain at least a week, but there will be no harm if they are left therein indefinitely, so that the collections of summer may be mounted during winter evenings. What follows is a little more delicate, although very easy. After being removed from the carbolated glycerine, the spiders are placed upon several folds of white filtering paper, and are changed from time to time until the greatest part of the liquid has been absorbed. An insect pin is then passed through the cephalothorax of each individual and is inserted in the support upon which the final desiccation is to take place. This support consists of a piece of sheet cork tacked or glued at the edges to a piece of wood at least one inch in thickness. Upon the cork are placed four or five folds of filtering paper, so that the ventral surface of the pinned spider is in contact with this absorbing surface. For the rest, the legs, palpi, spinnerets, etc., are spread out by means of fine pins, precisely as would be done in the case of coleoptera. The setting board is put for two or three months in a very dry place under cover from dust. The spiders thus treated will scarcely have changed in appearance, the abdomen of the largest Epeiras will have preserved its form, the hairs will in nowise have become agglutinated, and a person would never suspect that glycerine had performed the role. The forms with a large abdomen require a special precaution; it is necessary to pass the mounting pin through a piece of thin cardboard or of gelatine prolonged behind under the abdomen, because the latter is heavy, and the pedicel that connects it with the cephalothorax easily breaks. The specimens are mounted in boxes lined with cork, just as insects are. As there is nothing simpler than to have in one's laboratory three bottles, two of them containing alcohol and the other containing carbolated glycerine, and as it is easy to make setting boards capable of holding from twenty to thirty individuals at once, it will be seen that, with a little practice, the method is scarcely any more complicated than the one daily employed for coleoptera and orthoptera, which latter, too, must pass through alcohol, and be pinned, spread out, and dried. There are but two additional elements, carbolated glycerine and absorbent paper. I do not estimate the time necessary for desiccation as being very long, since the zoologist can occupy himself with other subjects while the specimens are drying. Let us add that the process renders the preservation indefinite, and that destructive insects are not to be feared. Some vertebrates, such as monkeys, that I preserved in the flesh ten years ago, by a nearly identical method, are still intact— F. Plateau, in Le Naturaliste. 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 (2006). Scientific American Supplement, No. 717, September 28, 1889. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/17755/pg17755-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

PRESERVATION OF SPIDERS FOR THE CABINET

THE OLD SQUIRE'S TROUBLES.

THE CONTENT OF THE PSYCHOSES

Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology by C. G. Jung, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . CHAPTER V here CHAPTER V On the Significance of Number-Dreams The symbolism of numbers which greatly engaged the imaginative philosophy of earlier centuries has again acquired a fresh interest from the analytic investigations of Freud and his school. But in the material of number-dreams we no longer discover conscious puzzles of symbolic concatenations of numbers but the unconscious roots of the symbolism of numbers. There is scarcely anything quite fundamentally new to offer in this sphere since the presentations of Freud, Adler and Stekel. It must here suffice to corroborate their experiences by recording parallel cases. I have had under observation a few cases of this kind which are worth reporting for their general interest. The first three instances are from a middle-aged married man whose conflict of the moment was an extra-conjugal love affair. The piece of the dream from which I take the symbolised number is: in front of the manager his general subscription. The manager comments on the high number of the subscription. It reads 2477. The analysis of the dream brings out a rather ungentlemanly reckoning up of the expense of the affair, which is foreign to the generous nature of the dreamer, and which the unconscious makes use of as a resistance to this affair. The preliminary interpretation is, therefore, that the number has some financial importance and origin. A rough estimate of the expenses so far leads to a number which in fact approaches 2477 francs; a more exact reckoning, however, gives 2387 francs, which could be only arbitrarily translated into 2477. I then left the numbers to the free association of the patient; it occurs to him that the figure in the dream should be divided as 24-77. Perhaps it is a telephone number; this supposition proves incorrect. The next association is that it is the total of some numbers. A reminiscence then occurs to him that he once told me that he had celebrated the 100th birthday of his mother and himself when his mother was 65 and he was 35 years old. (Their birthdays are on the same day.) In this way the patient arrived at the following series of associations:— He is born on 26 II. His mistress 28 VIII. His wife 1 III. His mother (his father is long dead) 26 II. His two children 29 IV. and 13 VII. The patient is born II. 75. His mistress VIII. 85. He is now 36 years old, his mistress 25. If this series of associations is written in the usual figures, the following addition is arrived at:— This series, which includes all the members of his family, gives the number 2477. This construction led to a deeper layer of the dream's meaning. The patient is most closely united to his family, but on the other hand very much in love. This situation provokes a severe conflict. The detailed description of the manager's appearance (which I leave out for the sake of brevity) pointed to the analyst, from whom the patient rightly fears and desires firm control and criticism of his condition of dependence and bondage. The dream which followed soon afterwards, reported in brief, runs: The analyst asks the patient what he actually does at his mistress'? to which the patient replied he plays there, and that indeed on a very high number, on 152. The analyst remarks: "You are sadly cheated." The analysis displayed again a repressed tendency to reckon up the expense of the affair. The amount spent monthly was close on 152 francs, it was from 148-158 francs. The remark that he was being cheated alludes to the point at issue in the difficulties of the patient with his mistress. She maintains that he had deflowered her; he, on the contrary, is firmly convinced that she was not a virgin, and that she had already been seduced by some one else at the time when he was seeking her favours and she was refusing him. The expression "number" leads to the associations: number of the gloves, calibre-number. From there the next step was to the fact that he recognized, at the first coitus, a noticeable width of the opening instead of the expected resistance of the hymen. To him, this is proof of the deception. The unconscious naturally makes use of this opportunity as an effective means of opposition to the relationship. 152 proves at first refractory to further analysis. The number on a subsequent occasion aroused the really not remote association, "house-number." Then came this series of associations. When the patient first knew her the lady lived at X Street No. 17, then Y Street No. 129, then Z Street No. 48. Here the patient thought that he had clearly gone far beyond 152, the total being 194. It then occurred to him that the lady had removed from No. 48 Z Street at his instigation for certain reasons; it must therefore run 194 - 48 = 146. She now lives in A Street No. 6, therefore 146 + 6 = 152. The following dream was obtained during a later part of the analysis. The patient dreamt that he had received an account from the analyst in which he was charged interest for delay in payment from the period September 3rd to 29th. The interest on the total of 315 francs was 1 franc. Under this reproach of meanness and avariciousness levelled at the analyst, the patient covered, as analysis proved, a violent unconscious envy. Diverse things in the life of the analyst can arouse the patient's envy; one fact here in particular had recently made a marked impression. His physician had received an addition to the family. The disturbed relations between the patient and his wife unfortunately does not permit such an expectation in his case. Hence his ground for envy and invidious comparisons. As before, the analysis of 315 produces a separation into 3—1—5. To three he associates—his doctor has three children, just lately there is one in addition. He himself would have five children were all living; as it is he has 3 - 1 = 2 living; for three of the children were stillborn. The symbolism of the numbers is not exhausted by these associations. The patient remarks that the period from 3rd to 29th September contains twenty-six days. His next thought is to add this and the other figures of the dream: With 342 he carries out the same operation as on 315, splitting it into 3—4—2. Whereas before it came out that his doctor had three children, and then had another, and the patient had five, now it runs: the doctor had three children, and now has four, patient has only two. He remarks on this that the second figure sounds like a rectification in contrast with the wish-fulfilment of the first. The patient, who had discovered this explanation for himself without my help, declared himself satisfied. His physician, however, was not; to him it seemed that the above disclosures did not exhaust the rich possibilities that determined the unconscious images. The patient had, for instance, added to the figure five that of the stillborn children; one was born in the 9th month and two in the 7th. He also emphasised the fact that his wife had had two miscarriages, one in the 5th week and the other in the 7th. Adding these figures together we get the determination of the number 26. It seems as if the number twenty-six were determined by the number of the lost times of pregnancy. This time (twenty-six days) denotes, in the dream, a delay for which the patient was charged one franc interest. He has, in fact, suffered a delay through the lost pregnancies, for his doctor has, during the time the patient has known him, surpassed him with one child. One franc must be one child. We have already seen the tendency of the patient to add together all his children, even the dead ones, in order to outdo his rival. The thought that his physician had outdone him by one child could easily react immediately upon the determination of 1. We will therefore follow up this tendency of the patient and carry on his play with figures, by adding to the figure 26 the two complete pregnancies of nine months each. 26 + 9 + 9 = 44 If we follow the tendency to split up the numbers we get 2 + 6 and 4 + 4, two groups of figures which have only this in common, that each group gives 8 by addition. These numbers are, as we must notice, composed entirely of the months of pregnancy given by the patient. Compare with them those groups of figures which contain the information as to the doctor's fecundity, viz. 315 and 342; it is to be noted that the resemblance lies in their sum-total giving 9 : 9 - 8 = 1. It looks as if here likewise the notion about the differentiation of 1 were carried out. As the patient remarked, 315 seems thus a wish-fulfilment, 342 on the other hand a rectification. An ingenious fancy playing round will discover the following difference between the two numbers: 3 × 1 × 5 = 15.     3 × 4 × 2 = 24.     24 - 15 = 9 Here again we come upon the important figure 9, which neatly combines the reckoning of the pregnancies and births. It is difficult to say where the borderline of play begins; necessarily so, for the unconscious product is the creation of a sportive fancy, of that psychic impulse out of which play itself arises. It is repugnant to the scientific mind to have serious dealings with this element of play, which on all sides loses itself in the vague. But it must be never forgotten that the human mind has for thousands of years amused itself with just this kind of game; it were therefore nothing wonderful if this historic past again compelled admission in dream to similar tendencies. The patient pursues in his waking life similar phantastic tendencies about figures, as is seen in the fact already mentioned of the celebration of the 100th birthday. Their presence in the dream therefore need not surprise us. In a single example of unconscious determination exact proofs are often lacking, but the sum of our experiences entitles us to rely upon the accuracy of the individual discoveries. In the investigation of free creative phantasy we are in the region, almost more than anywhere else, of broad empiricism; a high measure of discretion as to the accuracy of individual results is consequently required, but this in nowise obliges us to pass over in silence what is active and living, for fear of being execrated as unscientific. There must be no parleying with the superstition-phobia of the modern mind; for this itself is a means by which the secrets of the unconscious are kept veiled. It is of special interest to see how the problems of the patient are mirrored in the unconscious of his wife. His wife had the following dream: She dreamt, and this is the whole dream: "Luke 137." The analysis of the number gives the following. To 1 she associates: The doctor has another child. He had three. If all her children were living she would have 7; now she has only 3 - 1 = 2. But she desires 1 + 3 + 7 = 11 (a twin number, 1 and 1), which expresses her wish that her two children had been pairs of twins, for then she would have reached the same number of children as the doctor. Her mother once had twins. The hope of getting a child by her husband is very precarious; this had for a long time turned her ideas in the unconscious towards a second marriage. Other phantasies pictured her as "done with," i.e. having reached the climacteric at 44. She is now 33 years old, therefore in 11 years she will have reached her 44th year. This is an important period as her father died in his 44th year. Her phantasy of the 44th year contains the idea of the death of her father. The emphasis on the death of her father corresponds to the repressed phantasy of the death of her husband, who is the obstacle to a second marriage. At this place the material belonging to the dream "Luke 137" comes in to solve the conflict. The dreamer is, one soon discovers, in no wise well up in her Bible, she has not read it for an incredible time, she is not at all religious. It would be therefore quite purposeless to have recourse to associations here. The dreamer's ignorance of her Bible is so great that she did not even know that the citation "Luke 137" could only refer to the Gospel of St. Luke. When she turned up the New Testament she came to the Acts of the Apostles. As chapter i. has only 26 verses and not 37, she took the 7th verse, "It is not for you to know the times or the seasons, which the Father hath put in his own power." But if we turn to Luke i. 37, we find the Annunciation of the Virgin. Verse 35. The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God. Verse 36. And, behold, thy cousin Elisabeth, she hath also conceived a son in her old age: and this is the sixth month with her, who was called barren. Verse 37. For with God nothing shall be impossible. The necessary continuation of the analysis of "Luke 137" demanded the looking up of Luke xiii. 7, where it says: Verse 6. A certain man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came and sought fruit thereon, and found none. Verse 7. Then said he unto the dresser of his vineyard, Behold, these three years I come seeking fruit on this fig tree, and find none: cut it down; why cumbereth it the ground? The fig-tree, which from antiquity has been a symbol of the male genital, is to be cut down on account of its unfruitfulness. This passage is in complete accord with innumerable sadistic phantasies of the dreamer, concerned with the cutting or biting off of the penis. The relation to her husband's unfruitful organ is obvious. That she withdraws her libido from her husband is clear for he is impotent as regard herself; it is equally clear that she undergoes regression to the father ("which the father hath put in his own power") and identifies herself with her mother who had twins.By thus advancing her age the dreamer places her husband in regard to herself in the position of a son or boy, of an age at which impotency is normal. Furthermore, the desire to overcome her husband is easily understood from, and amply evidenced in her earlier analysis. It is therefore only a confirmation of what has been already said, if, following up the matter of "Luke 137," we find in Luke vii. verse 12, Now when he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold, there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow. (13) And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not. (14) And he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise. In the particular psychological situation of the dreamer, the allusion to the resurrection presents a delightful meaning as the cure of her husband's impotency. Then the whole problem would be solved. There is no need for me to point out in so many words the numerous wish-fulfilments contained in this material; they are obvious to the reader. The important combination of the symbol "Luke 137" must be conceived as cryptomnesia, since the dreamer is quite unversed in the Bible. Both Flournoy and myself have already drawn attention to the important effects of this phenomenon. So far as one can be humanly certain, the question of any manipulation of the material with intent to deceive does not come into consideration in this case. Those well posted in psychoanalysis will be able to allay any such suspicion simply from the disposition and setting of the material as a whole. 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. C. G. Jung (2015). Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/48225/pg48225-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

On the Significance of Number-Dreams

The Small End of the Wedge

Miss Thorne Goes on a Visit

Sentence of Exile

Dr Thorne became settled for life in the little village of Greshamsbury

Long, Long Ago

Alice Vavasor Becomes Troubled

John Grey Goes to London

Five Weeks in a Balloon by Jules Verne, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Chapter XXI here CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST. Strange Sounds.—A Night Attack.—Kennedy and Joe in the Tree.—Two Shots.—“Help! help!”—Reply in French.—The Morning.—The Missionary.—The Plan of Rescue. The night came on very dark. The doctor had not been able to reconnoitre the country. He had made fast to a very tall tree, from which he could distinguish only a confused mass through the gloom. As usual, he took the nine-o’clock watch, and at midnight Dick relieved him. “Keep a sharp lookout, Dick!” was the doctor’s good-night injunction. “Is there any thing new on the carpet?” “No; but I thought that I heard vague sounds below us, and, as I don’t exactly know where the wind has carried us to, even an excess of caution would do no harm.” “You’ve probably heard the cries of wild beasts.” “No! the sounds seemed to me something altogether different from that; at all events, on the least alarm don’t fail to waken us.” “I’ll do so, doctor; rest easy.” After listening attentively for a moment or two longer, the doctor, hearing nothing more, threw himself on his blankets and went asleep. The sky was covered with dense clouds, but not a breath of air was stirring; and the balloon, kept in its place by only a single anchor, experienced not the slightest oscillation. Kennedy, leaning his elbow on the edge of the car, so as to keep an eye on the cylinder, which was actively at work, gazed out upon the calm obscurity; he eagerly scanned the horizon, and, as often happens to minds that are uneasy or possessed with preconceived notions, he fancied that he sometimes detected vague gleams of light in the distance. At one moment he even thought that he saw them only two hundred paces away, quite distinctly, but it was a mere flash that was gone as quickly as it came, and he noticed nothing more. It was, no doubt, one of those luminous illusions that sometimes impress the eye in the midst of very profound darkness. Kennedy was getting over his nervousness and falling into his wandering meditations again, when a sharp whistle pierced his ear. Was that the cry of an animal or of a night-bird, or did it come from human lips? Kennedy, perfectly comprehending the gravity of the situation, was on the point of waking his companions, but he reflected that, in any case, men or animals, the creatures that he had heard must be out of reach. So he merely saw that his weapons were all right, and then, with his night-glass, again plunged his gaze into space. It was not long before he thought he could perceive below him vague forms that seemed to be gliding toward the tree, and then, by the aid of a ray of moonlight that shot like an electric flash between two masses of cloud, he distinctly made out a group of human figures moving in the shadow. The adventure with the dog-faced baboons returned to his memory, and he placed his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. The latter was awake in a moment. “Silence!” said Dick. “Let us speak below our breath.” “Has any thing happened?” “Yes, let us waken Joe.” The instant that Joe was aroused, Kennedy told him what he had seen. “Those confounded monkeys again!” said Joe. “Possibly, but we must be on our guard.” “Joe and I,” said Kennedy, “will climb down the tree by the ladder.” “And, in the meanwhile,” added the doctor, “I will take my measures so that we can ascend rapidly at a moment’s warning.” “Agreed!” “Let us go down, then!” said Joe. “Don’t use your weapons, excepting at the last extremity! It would be a useless risk to make the natives aware of our presence in such a place as this.” Dick and Joe replied with signs of assent, and then letting themselves slide noiselessly toward the tree, took their position in a fork among the strong branches where the anchor had caught. For some moments they listened minutely and motionlessly among the foliage, and ere long Joe seized Kenedy’s hand as he heard a sort of rubbing sound against the bark of the tree. “Don’t you hear that?” he whispered. “Yes, and it’s coming nearer.” “Suppose it should be a serpent? That hissing or whistling that you heard before—” “No! there was something human in it.” “I’d prefer the savages, for I have a horror of those snakes.” “The noise is increasing,” said Kennedy, again, after a lapse of a few moments. “Yes! something’s coming up toward us—climbing.” “Keep watch on this side, and I’ll take care of the other.” “Very good!” There they were, isolated at the top of one of the larger branches shooting out in the midst of one of those miniature forests called baobab-trees. The darkness, heightened by the density of the foliage, was profound; however, Joe, leaning over to Kennedy’s ear and pointing down the tree, whispered: “The blacks! They’re climbing toward us.” The two friends could even catch the sound of a few words uttered in the lowest possible tones. Joe gently brought his rifle to his shoulder as he spoke. “Wait!” said Kennedy. Some of the natives had really climbed the baobab, and now they were seen rising on all sides, winding along the boughs like reptiles, and advancing slowly but surely, all the time plainly enough discernible, not merely to the eye but to the nostrils, by the horrible odors of the rancid grease with which they bedaub their bodies. Ere long, two heads appeared to the gaze of Kennedy and Joe, on a level with the very branch to which they were clinging. “Attention!” said Kennedy. “Fire!” The double concussion resounded like a thunderbolt and died away into cries of rage and pain, and in a moment the whole horde had disappeared. But, in the midst of these yells and howls, a strange, unexpected—nay what seemed an impossible—cry had been heard! A human voice had, distinctly, called aloud in the French language— “Help! help!” Kennedy and Joe, dumb with amazement, had regained the car immediately. “Did you hear that?” the doctor asked them. “Undoubtedly, that supernatural cry, ‘ ’ comes from a Frenchman in the hands of these barbarians!” À moi! à moi! “A traveller.” “A missionary, perhaps.” “Poor wretch!” said Kennedy, “they’re assassinating him—making a martyr of him!” The doctor then spoke, and it was impossible for him to conceal his emotions. “There can be no doubt of it,” he said; “some unfortunate Frenchman has fallen into the hands of these savages. We must not leave this place without doing all in our power to save him. When he heard the sound of our guns, he recognized an unhoped-for assistance, a providential interposition. We shall not disappoint his last hope. Are such your views?” “They are, doctor, and we are ready to obey you.” “Let us, then, lay our heads together to devise some plan, and in the morning we’ll try to rescue him.” “But how shall we drive off those abominable blacks?” asked Kennedy. “It’s quite clear to me, from the way in which they made off, that they are unacquainted with fire-arms. We must, therefore, profit by their fears; but we shall await daylight before acting, and then we can form our plans of rescue according to circumstances.” “The poor captive cannot be far off,” said Joe, “because—” “Help! help!” repeated the voice, but much more feebly this time. “The savage wretches!” exclaimed Joe, trembling with indignation. “Suppose they should kill him to-night!” “Do you hear, doctor,” resumed Kennedy, seizing the doctor’s hand. “Suppose they should kill him to-night!” “It is not at all likely, my friends. These savage tribes kill their captives in broad daylight; they must have the sunshine.” “Now, if I were to take advantage of the darkness to slip down to the poor fellow?” said Kennedy. “And I’ll go with you,” said Joe, warmly. “Pause, my friends—pause! The suggestion does honor to your hearts and to your courage; but you would expose us all to great peril, and do still greater harm to the unfortunate man whom you wish to aid.” “Why so?” asked Kennedy. “These savages are frightened and dispersed: they will not return.” “Dick, I implore you, heed what I say. I am acting for the common good; and if by any accident you should be taken by surprise, all would be lost.” “But, think of that poor wretch, hoping for aid, waiting there, praying, calling aloud. Is no one to go to his assistance? He must think that his senses deceived him; that he heard nothing!” “We can reassure him, on that score,” said Dr. Ferguson—and, standing erect, making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, he shouted at the top of his voice, in French: “Whoever you are, be of good cheer! Three friends are watching over you.” A terrific howl from the savages responded to these words—no doubt drowning the prisoner’s reply. “They are murdering him! they are murdering him!” exclaimed Kennedy. “Our interference will have served no other purpose than to hasten the hour of his doom. We must act!” “But how, Dick? What do you expect to do in the midst of this darkness?” “Oh, if it was only daylight!” sighed Joe. “Well, and suppose it were daylight?” said the doctor, in a singular tone. “Nothing more simple, doctor,” said Kennedy. “I’d go down and scatter all these savage villains with powder and ball!” “And you, Joe, what would you do?” “I, master? why, I’d act more prudently, maybe, by telling the prisoner to make his escape in a certain direction that we’d agree upon.” “And how would you get him to know that?” “By means of this arrow that I caught flying the other day. I’d tie a note to it, or I’d just call out to him in a loud voice what you want him to do, because these black fellows don’t understand the language that you’d speak in!” “Your plans are impracticable, my dear friends. The greatest difficulty would be for this poor fellow to escape at all—even admitting that he should manage to elude the vigilance of his captors. As for you, my dear Dick, with determined daring, and profiting by their alarm at our fire-arms, your project might possibly succeed; but, were it to fail, you would be lost, and we should have two persons to save instead of one. No! we must put the chances on side, and go to work differently.” all our “But let us act at once!” said the hunter. “Perhaps we may,” said the doctor, throwing considerable stress upon the words. “Why, doctor, can you light up such darkness as this?” “Who knows, Joe?” “Ah! if you can do that, you’re the greatest learned man in the world!” The doctor kept silent for a few moments; he was thinking. His two companions looked at him with much emotion, for they were greatly excited by the strangeness of the situation. Ferguson at last resumed: “Here is my plan: We have two hundred pounds of ballast left, since the bags we brought with us are still untouched. I’ll suppose that this prisoner, who is evidently exhausted by suffering, weighs as much as one of us; there will still remain sixty pounds of ballast to throw out, in case we should want to ascend suddenly.” “How do you expect to manage the balloon?” asked Kennedy. “This is the idea, Dick: you will admit that if I can get to the prisoner, and throw out a quantity of ballast, equal to his weight, I shall have in nowise altered the equilibrium of the balloon. But, then, if I want to get a rapid ascension, so as to escape these savages, I must employ means more energetic than the cylinder. Well, then, in throwing out this overplus of ballast at a given moment, I am certain to rise with great rapidity.” “That’s plain enough.” “Yes; but there is one drawback: it consists in the fact that, in order to descend after that, I should have to part with a quantity of gas proportionate to the surplus ballast that I had thrown out. Now, the gas is precious; but we must not haggle over it when the life of a fellow-creature is at stake.” “You are right, sir; we must do every thing in our power to save him.” “Let us work, then, and get these bags all arranged on the rim of the car, so that they may be thrown overboard at one movement.” “But this darkness?” “It hides our preparations, and will be dispersed only when they are finished. Take care to have all our weapons close at hand. Perhaps we may have to fire; so we have one shot in the rifle; four for the two muskets; twelve in the two revolvers; or seventeen in all, which might be fired in a quarter of a minute. But perhaps we shall not have to resort to all this noisy work. Are you ready?” “We’re ready,” responded Joe. The sacks were placed as requested, and the arms were put in good order. “Very good!” said the doctor. “Have an eye to every thing. Joe will see to throwing out the ballast, and Dick will carry off the prisoner; but let nothing be done until I give the word. Joe will first detach the anchor, and then quickly make his way back to the car.” Joe let himself slide down by the rope; and, in a few moments, reappeared at his post; while the balloon, thus liberated, hung almost motionless in the air. In the mean time the doctor assured himself of the presence of a sufficient quantity of gas in the mixing-tank to feed the cylinder, if necessary, without there being any need of resorting for some time to the Buntzen battery. He then took out the two perfectly-isolated conducting-wires, which served for the decomposition of the water, and, searching in his travelling-sack, brought forth two pieces of charcoal, cut down to a sharp point, and fixed one at the end of each wire. His two friends looked on, without knowing what he was about, but they kept perfectly silent. When the doctor had finished, he stood up erect in the car, and, taking the two pieces of charcoal, one in each hand, drew their points nearly together. In a twinkling, an intense and dazzling light was produced, with an insupportable glow between the two pointed ends of charcoal, and a huge jet of electric radiance literally broke the darkness of the night. “Oh!” ejaculated the astonished friends. “Not a word!” cautioned the doctor. 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 (2002). Five Weeks in a Balloon. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3526/pg3526-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

Strange Sounds

Anne's House of Dreams by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . SPRING DAYS CHAPTER 18. SPRING DAYS The ice in the harbor grew black and rotten in the March suns; in April there were blue waters and a windy, white-capped gulf again; and again the Four Winds light begemmed the twilights. "I'm so glad to see it once more," said Anne, on the first evening of its reappearance. "I've missed it so all winter. The northwestern sky has seemed blank and lonely without it." The land was tender with brand-new, golden-green, baby leaves. There was an emerald mist on the woods beyond the Glen. The seaward valleys were full of fairy mists at dawn. Vibrant winds came and went with salt foam in their breath. The sea laughed and flashed and preened and allured, like a beautiful, coquettish woman. The herring schooled and the fishing village woke to life. The harbor was alive with white sails making for the channel. The ships began to sail outward and inward again. "On a spring day like this," said Anne, "I know exactly what my soul will feel like on the resurrection morning." "There are times in spring when I sorter feel that I might have been a poet if I'd been caught young," remarked Captain Jim. "I catch myself conning over old lines and verses I heard the schoolmaster reciting sixty years ago. They don't trouble me at other times. Now I feel as if I had to get out on the rocks or the fields or the water and spout them." Captain Jim had come up that afternoon to bring Anne a load of shells for her garden, and a little bunch of sweet-grass which he had found in a ramble over the sand dunes. "It's getting real scarce along this shore now," he said. "When I was a boy there was a-plenty of it. But now it's only once in a while you'll find a plot—and never when you're looking for it. You jest have to stumble on it—you're walking along on the sand hills, never thinking of sweet-grass—and all at once the air is full of sweetness—and there's the grass under your feet. I favor the smell of sweet-grass. It always makes me think of my mother." "She was fond of it?" asked Anne. "Not that I knows on. Dunno's she ever saw any sweet-grass. No, it's because it has a kind of motherly perfume—not too young, you understand—something kind of seasoned and wholesome and dependable—jest like a mother. The schoolmaster's bride always kept it among her handkerchiefs. You might put that little bunch among yours, Mistress Blythe. I don't like these boughten scents—but a whiff of sweet-grass belongs anywhere a lady does." Anne had not been especially enthusiastic over the idea of surrounding her flower beds with quahog shells; as a decoration they did not appeal to her on first thought. But she would not have hurt Captain Jim's feelings for anything; so she assumed a virtue she did not at first feel, and thanked him heartily. And when Captain Jim had proudly encircled every bed with a rim of the big, milk-white shells, Anne found to her surprise that she liked the effect. On a town lawn, or even up at the Glen, they would not have been in keeping, but here, in the old-fashioned, sea-bound garden of the little house of dreams, they BELONGED. "They DO look nice," she said sincerely. "The schoolmaster's bride always had cowhawks round her beds," said Captain Jim. "She was a master hand with flowers. She LOOKED at 'em—and touched 'em—SO—and they grew like mad. Some folks have that knack—I reckon you have it, too, Mistress Blythe." "Oh, I don't know—but I love my garden, and I love working in it. To potter with green, growing things, watching each day to see the dear, new sprouts come up, is like taking a hand in creation, I think. Just now my garden is like faith—the substance of things hoped for. But bide a wee." "It always amazes me to look at the little, wrinkled brown seeds and think of the rainbows in 'em," said Captain Jim. "When I ponder on them seeds I don't find it nowise hard to believe that we've got souls that'll live in other worlds. You couldn't hardly believe there was life in them tiny things, some no bigger than grains of dust, let alone color and scent, if you hadn't seen the miracle, could you?" Anne, who was counting her days like silver beads on a rosary, could not now take the long walk to the lighthouse or up the Glen road. But Miss Cornelia and Captain Jim came very often to the little house. Miss Cornelia was the joy of Anne's and Gilbert's existence. They laughed side-splittingly over her speeches after every visit. When Captain Jim and she happened to visit the little house at the same time there was much sport for the listening. They waged wordy warfare, she attacking, he defending. Anne once reproached the Captain for his baiting of Miss Cornelia. "Oh, I do love to set her going, Mistress Blythe," chuckled the unrepentant sinner. "It's the greatest amusement I have in life. That tongue of hers would blister a stone. And you and that young dog of a doctor enj'y listening to her as much as I do." Captain Jim came along another evening to bring Anne some mayflowers. The garden was full of the moist, scented air of a maritime spring evening. There was a milk-white mist on the edge of the sea, with a young moon kissing it, and a silver gladness of stars over the Glen. The bell of the church across the harbor was ringing dreamily sweet. The mellow chime drifted through the dusk to mingle with the soft spring-moan of the sea. Captain Jim's mayflowers added the last completing touch to the charm of the night. "I haven't seen any this spring, and I've missed them," said Anne, burying her face in them. "They ain't to be found around Four Winds, only in the barrens away behind the Glen up yander. I took a little trip today to the Land-of-nothing-to-do, and hunted these up for you. I reckon they're the last you'll see this spring, for they're nearly done." "How kind and thoughtful you are, Captain Jim. Nobody else—not even Gilbert"—with a shake of her head at him—"remembered that I always long for mayflowers in spring." "Well, I had another errand, too—I wanted to take Mr. Howard back yander a mess of trout. He likes one occasional, and it's all I can do for a kindness he did me once. I stayed all the afternoon and talked to him. He likes to talk to me, though he's a highly eddicated man and I'm only an ignorant old sailor, because he's one of the folks that's GOT to talk or they're miserable, and he finds listeners scarce around here. The Glen folks fight shy of him because they think he's an infidel. He ain't that far gone exactly—few men is, I reckon—but he's what you might call a heretic. Heretics are wicked, but they're mighty int'resting. It's jest that they've got sorter lost looking for God, being under the impression that He's hard to find—which He ain't never. Most of 'em blunder to Him after awhile, I guess. I don't think listening to Mr. Howard's arguments is likely to do me much harm. Mind you, I believe what I was brought up to believe. It saves a vast of bother—and back of it all, God is good. The trouble with Mr. Howard is that he's a leetle TOO clever. He thinks that he's bound to live up to his cleverness, and that it's smarter to thrash out some new way of getting to heaven than to go by the old track the common, ignorant folks is travelling. But he'll get there sometime all right, and then he'll laugh at himself." "Mr. Howard was a Methodist to begin with," said Miss Cornelia, as if she thought he had not far to go from that to heresy. "Do you know, Cornelia," said Captain Jim gravely, "I've often thought that if I wasn't a Presbyterian I'd be a Methodist." "Oh, well," conceded Miss Cornelia, "if you weren't a Presbyterian it wouldn't matter much what you were. Speaking of heresy, reminds me, doctor—I've brought back that book you lent me—that Natural Law in the Spiritual World—I didn't read more'n a third of it. I can read sense, and I can read nonsense, but that book is neither the one nor the other." "It IS considered rather heretical in some quarters," admitted Gilbert, "but I told you that before you took it, Miss Cornelia." "Oh, I wouldn't have minded its being heretical. I can stand wickedness, but I can't stand foolishness," said Miss Cornelia calmly, and with the air of having said the last thing there was to say about Natural Law. "Speaking of books, A Mad Love come to an end at last two weeks ago," remarked Captain Jim musingly. "It run to one hundred and three chapters. When they got married the book stopped right off, so I reckon their troubles were all over. It's real nice that that's the way in books anyhow, isn't it, even if 'tistn't so anywhere else?" "I never read novels," said Miss Cornelia. "Did you hear how Geordie Russell was today, Captain Jim?" "Yes, I called in on my way home to see him. He's getting round all right—but stewing in a broth of trouble, as usual, poor man. "'Course he brews up most of it for himself, but I reckon that don't make it any easier to bear." "He's an awful pessimist," said Miss Cornelia. "Well, no, he ain't a pessimist exactly, Cornelia. He only jest never finds anything that suits him." "And isn't that a pessimist?" "No, no. A pessimist is one who never expects to find anything to suit him. Geordie hain't got THAT far yet." "You'd find something good to say of the devil himself, Jim Boyd." "Well, you've heard the story of the old lady who said he was persevering. But no, Cornelia, I've nothing good to say of the devil." "Do you believe in him at all?" asked Miss Cornelia seriously. "How can you ask that when you know what a good Presbyterian I am, Cornelia? How could a Presbyterian get along without a devil?" "DO you?" persisted Miss Cornelia. Captain Jim suddenly became grave. "I believe in what I heard a minister once call 'a mighty and malignant and INTELLIGENT power of evil working in the universe,'" he said solemnly. "I do THAT, Cornelia. You can call it the devil, or the 'principle of evil,' or the Old Scratch, or any name you like. It's THERE, and all the infidels and heretics in the world can't argue it away, any more'n they can argue God away. It's there, and it's working. But, mind you, Cornelia, I believe it's going to get the worst of it in the long run." "I am sure I hope so," said Miss Cornelia, none too hopefully. "But speaking of the devil, I am positive that Billy Booth is possessed by him now. Have you heard of Billy's latest performance?" "No, what was that?" "He's gone and burned up his wife's new, brown broadcloth suit, that she paid twenty-five dollars for in Charlottetown, because he declares the men looked too admiring at her when she wore it to church the first time. Wasn't that like a man?" "Mistress Booth IS mighty pretty, and brown's her color," said Captain Jim reflectively. "Is that any good reason why he should poke her new suit into the kitchen stove? Billy Booth is a jealous fool, and he makes his wife's life miserable. She's cried all the week about her suit. Oh, Anne, I wish I could write like you, believe ME. Wouldn't I score some of the men round here!" "Those Booths are all a mite queer," said Captain Jim. "Billy seemed the sanest of the lot till he got married and then this queer jealous streak cropped out in him. His brother Daniel, now, was always odd." "Took tantrums every few days or so and wouldn't get out of bed," said Miss Cornelia with a relish. "His wife would have to do all the barn work till he got over his spell. When he died people wrote her letters of condolence; if I'd written anything it would have been one of congratulation. Their father, old Abram Booth, was a disgusting old sot. He was drunk at his wife's funeral, and kept reeling round and hiccuping 'I didn't dri—i—i—nk much but I feel a—a—awfully que—e—e—r.' I gave him a good jab in the back with my umbrella when he came near me, and it sobered him up until they got the casket out of the house. Young Johnny Booth was to have been married yesterday, but he couldn't be because he's gone and got the mumps. Wasn't that like a man?" "How could he help getting the mumps, poor fellow?" "I'd poor fellow him, believe ME, if I was Kate Sterns. I don't know how he could help getting the mumps, but I DO know the wedding supper was all prepared and everything will be spoiled before he's well again. Such a waste! He should have had the mumps when he was a boy." "Come, come, Cornelia, don't you think you're a mite unreasonable?" Miss Cornelia disdained to reply and turned instead to Susan Baker, a grim-faced, kind-hearted elderly spinster of the Glen, who had been installed as maid-of-all-work at the little house for some weeks. Susan had been up to the Glen to make a sick call, and had just returned. "How is poor old Aunt Mandy tonight?" asked Miss Cornelia. Susan sighed. "Very poorly—very poorly, Cornelia. I am afraid she will soon be in heaven, poor thing!" "Oh, surely, it's not so bad as that!" exclaimed Miss Cornelia, sympathetically. Captain Jim and Gilbert looked at each other. Then they suddenly rose and went out. "There are times," said Captain Jim, between spasms, "when it would be a sin NOT to laugh. Them two excellent women!" 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. L. M. Montgomery (1996). Anne's House of Dreams. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/544/pg544-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 www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html. The lead image was generated using HackerNoon's Stable Disffusion Al Image Generator feature, via the prompt "ANNE'S HOUSE OF DREAMS".

SPRING DAYS

Anne's House of Dreams by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . NEW YEAR'S EVE AT THE LIGHT CHAPTER 16. NEW YEAR'S EVE AT THE LIGHT The Green Gables folk went home after Christmas, Marilla under solemn covenant to return for a month in the spring. More snow came before New Year's, and the harbor froze over, but the gulf still was free, beyond the white, imprisoned fields. The last day of the old year was one of those bright, cold, dazzling winter days, which bombard us with their brilliancy, and command our admiration but never our love. The sky was sharp and blue; the snow diamonds sparkled insistently; the stark trees were bare and shameless, with a kind of brazen beauty; the hills shot assaulting lances of crystal. Even the shadows were sharp and stiff and clear-cut, as no proper shadows should be. Everything that was handsome seemed ten times handsomer and less attractive in the glaring splendor; and everything that was ugly seemed ten times uglier, and everything was either handsome or ugly. There was no soft blending, or kind obscurity, or elusive mistiness in that searching glitter. The only things that held their own individuality were the firs—for the fir is the tree of mystery and shadow, and yields never to the encroachments of crude radiance. But finally the day began to realise that she was growing old. Then a certain pensiveness fell over her beauty which dimmed yet intensified it; sharp angles, glittering points, melted away into curves and enticing gleams. The white harbor put on soft grays and pinks; the far-away hills turned amethyst. "The old year is going away beautifully," said Anne. She and Leslie and Gilbert were on their way to the Four Winds Point, having plotted with Captain Jim to watch the New Year in at the light. The sun had set and in the southwestern sky hung Venus, glorious and golden, having drawn as near to her earth-sister as is possible for her. For the first time Anne and Gilbert saw the shadow cast by that brilliant star of evening, that faint, mysterious shadow, never seen save when there is white snow to reveal it, and then only with averted vision, vanishing when you gaze at it directly. "It's like the spirit of a shadow, isn't it?" whispered Anne. "You can see it so plainly haunting your side when you look ahead; but when you turn and look at it—it's gone." "I have heard that you can see the shadow of Venus only once in a lifetime, and that within a year of seeing it your life's most wonderful gift will come to you," said Leslie. But she spoke rather hardly; perhaps she thought that even the shadow of Venus could bring her no gift of life. Anne smiled in the soft twilight; she felt quite sure what the mystic shadow promised her. They found Marshall Elliott at the lighthouse. At first Anne felt inclined to resent the intrusion of this long-haired, long-bearded eccentric into the familiar little circle. But Marshall Elliott soon proved his legitimate claim to membership in the household of Joseph. He was a witty, intelligent, well-read man, rivalling Captain Jim himself in the knack of telling a good story. They were all glad when he agreed to watch the old year out with them. Captain Jim's small nephew Joe had come down to spend New Year's with his great-uncle, and had fallen asleep on the sofa with the First Mate curled up in a huge golden ball at his feet. "Ain't he a dear little man?" said Captain Jim gloatingly. "I do love to watch a little child asleep, Mistress Blythe. It's the most beautiful sight in the world, I reckon. Joe does love to get down here for a night, because I have him sleep with me. At home he has to sleep with the other two boys, and he doesn't like it. Why can't I sleep with father, Uncle Jim?" says he. 'Everybody in the Bible slept with their fathers.' As for the questions he asks, the minister himself couldn't answer them. They fair swamp me. 'Uncle Jim, if I wasn't ME who'd I be?' and, 'Uncle Jim, what would happen if God died?' He fired them two off at me tonight, afore he went to sleep. As for his imagination, it sails away from everything. He makes up the most remarkable yarns—and then his mother shuts him up in the closet for telling stories. And he sits down and makes up another one, and has it ready to relate to her when she lets him out. He had one for me when he come down tonight. 'Uncle Jim,' says he, solemn as a tombstone, 'I had a 'venture in the Glen today.' 'Yes, what was it?' says I, expecting something quite startling, but nowise prepared for what I really got. 'I met a wolf in the street,' says he, 'a 'normous wolf with a big, red mouf and AWFUL long teeth, Uncle Jim.' 'I didn't know there was any wolves up at the Glen,' says I. 'Oh, he comed there from far, far away,' says Joe, 'and I fought he was going to eat me up, Uncle Jim.' 'Were you scared?' says I. 'No, 'cause I had a big gun,' says Joe, 'and I shot the wolf dead, Uncle Jim,—solid dead—and then he went up to heaven and bit God,' says he. Well, I was fair staggered, Mistress Blythe." The hours bloomed into mirth around the driftwood fire. Captain Jim told tales, and Marshall Elliott sang old Scotch ballads in a fine tenor voice; finally Captain Jim took down his old brown fiddle from the wall and began to play. He had a tolerable knack of fiddling, which all appreciated save the First Mate, who sprang from the sofa as if he had been shot, emitted a shriek of protest, and fled wildly up the stairs. "Can't cultivate an ear for music in that cat nohow," said Captain Jim. "He won't stay long enough to learn to like it. When we got the organ up at the Glen church old Elder Richards bounced up from his seat the minute the organist began to play and scuttled down the aisle and out of the church at the rate of no-man's-business. It reminded me so strong of the First Mate tearing loose as soon as I begin to fiddle that I come nearer to laughing out loud in church than I ever did before or since." There was something so infectious in the rollicking tunes which Captain Jim played that very soon Marshall Elliott's feet began to twitch. He had been a noted dancer in his youth. Presently he started up and held out his hands to Leslie. Instantly she responded. Round and round the firelit room they circled with a rhythmic grace that was wonderful. Leslie danced like one inspired; the wild, sweet abandon of the music seemed to have entered into and possessed her. Anne watched her in fascinated admiration. She had never seen her like this. All the innate richness and color and charm of her nature seemed to have broken loose and overflowed in crimson cheek and glowing eye and grace of motion. Even the aspect of Marshall Elliott, with his long beard and hair, could not spoil the picture. On the contrary, it seemed to enhance it. Marshall Elliott looked like a Viking of elder days, dancing with one of the blue-eyed, golden-haired daughters of the Northland. "The purtiest dancing I ever saw, and I've seen some in my time," declared Captain Jim, when at last the bow fell from his tired hand. Leslie dropped into her chair, laughing, breathless. "I love dancing," she said apart to Anne. "I haven't danced since I was sixteen—but I love it. The music seems to run through my veins like quicksilver and I forget everything—everything—except the delight of keeping time to it. There isn't any floor beneath me, or walls about me, or roof over me—I'm floating amid the stars." Captain Jim hung his fiddle up in its place, beside a large frame enclosing several banknotes. "Is there anybody else of your acquaintance who can afford to hang his walls with banknotes for pictures?" he asked. "There's twenty ten-dollar notes there, not worth the glass over them. They're old Bank of P. E. Island notes. Had them by me when the bank failed, and I had 'em framed and hung up, partly as a reminder not to put your trust in banks, and partly to give me a real luxurious, millionairy feeling. Hullo, Matey, don't be scared. You can come back now. The music and revelry is over for tonight. The old year has just another hour to stay with us. I've seen seventy-six New Years come in over that gulf yonder, Mistress Blythe." "You'll see a hundred," said Marshall Elliott. Captain Jim shook his head. "No; and I don't want to—at least, I think I don't. Death grows friendlier as we grow older. Not that one of us really wants to die though, Marshall. Tennyson spoke truth when he said that. There's old Mrs. Wallace up at the Glen. She's had heaps of trouble all her life, poor soul, and she's lost almost everyone she cared about. She's always saying that she'll be glad when her time comes, and she doesn't want to sojourn any longer in this vale of tears. But when she takes a sick spell there's a fuss! Doctors from town, and a trained nurse, and enough medicine to kill a dog. Life may be a vale of tears, all right, but there are some folks who enjoy weeping, I reckon." They spent the old year's last hour quietly around the fire. A few minutes before twelve Captain Jim rose and opened the door. "We must let the New Year in," he said. Outside was a fine blue night. A sparkling ribbon of moonlight garlanded the gulf. Inside the bar the harbor shone like a pavement of pearl. They stood before the door and waited—Captain Jim with his ripe, full experience, Marshall Elliott in his vigorous but empty middle life, Gilbert and Anne with their precious memories and exquisite hopes, Leslie with her record of starved years and her hopeless future. The clock on the little shelf above the fireplace struck twelve. "Welcome, New Year," said Captain Jim, bowing low as the last stroke died away. "I wish you all the best year of your lives, mates. I reckon that whatever the New Year brings us will be the best the Great Captain has for us—and somehow or other we'll all make port in a good harbor." 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. L. M. Montgomery (1996). Anne's House of Dreams. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/544/pg544-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 www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html. The lead image was generated using HackerNoon's Stable Disffusion Al Image Generator feature, via the prompt "ANNE'S HOUSE OF DREAMS".

NEW YEAR'S EVE AT THE LIGHT

Anne of the Island by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . Mrs. Skinner’s Romance Chapter XXX - Mrs. Skinner’s Romance Anne stepped off the train at Valley Road station and looked about to see if any one had come to meet her. She was to board with a certain Miss Janet Sweet, but she saw no one who answered in the least to her preconception of that lady, as formed from Esther’s letter. The only person in sight was an elderly woman, sitting in a wagon with mail bags piled around her. Two hundred would have been a charitable guess at her weight; her face was as round and red as a harvest-moon and almost as featureless. She wore a tight, black, cashmere dress, made in the fashion of ten years ago, a little dusty black straw hat trimmed with bows of yellow ribbon, and faded black lace mits. “Here, you,” she called, waving her whip at Anne. “Are you the new Valley Road schoolma’am?” “Yes.” “Well, I thought so. Valley Road is noted for its good-looking schoolma’ams, just as Millersville is noted for its humly ones. Janet Sweet asked me this morning if I could bring you out. I said, ‘Sartin I kin, if she don’t mind being scrunched up some. This rig of mine’s kinder small for the mail bags and I’m some heftier than Thomas!’ Just wait, miss, till I shift these bags a bit and I’ll tuck you in somehow. It’s only two miles to Janet’s. Her next-door neighbor’s hired boy is coming for your trunk tonight. My name is Skinner—Amelia Skinner.” Anne was eventually tucked in, exchanging amused smiles with herself during the process. “Jog along, black mare,” commanded Mrs. Skinner, gathering up the reins in her pudgy hands. “This is my first trip on the mail rowte. Thomas wanted to hoe his turnips today so he asked me to come. So I jest sot down and took a standing-up snack and started. I sorter like it. O’ course it’s rather tejus. Part of the time I sits and thinks and the rest I jest sits. Jog along, black mare. I want to git home airly. Thomas is terrible lonesome when I’m away. You see, we haven’t been married very long.” “Oh!” said Anne politely. “Just a month. Thomas courted me for quite a spell, though. It was real romantic.” Anne tried to picture Mrs. Skinner on speaking terms with romance and failed. “Oh?” she said again. “Yes. Y’see, there was another man after me. Jog along, black mare. I’d been a widder so long folks had given up expecting me to marry again. But when my darter—she’s a schoolma’am like you—went out West to teach I felt real lonesome and wasn’t nowise sot against the idea. Bime-by Thomas began to come up and so did the other feller—William Obadiah Seaman, his name was. For a long time I couldn’t make up my mind which of them to take, and they kep’ coming and coming, and I kep’ worrying. Y’see, W.O. was rich—he had a fine place and carried considerable style. He was by far the best match. Jog along, black mare.” “Why didn’t you marry him?” asked Anne. “Well, y’see, he didn’t love me,” answered Mrs. Skinner, solemnly. Anne opened her eyes widely and looked at Mrs. Skinner. But there was not a glint of humor on that lady’s face. Evidently Mrs. Skinner saw nothing amusing in her own case. “He’d been a widder-man for three yers, and his sister kept house for him. Then she got married and he just wanted some one to look after his house. It was worth looking after, too, mind you that. It’s a handsome house. Jog along, black mare. As for Thomas, he was poor, and if his house didn’t leak in dry weather it was about all that could be said for it, though it looks kind of pictureaskew. But, y’see, I loved Thomas, and I didn’t care one red cent for W.O. So I argued it out with myself. ‘Sarah Crowe,’ say I—my first was a Crowe—‘you can marry your rich man if you like but you won’t be happy. Folks can’t get along together in this world without a little bit of love. You’d just better tie up to Thomas, for he loves you and you love him and nothing else ain’t going to do you.’ Jog along, black mare. So I told Thomas I’d take him. All the time I was getting ready I never dared drive past W.O.’s place for fear the sight of that fine house of his would put me in the swithers again. But now I never think of it at all, and I’m just that comfortable and happy with Thomas. Jog along, black mare.” “How did William Obadiah take it?” queried Anne. “Oh, he rumpussed a bit. But he’s going to see a skinny old maid in Millersville now, and I guess she’ll take him fast enough. She’ll make him a better wife than his first did. W.O. never wanted to marry her. He just asked her to marry him ’cause his father wanted him to, never dreaming but that she’d say ‘no.’ But mind you, she said ‘yes.’ There was a predicament for you. Jog along, black mare. She was a great housekeeper, but most awful mean. She wore the same bonnet for eighteen years. Then she got a new one and W.O. met her on the road and didn’t know her. Jog along, black mare. I feel that I’d a narrer escape. I might have married him and been most awful miserable, like my poor cousin, Jane Ann. Jane Ann married a rich man she didn’t care anything about, and she hasn’t the life of a dog. She come to see me last week and says, says she, ‘Sarah Skinner, I envy you. I’d rather live in a little hut on the side of the road with a man I was fond of than in my big house with the one I’ve got.’ Jane Ann’s man ain’t such a bad sort, nuther, though he’s so contrary that he wears his fur coat when the thermometer’s at ninety. The only way to git him to do anything is to coax him to do the opposite. But there ain’t any love to smooth things down and it’s a poor way of living. Jog along, black mare. There’s Janet’s place in the hollow—‘Wayside,’ she calls it. Quite pictureaskew, ain’t it? I guess you’ll be glad to git out of this, with all them mail bags jamming round you.” “Yes, but I have enjoyed my drive with you very much,” said Anne sincerely. “Git away now!” said Mrs. Skinner, highly flattered. “Wait till I tell Thomas that. He always feels dretful tickled when I git a compliment. Jog along, black mare. Well, here we are. I hope you’ll git on well in the school, miss. There’s a short cut to it through the ma’sh back of Janet’s. If you take that way be awful keerful. If you once got stuck in that black mud you’d be sucked right down and never seen or heard tell of again till the day of judgment, like Adam Palmer’s cow. Jog along, black mare.” 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. L. M. Montgomery (2006). Anne of the Island. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/51/pg51-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 www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html. The lead image was generated using HackerNoon's Stable Disffusion Al Image Generator feature, via the prompt "Anne of the Island".

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