Pet Plate was founded in 2016 by Renaldo Webb when he decided it was time to feed his first dog Winston real food, so he started cooking for him and soon discovered that there was a tremendous need for Pet Plate

Pet Plate

271 Stories To Learn About Ethereum

ROGER HAMLEY'S CONFESSION.

379 Stories To Learn About Data Privacy

The Race of Scatcherd Becomes Extinct

North and South by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . CHAPTER VI. here CHAPTER VI. FAREWELL. “Unwatch’d the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down, Unloved that beech will gather brown, The maple burn itself away; Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, Ray round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming air; * * * * * * Till from the garden and the wild A fresh association blow And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger’s child; As year by year the labourer tills His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills.” Tennyson. The last day came; the house was full of packing-cases, which were being carted off at the front door, to the nearest railway station. Even the pretty lawn at the side of the house, was made unsightly and untidy by the straw that had been wafted upon it through the open door and windows. The rooms had a strange echoing sound in them,—and the light came harshly and strongly in through the uncurtained windows,—seeming already unfamiliar and strange. Mrs. Hale’s dressing-room was left untouched to the last; and there she and Dixon were packing up clothes, and interrupting each other every now and then to exclaim at, and turn over with fond regard, some forgotten treasure, in the shape of some relic of the children while they were yet little. They did not make much progress with their work. Down-stairs, Margaret stood calm and collected, ready to counsel or advise the men who had been called in to help the cook and Charlotte. These two last, crying between whiles, wondered how the young lady could keep up so this last day, and settled it between them that she was not likely to care much for Helstone, having been so long in London. There she stood, very pale and quiet, with her large grave eyes observing everything—up to every present circumstance however small. They could not understand how her heart was aching all the time, with a heavy pressure that no sighs could lift off or relieve, and how constant exertion for her perceptive faculties was the only way to keep herself from crying out with pain. Moreover, if she gave way, who was to act? Her father was examining papers, books, registers, what not, in the vestry with the clerk; and when he came in, there were his own books to pack up, which no one but himself could do to his satisfaction. Besides, was Margaret one to give way before strange men, or even household friends like the cook and Charlotte? Not she! But at last the four packers went into the kitchen to their tea; and Margaret moved stiffly and slowly away from the place in the hall where she had been standing so long, out through the bare echoing drawing-room, into the twilight of an early November evening. There was a filmy veil of soft dull mist obscuring, but not hiding, all objects, giving them a lilac hue, for the sun had not yet fully set; a robin was singing,—perhaps, Margaret thought, the very robin that her father had so often talked of as his winter pet, and for which he had made, with his own hands, a kind of robin-house by his study-window. The leaves were more gorgeous than ever; the first touch of frost would lay them all low on the ground. Already one or two kept constantly floating down, amber and golden in the low slanting sun-rays. Margaret went along the walk under the pear-tree wall. She had never been along it since she paced it at Henry Lennox’s side. Here, at this bed of thyme, he began to speak of what she must not think of now. Her eyes were on that late-blowing rose as she was trying to answer; and she had caught the idea of the vivid beauty of the feathery leaves of the carrots in the very middle of his last sentence. Only a fortnight ago! And all so changed! Where was he now? In London,—going through the old round; dining with the old Harley Street set, or with gayer young friends of his own. Even now, while she walked sadly through that damp and drear garden in the dusk, with everything falling and fading, and turning to decay around her, he might be gladly putting away his law-books after a day of satisfactory toil, and freshening himself up, as he had told her he often did, by a run in the Temple Gardens, taking in the while the grand inarticulate mighty roar of tens of thousands of busy men, nigh at hand, but not seen, and catching ever, at his quick turns, glimpses of the lights of the city coming up out of the depths of the river. He had often spoken to Margaret of these hasty walks, snatched in the intervals between study and dinner. At his best times and in his best moods had he spoken of them; and the thought of them had struck upon her fancy. Here there was no sound. The robin had gone away into the vast stillness of night. Now and then, a cottage door in the distance was opened and shut, as if to admit the tired labourer to his home; but that sounded very far away. A stealthy, creeping, cranching sound among the crisp fallen leaves of the forest, beyond the garden, seemed almost close at hand. Margaret knew it was some poacher. Sitting up in her bedroom this past autumn, with the light of her candle extinguished, and purely revelling in the solemn beauty of the heavens and the earth, she had many a time seen the light noiseless leap of the poachers over the garden-fence, their quick tramp across the dewy moonlit lawn, their disappearance in the black still shadow beyond. The wild adventurous freedom of their life had taken her fancy; she felt inclined to wish them success; she had no fear of them. But to-night she was afraid, she knew not why. She heard Charlotte shutting the windows, and fastening up for the night, unconscious that any one had gone out into the garden. A small branch—it might be of rotten wood, or it might be broken by force—came heavily down in the nearest part of the forest; Margaret ran, swift as Camilla, down to the window, and rapped at it with a hurried tremulousness which startled Charlotte within. “Let me in! Let me in! It is only me, Charlotte!” Her heart did not still its fluttering till she was safe in the drawing-room, with the windows fastened and bolted, and the familiar walls hemming her round, and shutting her in. She had sate down upon a packing-case; cheerless, chill was the dreary and dismantled room—no fire, nor other light, but Charlotte’s long unsnuffed candle. Charlotte looked at Margaret with surprise; and Margaret, feeling it rather than seeing it, rose up. “I was afraid you were shutting me out altogether, Charlotte,” said she, half-smiling. “And then you would never have heard me in the kitchen, and the doors into the lane and churchyard are locked long ago.” “Oh, miss, I should have been sure to have missed you soon. The men would have wanted you to tell them how to go on. And I have put tea in master’s study, as being the most comfortable room, so to speak.” “Thank you, Charlotte. You are a kind girl. I shall be sorry to leave you. You must try and write to me, if I can ever give you any little help or good advice. I shall always be glad to get a letter from Helstone, you know. I shall be sure and send you my address when I know it.” The study was all ready for tea. There was a good blazing fire, and unlighted candles on the table. Margaret sat down on the rug, partly to warm herself, for the dampness of the evening hung about her dress, and over-fatigue had made her chilly. She kept herself balanced by clasping her hands together round her knees; her head dropped a little towards her chest; the attitude was one of despondency, whatever her frame of mind might be. But when she heard her father’s step on the gravel outside, she started up, and hastily shaking her heavy black hair back, and wiping a few tears away that had come on her cheeks she knew not how, she went out to open the door for him. He showed far more depression than she did. She could hardly get him to talk, although she tried to speak on subjects that would interest him, at the cost of an effort every time which she thought would be her last. “Have you been a very long walk to-day?” asked she, on seeing his refusal to touch food of any kind. “As far as Fordham Beeches. I went to see Widow Maltby; she is sadly grieved at not having wished you good-bye. She says little Susan has kept watch down the lane for days past.—Nay, Margaret, what is the matter, dear?” The thought of the little child watching for her, and continually disappointed—from no forgetfulness on her part, but from sheer inability to leave home—was the last drop in poor Margaret’s cup, and she was sobbing away as if her heart would break. Mr. Hale was distressingly perplexed. He rose, and walked nervously up and down the room. Margaret tried to check herself, but would not speak until she could do so with firmness. She heard him talking, as if to himself. “I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see the sufferings of others. I think I could go through my own with patience. Oh, is there no going back?” “No, father,” said Margaret, looking straight at him, and speaking low and steadily. “It is bad to believe you in error. It would be infinitely worse to have known you a hypocrite.” She dropped her voice at the last few words, as if entertaining the idea of hypocrisy for a moment in connection with her father savoured of irreverence. “Besides,” she went on, “it is only that I am tired to-night; don’t think that I am suffering from what you have done, dear papa. We can’t either of us talk about it to-night, I believe,” said she, finding that tears and sobs would come in spite of herself. “I had better go and take mamma up this cup of tea. She had hers very early, when I was too busy to go to her, and I am sure she will be glad of another now.” Railroad time inexorably wrenched them away from lovely, beloved Helstone, the next morning. They were gone; they had seen the last of the long low parsonage home, half-covered with China-roses and pyracanthus—more homelike than ever in the morning sun that glittered on its windows, each belonging to some well-loved room. Almost before they had settled themselves into the car, sent from Southampton to fetch them to the station, they were gone away to return no more. A sting at Margaret’s heart made her strive to look out to catch the last glimpse of the old church tower at the turn where she knew it might be seen above a wave of the forest trees; but her father remembered this too, and she silently acknowledged his greater right to the one window from which it could be seen. She leant back and shut her eyes, and the tears welled forth, and hung glittering for an instant on the shadowing eyelashes before rolling slowly down her cheeks, and dropping, unheeded, on her dress. They were to stop in London all night at some quiet hotel. Poor Mrs. Hale had cried in her way nearly all day long; and Dixon showed her sorrow by extreme crossness, and a continual irritable attempt to keep her petticoats from even touching the unconscious Mr. Hale, whom she regarded as the origin of all this suffering. They went through the well-known streets, past houses which they had often visited, past shops in which she had lounged, impatient, by her aunt’s side, while that lady was making some important and interminable decision—nay, absolutely passed acquaintances in the streets; for though the morning had been of an incalculable length to them, and they felt as if it ought long ago to have closed in for the repose of darkness, it was the very busiest time of a London afternoon in November when they arrived there. It was long since Mrs. Hale had been in London; and she roused up, almost like a child, to look about her at the different streets, and to gaze after and exclaim at the shops and carriages,— “Oh, there’s Harrison’s, where I bought so many of my wedding things. Dear! how altered! They’ve got immense plate-glass windows, larger than Crawford’s in Southampton. Oh, and there, I declare—no, it is not—yes, it is—Margaret, we have just passed Mr. Henry Lennox. Where can he be going, among all these shops?” Margaret started forwards, and as quickly fell back, half-smiling at herself for the sudden motion. They were a hundred yards away by this time; but he seemed like a relic of Helstone—he was associated with a bright morning, an eventful day, and she should have liked to have seen him, without his seeing her,—without the chance of their speaking. The evening, without employment, passed in a room high up in an hotel, was long and heavy. Mr. Hale went out to his bookseller’s, and to call on a friend or two. Every one they saw, either in the house or out in the streets, appeared hurrying to some appointment, expected by, or expecting somebody. They alone seemed strange and friendless, and desolate. Yet within a mile, Margaret knew of house after house, where she for her own sake, and her mother for her aunt Shaw’s, would be welcomed, if they came in gladness, or even in peace of mind. If they came sorrowing, and wanting sympathy in a complicated trouble like the present, then they would be felt as a shadow in all these houses of intimate acquaintances, not friends. London life is too whirling and full to admit of even an hour of that deep silence of feeling which the friends of Job showed, when “they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and none spake a word unto him; for they saw that his grief was very great.” 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

The last day came

Let's learn about via these 26 free stories. They are ordered by most time reading created on HackerNoon. Visit the to find the most read stories about any technology. Projects /Learn Repo 1. 4 Steps to Actually Finish your Side Project We’ve all seen the graveyard of abandoned projects folders. Desperately competing for attention but failing in the glow of a new adventure or app that will change the world. I use to do that all the time, now I finished 4 apps, and 2 other projects within the last year by applying the following steps. 2. A Game to Boost Your Java Object Oriented Programming Skills This is a simple black screen console game where first the program will automatically generate a random number, and all the players who play the game here will continue to guess the number one by one and match it with the previous program. The game will end if it matches the program's generated number. Whoever matches will be the winner of this game. Here, we will add another interesting feature which is a counter. What is a counter? It's not just a recorder that will keep recording how many times the player is guessing and how many guesses after which a winner is actually found. 3. Mono-repo Vs. Multi-repo Vs. Hybrid: What’s the Right Approach? I still remember my first day at Outbrain. As part of the Bootcamp (training program), we were required to clone the code from a repository called the trunk (one monolithic repo that contained all our codebase). It took at least half a day to clone and build the whole source code. Over the next year or two in which my team worked with a monorepo, we just suffered — cloning the repo was time-consuming; the slow build/release time frustrated us; flaky tests and bad commits affected all the engineering; and let’s not even mention the IntelliJ indexing time, which easily afforded us time to run down for a chatty coffee break. 4. Publishing A Three.js Project On GitHub Pages Looking for a way to showcase your Three.js projects for free? Use GitHub Pages. 5. Does Python Skills Equal Getting a Coding Job? Python is one of the most popular programming languages. It is easy to pick up and begin with the basics. It is a general-purpose language and can be used for more a lot of things other than just web development. To get a job, you need to go beyond learning just the basics and have a solid understanding of the complexities involved in the language. 6. Beginner Python Projects: How to Build an Acronym Generator An Acronym Generator will take a String as an input and it will return the initials of all the words in the String. 7. Beginner Python Projects: Build a Simple Email Slicing Program An Email Slicer is just a tool that will take an email id as an input and will perform slicing operations on it to return the username and the domain. 8. 10 Python Projects with 10 Lines of Code I faced a problem when I started learning programming. That problem was: I thought needed to have deep understanding in every field to do projects and make cool stuff. So I started learning coding seriously, but after a few week I lost my motivation, as it was not clear to me that how coding is going to help me make something that I'd like. 9. How To Manage A Small Project With 4-5 Peoples a project's minimum person is the project's maximum 10. Building Covid-19 Voice Assistant 11. $200 Solar Self-sufficiency — Without your Landlord Noticing Building a solar micro-grid in my bedroom with parts from Amazon 12. How to Create an Alarm Clock in Python Today we are going to build an Alarm Clock using Python. In this project, we are going to use some external modules which are already made available. 13. How to Become the Data Whisperer The data whisperer is the function sitting between the business and the technologists. 14. 4 JavaScript Portfolio Projects to Help You Land a Web Developer Position If you're starting to apply for your first web developer junior position, then you might want to consider building out one of the 4 (if not all) projects. 15. HTML + CSS Practice Project: Website Slicing Here we will leave JS challenges for later, and we will focus on integrating the visual part of the frontend in a simple project. 16. Why My Project Lacks Recognition On The Platforms Photo of a brand new car without a plate number. 17. Beginner Python Projects: Build a Simple Random Story Generator Our random story generator will use a few lists of phrases and every time we run our program, a sentence will be randomly formed by picking phrases from them. 18. Why Open-Core Companies Only Make Their Projects 'Good Enough' SaaS companies built on open-source projects (also known as open-core companies) are not incentivized for their underlying project to be good 19. How I built a spreadsheet app with Python to make data science easier Today I'm open sourcing "Grid studio", a web-based spreadsheet application with full integration of the Python programming language. 20. Tokenomics. From Myths To Reality. It seems that the last 5 years in the global economy and science have become the time of the innovation boom. So many different things appeared, so often one began to use new terms and epithets, previously unknown to the public, that in fact it can be argued that hype and innovation are synonymous. 21. How I Used Blitz JS To Take My Pet Project Into Production Our colleague Lazar decided to built an Absence Tracker, so we can ditch the Telegram group where we reported our absences. 22. Become an Effective Open Source Maintainer Tips on how to be an effective Contributor to Open Source. 23. Unifying Random Generation and Shrinking (Property-based Testing Part 4) How property-based testing libraries like Clojure's test.check and Haskell/F#'s Hedgehog unify their random generation and shrinking API. 24. Why Your Project Should Start With The Discovery Phase Does the discovery phase a Big Thing in business? 25. Using LVM to Serve Old Laptop as a Cloud Storage Engine Service at home with all External Hard Drive Using LVM to Serve Old Laptop as a Cloud Storage Engine Service at home with all External Hard Drives. 26. The Tyk Side Project Fund is open for applications Tyk's micro-grant program is now accepting applications! Get a chance to receive a £500 grant to help advance your side project. Thank you for checking out the 26 most read stories about Projects on HackerNoon. to find the most read stories about any technology. Visit the /Learn Repo

26 Stories To Learn About Projects

Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . THE THREE BADGERS here CHAPTER XVII. THE THREE BADGERS Still more dreamily I found myself following this imperious voice into a room where the Earl, his daughter, and Arthur, were seated. “So you're come at last!” said Lady Muriel, in a tone of playful reproach. “I was delayed,” I stammered. Though what it was that had delayed me I should have been puzzled to explain! Luckily no questions were asked. The carriage was ordered round, the hamper, containing our contribution to the Picnic, was duly stowed away, and we set forth. There was no need for me to maintain the conversation. Lady Muriel and Arthur were evidently on those most delightful of terms, where one has no need to check thought after thought, as it rises to the lips, with the fear 'this will not be appreciated—this will give' offence—this will sound too serious—this will sound flippant': like very old friends, in fullest sympathy, their talk rippled on. “Why shouldn't we desert the Picnic and go in some other direction?” she suddenly suggested. “A party of four is surely self-sufficing? And as for food, our hamper—” “Why shouldn't we? What a genuine lady's argument!” laughed Arthur. “A lady never knows on which side the onus probandi—the burden of proving—lies!” “Do men always know?” she asked with a pretty assumption of meek docility. “With one exception—the only one I can think of Dr. Watts, who has asked the senseless question, 'Why should I deprive my neighbour
    Of his goods against his will?' Fancy that as an argument for Honesty! His position seems to be 'I'm only honest because I see no reason to steal.' And the thief's answer is of course complete and crushing. 'I deprive my neighbour of his goods because I want them myself. And I do it against his will because there's no chance of getting him to consent to it!'” “I can give you one other exception,” I said: “an argument I heard only to-day—-and not by a lady. 'Why shouldn't I walk on my own forehead?'” “What a curious subject for speculation!” said Lady Muriel, turning to me, with eyes brimming over with laughter. “May we know who propounded the question? And did he walk on his own forehead?” “I ca'n't remember who it was that said it!” I faltered. “Nor where I heard it!” “Whoever it was, I hope we shall meet him at the Picnic!” said Lady Muriel. “It's a far more interesting question than 'Isn't this a picturesque ruin?' Aren't those autumn-tints lovely?' I shall have to answer those two questions ten times, at least, this afternoon!” “That's one of the miseries of Society!” said Arthur. “Why ca'n't people let one enjoy the beauties of Nature without having to say so every minute? Why should Life be one long Catechism?” “It's just as bad at a picture-gallery,” the Earl remarked. “I went to the R.A. last May, with a conceited young artist: and he did torment me! I wouldn't have minded his criticizing the pictures himself: but I had to agree with him—or else to argue the point, which would have been worse!” “It was depreciatory criticism, of course?” said Arthur. “I don't see the 'of course' at all.” “Why, did you ever know a conceited man dare to praise a picture? The one thing he dreads (next to not being noticed) is to be proved fallible! If you once praise a picture, your character for infallibility hangs by a thread. Suppose it's a figure-picture, and you venture to say 'draws well.' Somebody measures it, and finds one of the proportions an eighth of an inch wrong. You are disposed of as a critic! 'Did you say he draws well?' your friends enquire sarcastically, while you hang your head and blush. No. The only safe course, if any one says 'draws well,' is to shrug your shoulders. 'Draws well?' you repeat thoughtfully. 'Draws well? Humph!' That's the way to become a great critic!” Thus airily chatting, after a pleasant drive through a few miles of beautiful scenery, we reached the rendezvous—a ruined castle—where the rest of the picnic-party were already assembled. We spent an hour or two in sauntering about the ruins: gathering at last, by common consent, into a few random groups, seated on the side of a mound, which commanded a good view of the old castle and its surroundings. The momentary silence, that ensued, was promptly taken possession of or, more correctly, taken into custody—by a Voice; a voice so smooth, so monotonous, so sonorous, that one felt, with a shudder, that any other conversation was precluded, and that, unless some desperate remedy were adopted, we were fated to listen to a Lecture, of which no man could foresee the end! The speaker was a broadly-built man, whose large, flat, pale face was bounded on the North by a fringe of hair, on the East and West by a fringe of whisker, and on the South by a fringe of beard—the whole constituting a uniform halo of stubbly whitey-brown bristles. His features were so entirely destitute of expression that I could not help saying to myself—helplessly, as if in the clutches of a night-mare—“they are only penciled in: no final touches as yet!” And he had a way of ending every sentence with a sudden smile, which spread like a ripple over that vast blank surface, and was gone in a moment, leaving behind it such absolute solemnity that I felt impelled to murmur “it was not he: it was somebody else that smiled!” “Do you observe?” (such was the phrase with which the wretch began each sentence) “Do you observe the way in which that broken arch, at the very top of the ruin, stands out against the clear sky? It is placed exactly right: and there is exactly enough of it. A little more, or a little less, and all would be utterly spoiled!” {Image...A lecture, on art} “Oh gifted architect!” murmured Arthur, inaudibly to all but Lady Muriel and myself. “Foreseeing the exact effect his work would have, when in ruins, centuries after his death!” “And do you observe, where those trees slope down the hill,” (indicating them with a sweep of the hand, and with all the patronising air of the man who has himself arranged the landscape), “how the mists rising from the river fill up exactly those intervals where we need indistinctness, for artistic effect? Here, in the foreground, a few clear touches are not amiss: but a back-ground without mist, you know! It is simply barbarous! Yes, we need indistinctness!” The orator looked so pointedly at me as he uttered these words, that I felt bound to reply, by murmuring something to the effect that I hardly felt the need myself—and that I enjoyed looking at a thing, better, when I could see it. “Quite so!” the great man sharply took me up. “From your point of view, that is correctly put. But for anyone who has a soul for Art, such a view is preposterous. Nature is one thing. Art is another. Nature shows us the world as it is. But Art—as a Latin author tells us—Art, you know the words have escaped my memory—” “Ars est celare Naturam,” Arthur interposed with a delightful promptitude. “Quite so!” the orator replied with an air of relief. “I thank you! Ars est celare Naturam but that isn't it.” And, for a few peaceful moments, the orator brooded, frowningly, over the quotation. The welcome opportunity was seized, and another voice struck into the silence. “What a lovely old ruin it is!” cried a young lady in spectacles, the very embodiment of the March of Mind, looking at Lady Muriel, as the proper recipient of all really original remarks. “And don't you admire those autumn-tints on the trees? I do, intensely!” Lady Muriel shot a meaning glance at me; but replied with admirable gravity. “Oh yes indeed, indeed! So true!” “And isn't strange,” said the young lady, passing with startling suddenness from Sentiment to Science, “that the mere impact of certain coloured rays upon the Retina should give us such exquisite pleasure?” “You have studied Physiology, then?” a certain young Doctor courteously enquired. “Oh, yes! Isn't it a sweet Science?” Arthur slightly smiled. “It seems a paradox, does it not,” he went on, “that the image formed on the Retina should be inverted?” “It is puzzling,” she candidly admitted. “Why is it we do not see things upside-down?” “You have never heard the Theory, then, that the Brain also is inverted?” “No indeed! What a beautiful fact! But how is it proved?” “Thus,” replied Arthur, with all the gravity of ten Professors rolled into one. “What we call the vertex of the Brain is really its base: and what we call its base is really its vertex: it is simply a question of nomenclature.” This last polysyllable settled the matter. “How truly delightful!” the fair Scientist exclaimed with enthusiasm. “I shall ask our Physiological Lecturer why he never gave us that exquisite Theory!” “I'd give something to be present when the question is asked!” Arthur whispered to me, as, at a signal from Lady Muriel, we moved on to where the hampers had been collected, and devoted ourselves to the more substantial business of the day. We 'waited' on ourselves, as the modern barbarism (combining two good things in such a way as to secure the discomforts of both and the advantages of neither) of having a picnic with servants to wait upon you, had not yet reached this out-of-the-way region—and of course the gentlemen did not even take their places until the ladies had been duly provided with all imaginable creature-comforts. Then I supplied myself with a plate of something solid and a glass of something fluid, and found a place next to Lady Muriel. It had been left vacant—apparently for Arthur, as a distinguished stranger: but he had turned shy, and had placed himself next to the young lady in spectacles, whose high rasping voice had already cast loose upon Society such ominous phrases as “Man is a bundle of Qualities!”, “the Objective is only attainable through the Subjective!”. Arthur was bearing it bravely: but several faces wore a look of alarm, and I thought it high time to start some less metaphysical topic. “In my nursery days,” I began, “when the weather didn't suit for an out-of-doors picnic, we were allowed to have a peculiar kind, that we enjoyed hugely. The table cloth was laid under the table, instead of upon it: we sat round it on the floor: and I believe we really enjoyed that extremely uncomfortable kind of dinner more than we ever did the orthodox arrangement!” “I've no doubt of it,” Lady Muriel replied. “There's nothing a well-regulated child hates so much as regularity. I believe a really healthy boy would thoroughly enjoy Greek Grammar—if only he might stand on his head to learn it! And your carpet-dinner certainly spared you one feature of a picnic, which is to me its chief drawback.” “The chance of a shower?” I suggested. “No, the chance—or rather the certainty of live things occurring in combination with one's food! Spiders are my bugbear. Now my father has no sympathy with that sentiment—have you, dear?” For the Earl had caught the word and turned to listen. “To each his sufferings, all are men,” he replied in the sweet sad tones that seemed natural to him: “each has his pet aversion.” “But you'll never guess his!” Lady Muriel said, with that delicate silvery laugh that was music to my ears. I declined to attempt the impossible. “He doesn't like snakes!” she said, in a stage whisper. “Now, isn't that an unreasonable aversion? Fancy not liking such a dear, coaxingly, clingingly affectionate creature as a snake!” “Not like snakes!” I exclaimed. “Is such a thing possible?” “No, he doesn't like them,” she repeated with a pretty mock-gravity. “He's not afraid of them, you know. But he doesn't like them. He says they're too waggly!” I was more startled than I liked to show. There was something so uncanny in this echo of the very words I had so lately heard from that little forest-sprite, that it was only by a great effort I succeeded in saying, carelessly, “Let us banish so unpleasant a topic. Won't you sing us something, Lady Muriel? I know you do sing without music.” “The only songs I know—without music—are desperately sentimental, I'm afraid! Are your tears all ready?” “Quite ready! Quite ready!” came from all sides, and Lady Muriel—not being one of those lady-singers who think it de rigueur to decline to sing till they have been petitioned three or four times, and have pleaded failure of memory, loss of voice, and other conclusive reasons for silence—began at once:— {Image...'Three badgers on a mossy stone'} “There be three Badgers on a mossy stone,
     Beside a dark and covered way:
     Each dreams himself a monarch on his throne,
     And so they stay and stay
     Though their old Father languishes alone,
     They stay, and stay, and stay.

     “There be three Herrings loitering around,
     Longing to share that mossy seat:
     Each Herring tries to sing what she has found
     That makes Life seem so sweet.
     Thus, with a grating and uncertain sound,
     They bleat, and bleat, and bleat,

     “The Mother-Herring, on the salt sea-wave,
     Sought vainly for her absent ones:
     The Father-Badger, writhing in a cave,
     Shrieked out 'Return, my sons!
     You shalt have buns,' he shrieked, 'if you'll behave!
     Yea, buns, and buns, and buns!'

     “'I fear,' said she, 'your sons have gone astray?
     My daughters left me while I slept.'
     'Yes 'm,' the Badger said: 'it's as you say.'
     'They should be better kept.'
     Thus the poor parents talked the time away,
     And wept, and wept, and wept.” Here Bruno broke off suddenly. “The Herrings' Song wants anuvver tune, Sylvie,” he said. “And I ca'n't sing it not wizout oo plays it for me!” {Image...'Three badgers, writhing in a cave'} Instantly Sylvie seated herself upon a tiny mushroom, that happened to grow in front of a daisy, as if it were the most ordinary musical instrument in the world, and played on the petals as if they were the notes of an organ. And such delicious tiny music it was! Such teeny-tiny music! Bruno held his head on one side, and listened very gravely for a few moments until he had caught the melody. Then the sweet childish voice rang out once more:— “Oh, dear beyond our dearest dreams,
     Fairer than all that fairest seems!
     To feast the rosy hours away,
     To revel in a roundelay!
     How blest would be
     A life so free—-
     Ipwergis-Pudding to consume,
     And drink the subtle Azzigoom!

     “And if in other days and hours,
     Mid other fluffs and other flowers,
     The choice were given me how to dine—-
     'Name what thou wilt: it shalt be thine!'
     Oh, then I see
     The life for me
     Ipwergis-Pudding to consume,
     And drink the subtle Azzigoom!” “Oo may leave off playing now, Sylvie. I can do the uvver tune much better wizout a compliment.” “He means 'without accompaniment,'” Sylvie whispered, smiling at my puzzled look: and she pretended to shut up the stops of the organ. “The Badgers did not care to talk to Fish:
    They did not dote on Herrings' songs:
    They never had experienced the dish
    To which that name belongs:
    And oh, to pinch their tails,' (this was their wish,)
    'With tongs, yea, tongs, and tongs!'” I ought to mention that he marked the parenthesis, in the air, with his finger. It seemed to me a very good plan. You know there's no sound to represent it—any more than there is for a question. Suppose you have said to your friend “You are better to-day,” and that you want him to understand that you are asking him a question, what can be simpler than just to make a “?”. in the air with your finger? He would understand you in a moment! {Image...'Those aged one waxed gay'} “'And are not these the Fish,' the Eldest sighed,
     'Whose Mother dwells beneath the foam'
     'They are the Fish!' the Second one replied.
     'And they have left their home!'
     'Oh wicked Fish,' the Youngest Badger cried,
     'To roam, yea, roam, and roam!'
     “Gently the Badgers trotted to the shore
     The sandy shore that fringed the bay:
     Each in his mouth a living Herring bore—
     Those aged ones waxed gay:
     Clear rang their voices through the ocean's roar,
     'Hooray, hooray, hooray!'” “So they all got safe home again,” Bruno said, after waiting a minute to see if I had anything to say: he evidently felt that some remark ought to be made. And I couldn't help wishing there were some such rule in Society, at the conclusion of a song—that the singer herself should say the right thing, and not leave it to the audience. Suppose a young lady has just been warbling ('with a grating and uncertain sound') Shelley's exquisite lyric 'I arise from dreams of thee': how much nicer it would be, instead of your having to say “Oh, thank you, thank you!” for the young lady herself to remark, as she draws on her gloves, while the impassioned words 'Oh, press it to thine own, or it will break at last!' are still ringing in your ears, “—but she wouldn't do it, you know. So it did break at last.” “And I knew it would!” she added quietly, as I started at the sudden crash of broken glass. “You've been holding it sideways for the last minute, and letting all the champagne run out! Were you asleep, I wonder? I'm so sorry my singing has such a narcotic effect!” 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. Lewis Carroll (1996). Sylvie and Bruno. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/620/pg620-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

PET PLATE

petplate.com

-- employees

Since n.d.

COMPANY RANKING

PET PLATE

EVERGREEN INDEX #8219

Representing this company? Click here to claim and customize this page!

Pet Plate WIKI

Apply to get your Tech Company News Page live on HackerNoon.com today!

PET PLATE

petplate.com

-- employees

Since n.d.

COMPANY RANKING

PET PLATE

EVERGREEN INDEX #8219

RELATED COMPANIESRANK

STORIES ABOUT PET PLATE

Representing this company? Click here to claim and customize this page!

Pet Plate WIKI

Apply to get your Tech Company News Page live on HackerNoon.com today!