SHIPS, by Paul Peterson They were big ships, larger than anything people had seen in their entire lifetime and they actually moved...slow...lumbering...unstopable. The Dreadnaughts plowed the wild Irish sea and ordinary men stood at the rail and dreamed about having a farm, their own farm. America in the 1850s was a place of free land giveaway's of homesteads and hearths...and all you had to do was get there and get there they did, in great waves of humanity, millions and millions of them, and it all started with ships. There was a bubbling mass of energy and excitement in America in the 1850s, most of it brought on by the invention of technology. Indeed, the Columbia Exposition of 1890 was a showcase of technology for the masses. There was a steam engine on display as big as a 4 story building, it worked! and it dazzled everyone. But just as impressive was the electric light, the telephone and the telegraph. It was an age of possibilities, of things that could be done, of dreams that seemed reachable, BIG dreams that matched a big brave new world, a world where streets were paved with gold. It was a new start, a new beginning and it started with words "We're Going To America" and it started with ships. Before Ellis island there was Castle Garden, a big old barn of a building pictured as shingled...they got off the boat en masse' and walked (1st class rode in horse carriages) to the processing center under the watchful eye of many guards...inside the processing center they sat on wooden bench's awaiting their names to be called for a physical exam and again for an immigration interview, one tried not to cough too much...the central hall was a hodge-podge of noise, kids crying and different languages being spoken...they huddled on the bench's saying prayers and hoping against hope they would be acceptable...it was faith and hope that got them this far...they had braved wind tossed seas on so-called "cattle-boats" with poor food, drinking water and sanitation. After the INS interview, several hours later, if they were accepted, they gathered up their meager belongings. The old suitcase and the box's and went though the "out" door on to the street...where they were pounded on by a multitude of thieves, union army recruiters, salvation army evangelists, ethnic organization representatives and hawker's of all sorts...If the inside of the building was a mass of confusion the outside street was pandemonium and a circus all at once. If it was raining they got wet, and many ships arrived in the dead of winter...the immigrant was on their own to find help or directions. Bewildered, poorly clothed for the miserable New York weather, and often alone in a strange new world, they somehow made their way to a new life...though many did not...there was a public outcry in the 1860's over the "deplorable" conditions on the docks where newly arrived immigrants were often robbed and killed. Our ancestors did for themselves...and their children, they made it though the rain and got a point of view. They gave to us the gift of hope, of life in a new world, a new beginning, and a remembrance of times past when life held little or no hope...They did it on faith alone(and the echo's of the shipping line boy's who ran through the streets back in the old country extolling the glory's of the new world, of America, where men lived free, where land was given to all who wanted it...simply for the asking)...They did it because they wanted better...and they left to you and me a legacy that yearns to breath free, a circle of people, events and promise that somehow strains to be known...It is, to this knowledge that we all work with dilgence and patience in seeking our family history...and somewhere along the way of our search we too have hope...hope that they, as yet unnamed and unknown, will know that we remembered, that their struggle was not in vain, that we know and appreciate what they did...which was, after all, done for us. Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> ~`* `*' `*' `* `*' `*' *' `*' *' `*' `* `*' *' `*' ~~~

Hello, Just wanted to thank everyone for the warm welcome. I have been signed on to FOLKLORE-L in the past and am looking forward to reading all the posts again. Again thanks. Hope everyone has a great day. Paula Carle-Bosch Sweetwater, TN ******************************** Researching: BESL, BOSCH, CARLE, DELLBRUGGE and others in Hamilton Co., OH and GRIFFITH, LAYNE/LANE, KILGORE, BRYANT, JONES and QUINN in TN Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. "Unknown" Volunteer of Random Acts of Genealogical Kindness at http://raogk.rootsweb.com Genie Angel Volunteer for Monroe Co, TN at http://homepages.rootsweb.com/~angels/ Volunteer at Genealogy Look Up Forum at http://www.expage.com/page/genealogylookup

Essays on Native American Life and Relations With Non-Natives 1600-1850 by Longtrail Snowbird Buffalo as a Food Source Some Common and Not So Commonly Known Uses. Greetings from the shores of the Dried Meat River, AKA, The Far Side Bear River and known by the whites as the Musselshell. The reason the Musselshell was called the Dried Meat River by the Blackfoot people is it was the last area which held free roaming herds of Buffalo. In the "gone days", the people would set camp near the river. They chose to be up on the flats to avoid bugs during the warmer seasons, and down in the valley amongst the cottonwoods and sheltered by the willows in the cooler seasons. If you had been a free trapper who had married into one of the Indian bands of this area on the plains you would have witnessed, and surely participated in the on-going ritual of hunting, killing, butchering and preparation of buffalo meat for immediate eating as well as long term storage. Life in the East, with its European influence, would have not prepared you for the delicacies of the people on the prairies. While in New England or Kentucky you might have eaten a roast duck or suckling pig, gray squirrel or venison, these items more than likely would have been prepared by gutting, cleaning, removal of legs and feet and then cooked in the proper, healthy manner to make the food palatable and pleasing to you. On your first hunt and all subsequent hunts, and also depending on the tribe you were with, you saw the butchering done by the men or women of the tribe. While the Blackfoot often considered the butchering a job for strength and dexterity of a man, other people recognized the chore as drudgery and assigned it to the women. One man to comment on the butchering of the buffalo by women, was Father Louis Hennepin, a missionary. He observed in the 1600’s that women of the Miami tribe were more than able to handle the chore when he noted: 'These women are so lusty and strong, that they carry on their Back two or t hree hundred weight, besides their Children, and notwithstanding that Burthen (burden), they run as swiftly as any of our Soldiers with their Arms.’ As you, a, free trapper, participated or solely watched the goings of he would have seen the butchering become a tumult of activity, shouting, laughing quarreling and carrying on by all. All in a cloud of flies and often yellow jackets. Raw morsels of the meat would have been snacked on while the butchering was taking place. You as a participant might have been offered raw liver, kidney, eyes, belly fat, testicles, parts of the stomach, marrow from leg bones, gristle from snouts, hoofs of unborn calves and tissue from the sack they had been in. Bile from the gall bladder was sprinkled on the meat and used as a condiment as we might use mustard. Word has it that bile did a lot for the taste of liver. Bile, liver and onions, anyone? You might have bashed holes in the tops of skulls in order to scoop out the brains. Once the belly was slit open and the entrails removed hands reached in the cavity to drink the fresh warm blood. According to the Cree, the drinking of the blood would keep them from being perturbed by the sight of blood in battle. Teats were slashed off and warm milk drank from them. The kidneys were desired by those who were ailing. All of this taking place without the benefit of a clean environment and water to wash hands and knives with. John James Audubon once noted that after the killing of a buffalo by his party, the surrounding group of Indians asked for ‘certain parts of the entrails, which they devoured with the greatest Voracity.’ Audubon was intrigued. ‘This gluttony excited our curiosity, and being always willing to ascertain the quality of any sort of meat, we tasted some of this sort of tripe, and found it very good, although at first its appearance was rather revolting.’ Blood was also drank just to quench the thirst. Often the chase of the herd lasted for hours and the hunters made their kill far from water. Often the gristle of the buffalo’s snout served to quench the thirst. In areas where the hunting took place in an enemy’s territory, it was not uncommon for entire meals to consist of raw meat in order to avoid detection by the smoke of a fire. While most of the plains tribes relished the viscera, there were those who would not eat them. The Kootenai would throw away all the innards except for the prized heart. They held their neighbors, the Blackfoot in contempt for their eating of the liver. With the butchering completed, the meat was distributed and you, as a part of the tribe, might have prepared the meat for transport by wrapping it in the hide of the animal and securing it on to your horse or travois. If the trip back to camp was not too terribly far, your horse was expected to be able to carry the skin and meat from a cow buffalo. Dogs with travois were expected to pull a quarter of the buffalo. You, your wife and your adopted people would now head back to the main camp to prepare the meat. Surrounding the butchering ground, just out of an arrow¹s reach, and awaiting your departure had been all sorts of scavengers who would quickly converge on the bones and scraps. You and your people would celebrate. There would be cooking fires at every lodge and singing and laughter in the air. Large bones would be tossed into the fire to cook the marrow inside. Pits were dug inside the fire pit and whole calf¹s heads were placed inside to slow cook. Ribs and choice meat was cooked and the celebration lasted well into the night. Often several pounds of meat were eaten by each of the men. On waking with a full stomach, and everyone in a joyful spirit, work would begin to cook, dry and in some instances cache the meat. If the tribe intended to continue their search for other buffalo herds to add to their winter¹s meat supply, the meat from the day before was often cached then retrieved on their way back through the area. The techniques of the cache varied from tribe to tribe. Often the meat was simply placed between two hides in an out of the way place. Others dug pits and placed the wrapped meat inside. In winter a cave was dug into a snow bank. The caching of the meat was only a temporary means of storage. Dehydration was the most popular means of long term storage. The meat was sliced thin, hung on scaffolds where streamers were placed and allowed to blow in the wind in an effort to keep wolves away. While dried buffalo meat weighed only about one-sixth the amount of fresh meat, it was very bulky, somewhat like a bundle of tree bark. In rain or damp air it absorbs moisture, gaining weight as well as molding and decaying, often both. The jerky was often pounded, and dipped into melted fat to make chewing easier. The difficulties with jerky were eliminated with the development of pemmican. While recipes varied then as much as today, the method of storage was most always the same, or close to it. The pulverized jerky and what ever else that was desired, was placed into buffalo rawhide bags about the size of a pillow case. Then hot melted marrow was poured in with the jerky and surrounded each particle of meat, then the end of the bag was sewn shut. Before the contents became hard from cooling, it was walked upon to flatten it to about six or seven inches. A single sack or ‘piece’ weighed close to ninety pounds. It was ‘pieces’ such as these that were traded at forts and trading posts. Shaped in the flat rectangles, they could be placed across small logs or rocks in order to be kept up off of the damp ground. In forts they could be stacked and stored similar to cordwood which conserved space in the often small, establishments. It was figured that on an average, and as a result of individual tribe’s recipes, each pound of pemmican was the same as three pounds of buffalo steak. The Blackfoot used far less fat and claimed that one pound of their pemmican contained the goodness of five pounds of fresh meat. ‘Summer’ pemmican was lighter due to the dryness of the jerky used in its production . ‘Winter’ pemmican was heavier due to the difficulty in drying meat in the winter and the jerky having more moisture. ‘Berry’ pemmican had the addition of wild cherries, saskatoon or buffalo berries. While the addition of berries made the pemmican more palatable, they also increased the chance of spoilage. The dried, pulverized meat, saturated in fat, sealed from the air and encased in its rawhide bag could last for many years, up to thirty had been reported. Not a better food could be found to carry along with you. No fire was needed to prepare it for eating, a small amount would go an awful long way and it could be eaten for weeks at a time in order to sustain energy and health. It could be stored for times of famine as successfully in Manitoba as it could in Texas. One description of pemmican by a Scotsman was not so favorable: "Take scrapings from the driest outside corner of a very stale piece of cold roast beef, add to it lumps of tallow rancid fat, then garnish all with long human hairs... and you have a fair imitation of common pemmican, though I should rather suppose it to be less nasty." In 1810 a trader at a post in North Saskatchewan river remarked: "Even the gluttonous French Canadian that devours eight pounds of fresh meat every day is contented with one and a half pounds per day. It would be an admirable provision for the Army and Navy." Now that your woman had prepared the winter¹s meat supply for storage you could hunt for more, and eat as much fresh meat as possible, because fresh, was the preferred way to eat it and it was preferred rare. It did not have to be fresh to be enjoyed. Most Indians hung their meat until it began to decay. During spring break-up, rivers floated bloated carcasses down stream to waiting Indians who ate and enjoyed it in spite of the fact they had all the meat they needed. Yumm. In most lodges you would have visited there was always soup cooking. In fact, soups were most popular because anything and everything was tossed into the boiling water. Broken bones were saved and used as a soup base because of the flavorful marrow. Bones were also laid beside the fire and turned occasionally, then split open for the cooked marrow. Before the availability of metal pots, a pit was dug, lined with a section of hide and water was kept boiling with heated rocks as was the technique with a paunch suspended on a tripod or some other frame. While early travelers and trappers did not necessarily partake in all of the delicacies of the Plains, some were brave enough to try the customary meals set before them. George Catlin claimed that the taste of dog, beaver tails and buffalo tongues was pleasing. Others claimed that the hump was the best part. It was a strip of muscle from next to the spine. It was wrapped in a hide and pit-cooked for about twenty-four hours. Along the top of the hump was a layer of fatty tissue. This was known by the French name of depouille. It was about two inches thick and weighed from two to eleven pounds depending on the animal it was taken from. The Blackfoot dipped it in hot grease and suspended it from high up in their lodge where it became smoked and would keep indefinitely. It was also sometimes used as a sort of bread, with jerky between slices. A favorite dish you may have tried in your village was boiled fetal buffalo calf. There’s one for your recipe book ladies. According to a trader in 1868, the Gros Ventre prepared it thusly: " ... a young calf, before it is born, is considered the greatest delicate of all. When first eaten, early in the winter, it is never larger than a kitten, and gradually increases in size until near spring, when it becomes too large and coarse. The idea of eating such a barbarous dish was at first revolting, but afterward, when better able to appreciate these Indian luxuries, I found it very palatable, particularly the natural liquor or broth in which it was boiled; which, with the addition of salt and pepper made an excellent soup." Blood soup was popular. It was boiled in the above mentioned fashion, or for large get togethers, the Blackfoot turned the gutted carcass onto its back and using the rib box for a container, and adding a bit of water, used the heated stone method to cook it. A Hidatsa woman related her recipe she had used on a hunt in 1870. For the base of the soup she retrieved the pool of blood which settles between the lungs and diaphragm, discarding clotted blood which is difficult to cook and often spoils the soup quickly. She poured one and a half to two gallons onto a container. Added one cup of water, one piece of buffalo marrow-fat the size of a large duck egg, and two handfuls of dried root or vegetable. Then brought it to a boil. In order to add a delightful flavor she stirred the concoction with a chokecherry sapling whose end had been fringed. To tell if the soup was ready she stripped the bark from a small twig and dipped it into the soup, if it came out clean and white, it was ready to serve. Blood pudding was made by adding small bits of meat to the cooked blood and stuffed into parts of intestine (Kishka?). The Crow called their version of this, "Crow-Indian-Guts." You, as a member of your adopted tribe were, in for a whole new variety of meals. If you were repulsed by the content at first, you no doubt would have given in to trying most, if not all of these prairie gourmet dishes. Further on the subject of pemmican: In World War II, the German soldiers were issued pemmican. When the idea of pemmican as a war ration was suggested to officials of the US military forces, the promoters argument for its use stated that it was a lightweight, compact emergency ration. Dietitians however analyzed it and ruled in 1942 that it wasn’t wholesome, with most not liking the taste. Those in search of gold during the gold rush found it revolting. Oliver Hazard Peary, of North Pole fame, used pemmican on his arctic expeditions and stated it was the only food which could be eaten twice daily for a year and taste as good at the last bite as it did with the first. After a days long march he savored his half-pound ration of pemmican stating that " By the time I had finished the last morsel I would not have walked around the . . .igloo for anything . . .the St. Regis, the Blackstone or the Palace Hotel could have put before me." As with any food prepared, it will taste according to its means of preparation. Some xperienced good pemmican while others, bad. Those who tasted it after eating modern foods all their lives usually found it to be rather too much. I have tasted pemmican and found it very rich. Only able to take a small portion at a time. Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> ~`* `*' `*' `* `*' `*' *' `*' *' `*' `* `*' *' `*' ~~~

Thanks Linda. :-) I want one too~! :-) They sound wonderful~! Kath > Hi all, > > The tranquility bowls turned out great. I ended > up making two. One Beta is red and the other > is blue. So far both have adapted well. I am > enjoying them immensely. > Hope all are having a great day!! > Linda > > Kath wrote: > > > Thanks Linda. :-) Let us know how it does. > > Kath > > > > > Thanks for sending this in Kath. I have my vase all set up > > > and tomorrow hope to get the Beta. Have placed the > > > vase next to an oriental looking fountain in my bedroom. > > > Looking forward to the tranquility!!! I have heard that > > > watching tropical fish can lower ones' blood pressure. > > > Thanks again for the idea!! > > > > > > Love, > > > Linda

The following folks have birthdays coming up this summer Make your reminders to send them a card. Fred Ben Conrad May 28 109 White Road Chehalis, WA 98532 Anna Thompson June 23rd (Grannie Annie) 20 Castle Lane O'Fallon, Mo 63366 Patti Conrad July 26 109 White Road Chehalis, WA 98532 Brenda Foster(Dixie) August 8 233-A North Hicks Street Clinton, TN 37716 Karie Johnson - August 25th PO Box 8178 Fort Mohave, AZ 86427 Please Visit our Amputee Support Web Site at http://ampsupport.com

Paula: Me'n Ol' Tubby Joe Stottlemeyer both know you. I don't think we met in a cotton patch though. I think it was on this list. Anyway, look out for the army worms. The rascals are chewin' on cotton leaves as we while away our time with this list. Bill Covey Author of: Watson Is Where It Wuz http://BillCovey.50megs.com

The Direction of Water One warm day in the early summer, a young boy came to visit his grandfather at his small cabin nestled among the trees just below the top of a large hill. The day was bright and pleasant, so they agreed to enjoy the outdoors and began a ramble down the hill, examining leaves and bugs and rocks and every kind of flower they encountered. Soon they came upon a stream, fed by a natural spring bubbling up into a clear pool. The boy looked with wonder and interest as the water rose up through the sand and spilled out of the pool and down the stream bed. He watched carefully for awhile, as if he expected the wonder to cease. Finally, he asked, "Grandpa, how long will the water keep flowing?" "This spring flows all year round," said the grandfather. "Through heat and cold, rain and drought, this spring is a faithful and dependable source of water." "Where does the water come from?" asked the lad. "A spring like this starts from high up there," the grandfather replied, pointing toward a mountain in the distance. "It begins with the rain and snow and the dew on the leaves of many plants, far up on the mountains. But that is only the beginning. These waters join together deep inside the earth, in the inner secret places, where they form a single, pure flow. The water must pass with great travail and great patience over long distances through sand and rock until finally, in the fullness of time, it rises forth from the earth here before us." The boy stood awestruck at this story until the grandfather broke the reverie by adding, "You know, my boy, there is a great truth here: the greater the struggle, the purer the spring." The grandfather contemplated his own wisdom until it was the boy's time to break the meditation. "Where does the water go, Grandpa?" he asked, looking down the stream. "I can't see it after it reaches that old log." "There's another great truth," said the grandfather. "The only way to find where a stream will lead is to follow it." So the boy and his grandfather followed the stream along its course down the hillside. They rambled at an easy pace, enjoying the song of the waters tumbling over the rocks in the stream bed and watching an occasional leaf or twig rush down the rapids of a particularly turbulent spot. They paused often to examine a curious vine or a rotting log or to touch the bark of a nearby tree or merely to look around them to see the forest at peace. Eventually they came to the base of the hill where the stream stretched out along the plain. After walking awhile, they saw a place where, within the space of a few yards, the stream disappeared into the ground. "The stream ends here," said the boy. The old man said nothing but continued to stroll with the boy down the now dry stream bed, their feet crunching on the gravel in a most satisfying way. After many steps, the old man turned to the boy and said, "Why don't you dig a hole right there." The boy looked surprised for a moment, but soon began to dig in the bed. When he had dug down a foot or so, water seeped into the hole. "There is water here!" the boy exclaimed, watching the level rise to a few inches. "It's the stream," the old man said. "It has continued from where we last saw it, only now the gravel is on top." "You mean the stream has been with us all along?" asked the boy. "That's right," said the old man, "and that's another truth you should remember: If you ever lose sight of a stream, and believe it has been lost, just look under the gravel and you will find it again." |-|-| Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> ~`* `*' `*' `* `*' `*' *' `*' *' `*' `* `*' *' `*' ~~~

The Boy and the Vulture A young boy was playing in the desert with a bow and arrow he had made, when a vulture, always looking for a tender meal, saw him from afar. The bird flew over and, seeing that the arrow was only a barren stick, swooped down and pecked at the boy. "Why don't you shoot me if you don't like my pecking?" it taunted. The boy shot his arrow repeatedly, but the bird was too quick, and the arrow always missed. Finally, exhausted from chasing the arrow and deflecting the bird, the boy sat down in the sparse shade of a dead tree. The vulture, lighting on one of the dry branches above the boy, sat triumphantly preening and smirking, and even plucked a few old feathers to drop on the boy's head in contempt. "There's for your pains, feeble one," the bird said haughtily. The boy, however, would not be defeated. Carefully he collected the feathers, fixed them to his stick, and with the resultantly accurate arrow, shot the surprised vulture through the heart. * In our pride we often unwittingly give our enemies the means to destroy us. * Perseverance and ingenuity, even in the face of humiliation and defeat, will at last succeed. [Suggested by Aesop, "The Eagle and Arrow"] +++ Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> ~`* `*' `*' `* `*' `*' *' `*' *' `*' `* `*' *' `*' ~~~

How Sir Philo Married a Beautiful Princess Instead of the Woman He Loved Once upon a time--and it had to be pretty long ago, as you will see--there lived a bunch of people in a little inland kingdom. The king, Cleon the Modest, was basically a good fellow, though he was not known for his brilliance in government. Instead, he was known chiefly for his glowing and nubile daughter, Jennifrella, a girl, though proud and a trifle petulant, so freighted with beauty and charms that pretty much every bachelor--and not a few married men--in the kingdom dreamed about her, whether awake or asleep. Truly, she maketh my pen tremble even as I write this. Now Cleon was desirous of marrying off this legendary beauty as soon as possible so that he could be free of the constant entreaties for her hand, free of the frequent bills for supplying her dressing table, and free to spend more time in his rose garden, which he truly loved. The king would have had little trouble choosing the richest suitor in the kingdom for his daughter, except that there were no exceptionally wealthy bachelors in the realm, and those of modest wealth all had castles and money boxes of essentially similar dimensions. For her part, the Princess Jennifrella was repletely enamored of Sir Fassade, a handsome, dashing, suave, carefree young knight who most people, when they faced reality, agreed would almost certainly become her husband and therefore the next king. King Cleon, however, was desirous of exercising his regal authority in having a say in who would follow him on the throne. And faced with what he clearly saw was an impossible number of choices, he therefore sought the opinion of his favorite advisor, the young Sir Philo. Now, persons of a cynical bent might begin to think that Sir Philo, an eligible bachelor himself and not at all impervious to feminine gorgeousness, would argue craftily that he himself was the most suitable and worthy candidate. This might have been so but for two equally powerful reasons. First, Sir Philo, brave, skilled, and thoughtful, was a man of integrity who would never abuse his position as the king's advisor to advance his own interests, even in a matter so emotionally and biologically compelling as that before us. The other reason is that Sir Philo was already in love with another. It was a gentle love, like a deep river, quiet and calm on the surface but fully substantial and powerful in its flow. His happiness, the Lady Lucinda, though not of outward visage the equal of Jennifrella, was handsome enough for the young knight's daydreams. When asked what attracted him to Lucinda, he would answer ambiguously or mutter something about the light in her eyes. What joy he got sitting with her under a tree in the bright spring, gazing upon her and dallying with her fingers or brushing a love-sick gnat from her collar. But what really twirled Sir Philo's cuff links was Lucinda's wit, her laugh, her playfulness. He relished taking the sprightly maid hand in hand on long walks, listening to the music of her voice and to the sentiments accompanying the music. How he loved to play with her tresses, or when her hair was up, to steal up behind her and kiss her unexpectedly on the back of the neck: for she would invariably produce a little shriek of surprise and delight and embarrassment, and then turning to him, her cheeks glowing irresistibly, attempt to glare and call him "monster," only to spoil her mock anger by bursting into giggles or even outright laughter. She would chide him and call him "rogue," and "impertinent," and he would say something like, "I'll put a stop to this abuse," and then their lips, who were old friends by now, would once again meet for fellowship. Of course, Lucinda would struggle just enough to enhance the enjoyment, until laughter or an unexpected visitor broke their embrace. Well, enough mush. The point is that an unspoken understanding had developed between them so that only a few months after the rest of the kingdom knew it, they realized that they would one day wed and together laugh and cry through the years until death should wake them. But to return to the weightier problem of King Cleon. Upon being asked for his advice, Sir Philo recommended that the king choose from among the following options. One, his majesty could choose the wisest and most just suitor for Jennifrella, for such a man would not only make a good king, but he would most likely be a decent husband, too. Or secondly, the king might seek a foreign alliance and marry his daughter to another king's son. This was an alternative which Sir Philo did not recommend, but mentioned only for the sake of completeness. And finally, the last possibility would be to let Jennifrella choose for herself--in which case, everyone knew that Sir Fassade would be the next king, and he, opined Sir Philo, would be "acceptable," producing a government no worse than the current one. (Since I have already described the king's advisor as "thoughtful," I shall now add "tactful" and note that the final participial phrase of the previous sentence was thought but not uttered by the knight.) As for the kind of husband Sir Fassade would make, the princess would have no one to blame but herself. King Cleon thought the matter over not quite long enough and decided to hold an archery contest, the winner of which would marry his daughter. The degree of Sir Philo's consternation is not recorded in the annals from which I am plagiarizing, but one may suppose that it was substantial, for reasons which will hereinafter appear. Needless to say (except to make the story longer and extend the reader's pleasure), Sir Philo made energetic protests, which eventually descended to rather pathetic entreaties, all in a futile attempt to change the king's mind. But King Cleon would not be dissuaded, and so the news was soon heralded throughout the kingdom, and, as you might suppose, arrow sales shot up immediately and remarkably. As when a child pounds the ground near an anthill, causing a good many of the residents instantly to surface and run around in massed panic, so on the day of the contest the world arrived in a swarm at the castle of Cleon the Modest and prepared to be a witness, if not the victor, in the winning of Jennifrella. There were several dozen contenders in the contest, some quite accomplished archers, some more or less dilettantish, and quite a few whose skills put the spectators at random hazard. Amid the noise and enthusiasm on this day stood a grim and silent Sir Philo, deeply troubled about the proceedings for three reasons. First, strictly from a philosophical standpoint, a shooting contest was a completely irrational method of choosing either a spouse or a future king, and irrationality like this always troubled the young knight. Second, though Sir Fassade was a very good shot, capable of satisfactorily humiliating most of the other contestants, he was no match for Sir Bargle. If they used the word then, I would have to exaggerate only slightly to say that Sir Bargle was, as they say in French, or maybe don't, a jerque. He punctuated nearly every sentence with an oath or a belch, constantly leered at the ladies in waiting (who knew all too well to keep a safe distance from him), and those who attended carefully to his speech noted that the word he used more than any other was "me." In a word (or fourteen, actually), Sir Bargle was a man unlikely to put his personal appetites in second place. The prospect of this knight nuzzling the hair or nibbling the earlobes of Jennifrella was in itself sufficiently revulsive to Sir Philo; the prospect of his becoming king was absolutely unthinkable. The third reason that the king's advisor was grieved about the "score ahead and wed" method of selecting the princess' groom was that the only person in all the realm who could outshoot Sir Bargle was--Sir Philo. Prithee, talk not to me about psychic conflict--nay, psychic trauma, for I have seen it here, and it is not gentle. Sir Philo traced and retraced many steps around the castle grounds, without thought of direction or destination, the movement of his feet and the tension on his face reflecting the turmoil in his soul. At length, in his anxiety, the brave knight turned to his lady love for succor and advice, and she, with a swiftness that surprised him and a nobility that made him love her more deeply than ever, told him that of course he must put the interest of the kingdom above his personal happiness. She then flew into his arms and burst into inconsolable sobbing for longer than we have time to look in on. The contest began and proceeded remarkably well, with only the loss of a too-curious cow and a few luckless birds at the hands of the less accomplished suitors. Sir Fassade shot well that day, achieving a personal best. As each arrow hit, closer and closer toward the middle of the target, it made the princess clap a little louder and leap with joy a little higher. A smirk of self-congratulation soon decorated Sir Fassade's handsome face. A loud belch and a louder laugh announced the commencement of Sir Bargle's shooting. As predicted by Sir Philo, Sir Bargle was an excellent shot. As each arrow landed a good handbreadth closer to the center of the target than any of those of Sir Fassade, the smiles on the faces of the princess and her favorite knight grew less and less until they had been completely replaced by somber looks on the knight and what might be described as silent hysteria on the face of the princess. The look on Sir Bargle's face at the conclusion of his shooting is a little too carnal for me to describe. As he shot his set of arrows, Sir Philo was forced more than once, after he had fully drawn his bow, to pause, and to wait until a little tremble--attributed by the crowd to nervousness and eagerness to win Jennifrella--left his hands. As each arrow hit the target, remarkably near the middle, it also pierced the very center of Lucinda's heart. The young knight thought more than once about letting an arrow fly wide of the target, but he did his duty, though it brought grief to himself and devastation to the woman he treasured. Sir Philo's smile as he took the hand of the princess was obviously forced, but no one noticed because Jennifrella was now bawling so spectacularly that the crowd, though not at all wishing to be unkind, found it, frankly, entertaining. As it does for us all, time passed and life went on. After a peculiar three years' delay, Lucinda finally made her choice from among several good offers and moved with her new husband to a remote part of the kingdom where it was reported that she was content, though some said that the cooler climate had somewhat subdued her well-known effervescence. In the fullness of time, Sir Philo exchanged his sword for a crown and ascended the throne. He ruled wisely and justly, and the kingdom prospered. Hero that he was, he had mostly adjusted to the princess' personality, reminding himself as occasion required (and occasion did require), that not only had he acted for the good of the kingdom, but he had wed great beauty and, eventually, personal power. He further reminded himself that Jennifrella had made an adequate wife, even after her face wrinkled and her tummy pudged, and that she had proved to be a reasonable mother to his children. Whenever, in a moment of inattention, he discovered himself pining to enjoy a witty remark or some unguarded laughter, he quoted, hoping that it was true, the old proverb that "we grow most not when something is given but when something is taken away." All in all, it was a reasonable life with much to be thankful for. Jennifrella's joy was that Sir Philo, now King Philo, remained a generous and loving husband even as her beauty faded; her only regret was that Sir Fassade had married her younger and more amiable sister, and both of them appeared to be altogether too happy. Lucinda's joy was in her two lovely children, whom she took, once or twice, to see the new king as he made a royal progress through their village. Her only regret was that she could reveal only half her heart as she told them what a good man he was. Sir Philo's joy was that he had acted virtuously and now enjoyed a mostly pleasant life, dispensing justice and mercy with care and humanity. His only regret was that he had learned to shoot arrows. +++ Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> ~`* `*' `*' `* `*' `*' *' `*' *' `*' `* `*' *' `*' ~~~

The Limit One day a man was walking through a forest and got lost. "Nothing could be worse than this," he said. Then it got dark. "Lost in the dark. What could be worse?" he asked. Then it got cold. "Now nothing could possibly be worse," he said as he shivered and stumbled around. But then it began to rain. "How could anything be worse than this?" he asked himself. But then the rain turned to snow and the wind came up. "This is absolutely the worst possible thing that could ever happen," he said. "There's nothing left." But then he fell and broke his arm. "Well, that's it," he thought. "This is the worst of all." But as he lay in the snow, a tree branch broke off and fell on him, breaking both his legs. "This is worse than the worst," he thought. "But at least nothing else can happen." But then he heard the sound of wolves coming his way. The noise was so startling that the man awoke and discovered that he had been dreaming. "What a dream I had," he said, shaking himself. "Nothing could be worse." Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> ~`* `*' `*' `* `*' `*' *' `*' *' `*' `* `*' *' `*' ~~~

It's Nut Valuable Once upon a time a wise and thoughtful craftsman made a new electric adding machine. It was very complex with many gears and levers and wheels, and it did amazing things, always adding up the numbers correctly. So the craftsman sold it to a businessman for many thousands of dollars. All the parts inside the new adding machine felt good about being so valuable. They worked hard and happily all day, and often talked about how useful they were to the businessman. But one day a spring noticed a little nut just sitting on the end of a shaft. The spring pulled at the lever he was attached to and pointed. Soon the whole works knew. "You lazy little nut," said a spinning gear, "why don't you get to work?" "But I am working," said the nut. "Holding on is my job." "That's stupid," yelled a cam. "I don't believe our maker put you here. You just sneaked in to steal some of our glory. Why don't you get out?" "Well," said the nut, "I'm sure our maker knew what he was doing, and that I do serve a purpose. I hold on as tightly as I can." But all the machinery began to squeal and abuse the nut so violently that he felt very sad and began to doubt himself. "Maybe I am useless," he thought. He appealed to the shaft he was threaded onto. "Look, kid," the shaft told him, "I've got plenty of other parts holding on to me. I shouldn't have to support you, too." So finally the little nut decided to unscrew himself and go away. He dropped off the shaft and fell through a hole in the bottom of the machine. "Good riddance," said the motor. "Yeah, good riddance," all the other parts agreed. Rather quickly the nut was forgotten and things went on as they had for awhile. But in a few hours, the shaft began to feel funny. At first he began to vibrate. Then he started sliding and slipping. He called for help to the other parts attached to him, but they could do nothing. Presently the shaft fell completely out of his mounting hole, causing many levers and gears and cams to slip out of alignment and crash against each other, and forcing the whole machine to grind to a halt with an awful noise. The motor tried his best to keep things going--he tried so hard that he bent many of the parts--and then as he tried even harder, he burned himself out. "This is all the fault of that little nut," the ruined parts all agreed. "I'll give ya three bucks for it," said the junk man to the office manager. +++ Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> ~`* `*' `*' `* `*' `*' *' `*' *' `*' `* `*' *' `*' ~~~

Where Did All the Water Come From? As a young family, we often visited Niagara Falls, since it is close by. On a particular visit, my young daughter posed a question that intrigued me. "Daddy, where did all this water come from?" Of course, the initial question was less difficult, as I shared with her the facts of the water/rain cycle. Rain would fall in the vicinity of the Great Lakes and eventually, would drain over Niagara Falls. But she persisted, "Daddy, but where did the rain come from?" I tried to explain that there where many oceans on this earth releasing water vapor, which eventually cooled, condensed and then fell as rain or snow. But her final question stumped me. "Daddy, where did the water in the oceans come from?" With research, I discovered planet Earth has 1,400,000,000,000,000,000 (1,400 quadrillion) tons of water. Indeed, this is a huge supply of the liquid stuff! Just in United States alone, 7 billion tons (1,500 cubic miles) of rain fall each year on the land. Now there are some scientists who suggest that water was dumped on Earth by a zillion comets billions of years ago. This view is intriguing because the Earth's distant brother, the planet Mars, or even our Moon, contain no large quantities of water. Imagine zillions of tons of water falling to the Earth with mega erosive power, and still confined to our earth's borders because of the normal atmospheric pressure of 14.7 lbs/si. If water fell on Mars or the moon, it would vaporize quickly, since there is no atmosphere on that planet. Thus, a difficult chicken-egg question is posed: what came first, the water or Earth's atmosphere? If a zillion comets unleashed zillions of tons of water here on Earth and there was no atmosphere, the water would simply vaporize. If the air was here first, falling water could vaporize as it hits the atmosphere. Even more intriguing is considering this in relation to the Big Bang Theory of the universe. Water on the Earth would have a very difficult time staying within the Earth's gravitational pull if a big bang occurred. Then there are those who suggest that the Earth suffered from a large impact at one time which made a huge chunk of our planet fly away, eventually becoming our Moon. Such an impact would have vaporized much of the water within our oceans and blown away boulders, rocks, sand, particles--anything that would not be fastened or tied to the Earth. Some purport that water hidden in deep cavities within our planet, eventually surfaced, resting in hollow areas called oceans, seas and lakes. However, this theory is losing relative strength. Thus, the question of where water came from will haunt many scientists and geologists for years to come. I propose to you that we accept the simple belief that God created this planet along with its quadrillions of tons of water. Genesis 1:1,2 states that God created the heavens, the earth with its water. Simple, and yet, astonishing--something only to be taken by faith. But here we can see that faith is compatible with reason. Does this make you desire to come one step closer to our Creator? If God is now in heaven, you will find that accepting this in faith does not require you to throw reason and common sense out the window, but in fact confirms both... ...and in the process, gives you a sense of peace such as you have never known. Contributed by George Prins. »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

Hi Folks: I know everybody keeps up with this stuff so I'm passing it along for your information and warning. Folks, what I have to tell you ain't good. The army worms have come back to Watson this year and its a bunch of'em. Army worms is just about as bad as cut worms 'cept they come along later in the year. Other than that, one is about as bad as the other. No need to thank me for this information 'cause I know you you'll too be busy doin' sumpin' about it. Bill Covey Author of: Watson Is Where It Wuz http://BillCovey.50megs.com

> > Through the Years > > My mother, Hazel, sits peeling potatoes. Dressed in Mama's > movie star coat with the real fur collar, high heels, and > beautiful red velvet hat, I shuffle elegantly into the kitchen > and gleefully yell, "Look Mommy, I'm little Hazel!" Mama looks > up and smiles with tears in her eyes. I am completely aware of > how incredibly cute I am being. I am four years old, and Mama > is my friend. > "Oh, Mom, it's so pretty! I love it! Thank you, thank > you, thank you," I cry as I turn and rustle in my new party > dress. My fingers touch the soft, peach satin, and I look up to > see Mom smiling at me. I am nine years old, and, sometimes, Mom > is still my fairy godmother. > "I'll be glad when I go to college next year and don't have > to live here any more," I scream at my mother. "If you keep on > acting this way," she says in frustration, "I'll be glad too." > Hurt and shocked by this revelation, I storm out of the room, > trying to hold back my tears. I am seventeen years old, and, > too often Mother is my adversary. > "I did it! I did it! I got an A from Professor King," I > shriek. I leap to my feet, waving my report card in the warm > kitchen air. Mom tells me she's proud of me, and we dance > around the kitchen in a wild victory jig. I am twenty-one years > old, and Mom is my biggest cheerleader. > I am barely able to make out "Flight 405 to Great Falls is > now ready for boarding" over the airport intercom. After all > those times when it was me leaving and my mother was crying, > it's now her turn to depart, and I am the one left crying. I > look at Mama and do something I haven't done since I was four > years old; I grab her hand and say, "Don't leave." She touches > my cheek and says, "But honey, I've got my ticket." Hugging her > close to me, I say, "The only way I'll let you go is if you > promise to come back for Christmas." Dabbing at her own tears, > she says, "Oh yes, I'll be back." I am thirty-seven years old, > and Mama is my friend. This time, it is forever. > > By Nancy Richard-Guilford > Reprinted by permission of Nancy Richard-Guilford (c) 1998, from > A 6th Bowl of Chicken Soup for the Soul by Jack Canfield and > Mark Victor Hansen. > > »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

Or is the capacity to do good and evil what makes humans human? And can the evil attribute be filtered out as we transfer our abilities to machines? Wouldn't that be wonderful. ~missi~ Author Brad Leithauser thinks we will be sharing more and more of our brainpower with our machines: "Just how 'special' our brains are -- which is to say, to what degree they are not duplicable by machines -- has emerged as the central issue in the field of artificial intelligence. There is as yet no way of knowing whether any inherent boundaries exist to a machine's capacity for replicating human thought -- or how, if such boundaries exist, they might be categorized or defined. Meanwhile, researchers in artificial intelligence tend to feel both vexed and amused at the way the public seems unthinkingly to shift its definition of creativity to exclude machines. In her book 'Machines Who Think,' Pamela McCorduck observes, 'There is superstition about creativity, and for that matter, about thinking in every sense, and it's part of the history of the field of artificial intelligence that every time somebody figured out how to make a computer do something -- play good checkers, solve simple but relatively informal problems -- there was a chorus of critics to say, but that's not thinking. In the next few decades, our society will certainly see machines dramatically extend their range of activities, and creativity will doubtless have to submit to a good deal of redefinition. Whether we will be able to keep the term at all -- at least in its present guise as a process both mysteriously and uniquely human is a question that encompasses deep neurological and philosophical issues." See http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0679429980/newsscancom/ for Brad Leithauser's "Penchants and Places." (We donate all revenue from our book recommendations to adult literacy action programs.) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

The Second Greatest Commandment A man was out shoveling the excess gravel off his driveway and into the graveled road that ran by his house. A neighbor happened to be walking by just as the man tossed a shovel full down the road the opposite way the man used to drive in and out. "I see you aren't messing up the part of the road you use," sneered the neighbor. A few minutes later another neighbor happened by and saw the man toss a shovel full of gravel down the other part of the road. "I see you are fixing only the part of the road you use, and not the part others must use," sneered the second neighbor. The shoveler stood still with a shovel full of gravel as the second man left. Now unsure of what to do with it that would be agreeable to his neighbors, he decided simply to dump it out onto his driveway on the very spot whence he had scooped it up. Just as he did so, a third neighbor happened to be walking by. "I see you are stealing gravel from the road for your driveway," sneered the third man. "People like you are what's wrong with this country." At this point the homeowner put his shovel away and sat down with his pipe to contemplate these occurrences. Pretty soon a neighbor from further down the street drove by and saw the man sitting down enjoying his pipe. "If you weren't so lazy, you'd shovel some of that gravel off your driveway and back onto the road where it belongs," the driver sneered as he drove away, spinning his tires and scattering gravel in every direction. +++ Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> ~`* `*' `*' `* `*' `*' *' `*' *' `*' `* `*' *' `*' ~~~

> Oh, oh! > > > > "The standard explanation of how we fly is just wrong..." > http://www.newscientist.com/newsletter/opinion.jsp?id=ns22895 > »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

> > Read this all the way through for a good dose of guilt and shame. Shame > on you! > > > I am a very sick little boy. My mother is typing this for me, because I > can't. She is crying. Don't cry, Mommy! Mommy is always sad, but she > says it's not my fault. I asked her if it was God's fault, but she > didn't answer and only started crying harder, so I don't ask her that > anymore. > > The reason she is so sad is because I'm so sick. > > I was born without a body. It doesn't hurt, except when I try to > breathe. The doctors gave me an artificial body. It is a burlap bag > filled with leaves. The doctors said that was the best they could do on > account of us having no money or insurance. I would like to have a body > transplant, but we need more money. Mommy doesn't work because she said > nobody hires crying people. > > I said, "Don't cry, Mommy," and she hugged my burlap bag. Mommy always > gives me hugs, even though she's allergic to burlap and it makes her > sneeze and chafes her real bad. > > I hope you will help me. You can help me if you forward this email to > everyone you know. Forward it to people you don't know, too. Dr. > Johansen said that for every person you forward this email to, Bill > Gates will team up with AOL and send a nickel to NASA. With that > funding, NASA will collect prayers from school children all over America > and have the astronauts take them up into space so that the angels can > hear them better. > > Then they will come back to earth and go to the Pope, and he will take > up a collection in church and send all the money to the doctors. The > doctors could help me get better then. Maybe one day I will be able to > play baseball. Right now I can only be third base. > > Every time you forward this letter, the astronauts can take another > prayers to the angels and my dream will be closer to coming true. Please > help me. Mommy is so sad, and I want a body. I don't want my leaves to > rot before I turn 10. > > If you don't forward this email, that's okay. Mommy says you're a mean > and heartless person who doesn't care about a poor little boy with only > a head. She says that if you don't stew in the raw pit of your own > guilt-ridden stomach, she hopes you die a long slow, horrible death and > then burn forever in hell. What kind of cruel person are you that you > can't take five minutes to forward this to all your friends so that they > can feel guilt and shame about ignoring a poor, bodiless nine-year-old boy? > > Please help me. I try to be happy, but it's hard. I wish I had a kitty. > I wish I could hold a kitty. I wish I could hold a kitty that wouldn't > chew on me and try to bury its poop in the leaves of my burlap body. I > wish that very much. > > Thank You, > > Billy "Smiles" Evans (the boy with just a head, and a burlap sack for a > body) > »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

> "This is USA spy plane that was in collision with my country Chinese jet > fighter. I part of the Chinese Military and have complete control over > plane. The buyer of plane responsible for picking up plane. There is no > sensative information on plane...it has all been taken off by my > peoples. Nose of plane broken...prop be mess up also... Some electronics > missing and othber be smashed. You by plane as is!!! " > > > »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

> Restarting > > Have you ever had a problem with your computer? I > have. Often, very simple problems can become major > problems. In my work as a part-time technical support rep > for my local Internet service provider, I've learned to deal > with lots of computer problems. I told someone the other > day that I've gotten ten years of experience on computers > in six months by helping others troubleshoot. When > someone is having trouble connecting to the Internet, one > of the first things we normally do is have them restart their > computer. Yes, that simple act can cure a wealth of > problems. > > Most people don't realize that when you open a > program, the computer reserves a certain amount of > memory for that piece of software to operate. Even when > you close the program, the computer will sometimes > continue to reserve that segment of memory, refusing to > release it for other programs to use. As you open and close > more programs, the computer reserves sections of memory > for them to operate. Eventually, there isn't enough memory > left free for other software that operates your modem to > function properly. That, in turn, can keep you from getting > on the Internet. > > Our lives are that way. When we sometimes allow sin > in our lives it takes up space in our heart and mind and it > reserves time in our lives that we could be using in a more > productive way. As more time gets reserved, it is no longer > available for more productive uses such as allowing our > Creator a greater place in our lives. As one of my friends is > fond of saying, "Sin takes you places you don't want to do, > keeps you longer than you want to stay, and costs more > than you want to pay." Jesus provides us with an example > of correcting this problem. In Matthew, he practiced the > principle of Purity, Prayer, and Power. He went into the > temple and drove out the moneychangers, thus purifying > God's temple. He then cited the need for prayer, to repair > the damage. Those two were then followed by God's power > being released within the temple and the people around > Jesus. > > The same applies in our lives. When you restart a > computer, the memory is released to be used in other ways. > When you restart your life following God's Biblical plan > of grace through the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross, you are > freed from the bondage of sin. Your life is released to be > used by God and you in other more productive ways. Why > not hit the restart button right now? Ask God to allow the > purity of Jesus to flood your life, pray for His direction in > all that you do, and watch the power of God be released > into your life. > > O * O *O * O O * * O <º)(((((~((((((>>>< * <º)((((~((((>< missi