1ink Saves You Money on Printer Ink! 1 Ink Don't pay a fortune for printer ink. Save with 1ink! Free Shipping Available. [1]Learn More [2]1 Ink [3][9aeKg7a4Q25Ia4AVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjhd9a] 1ink Saves You Money on Printer Ink! Fair now is the springtide, now earth lies beholding With the eyes of a lover the face of the sun; Long lasteth the daylight, and hope is enfolding The green-growing acres with increase begun. Now sweet, sweet it is through the land to be straying Mid the birds and the blossoms and the beasts of the field; Love mingles with love, and no evil is weighing On thy heart or mine, where all sorrow is healed. From township to township, o'er down and by tillage Far, far have we wandered and long was the day, But now cometh eve at the end of the village, Where over the grey wall the church riseth grey. There is wind in the twilight; in the white road before us The straw from the ox-yard is blowing about; The moon's rim is rising, a star glitters o'er us, And the vane on the spire-top is swinging in doubt. Down there dips the highway, toward the bridge crossing over The brook that runs on to the Thames and the sea. Draw closer, my sweet, we are lover and lover; This eve art thou given to gladness and me. Shall we be glad always? Come closer and hearken: Three fields further on, as they told me down there, When the young moon has set, if the March sky should darken, We might see from the hill-top the great city's glare. Hark, the wind in the elm-boughs! From London it bloweth, And telling of gold, and of hope and unrest; Of power that helps not; of wisdom that knoweth, But teacheth not aught of the worst and the best. Of the rich men it telleth, and strange is the story How they have, and they hanker, and grip far and wide; And they live and they die, and the earth and its glory Has been but a burden they scarce might abide. Hark! the March wind again of a people is telling; Of the life that they live there, so haggard and grim, That if we and our love amidst them had been dwelling My fondness had faltered, thy beauty grown dim. This land we have loved in our love and our leisure For them hangs in heaven, high out of their reach; The wide hills o'er the sea-plain for them have no pleasure, The grey homes of their fathers no story to teach. The singers have sung and the builders have builded, The painters have fashioned their tales of delight; For what and for whom hath the world's book been gilded, When all is for these but the blackness of night? How long and for what is their patience abiding? How oft and how oft shall their story be told, While the hope that none seeketh in darkness is hiding And in grief and in sorrow the world groweth old? Come back to the inn, love, and the lights and the fire, And the fiddler's old tune and the shuffling of feet; For there in a while shall be rest and desire, And there shall the morrow's uprising be sweet. Yet, love, as we wend the wind bloweth behind us And beareth the last tale it telleth to-night, How here in the spring-tide the message shall find us; For the hope that none seeketh is coming to light. Like the seed of midwinter, unheeded, unperished, Like the autumn-sown wheat 'neath the snow lying green, Like the love that o'ertook us, unawares and uncherished, Like the babe 'neath thy girdle that groweth unseen, So the hope of the people now buddeth and groweth - Rest fadeth before it, and blindness and fear; It biddeth us learn all the wisdom it knoweth; It hath found us and held us, and biddeth us hear: For it beareth the message: "Rise up on the morrow And go on your ways toward the doubt and the strife; Join hope to our hope and blend sorrow with sorrow, And seek for men's love in the short days of life." But lo, the old inn, and the lights and the fire, And the fiddler's old tune and the shuffling of feet; Soon for us shall be quiet and rest and desire, And to-morrow's uprising to deeds shall be sweet. THE BRIDGE AND THE STREET In the midst of the bridge there we stopped and we wondered In London at last, and the moon going down, All sullied and red where the mast-wood was sundered By the void of the night-mist, the breath of the town. On each side lay the City, and Thames ran between it Dark, struggling, unheard 'neath the wheels and the feet. A strange dream it was that we ever had seen it, And strange was the hope we had wandered to meet. Was all nought but confusion? What man and what master Had each of these people that hastened along? Like a flood flowed the faces, and faster and faster Went the drift of the feet of the hurrying throng. Till all these seemed but one thing, and we twain another, A thing frail and feeble and young and unknown; What sign mid all these to tell foeman from brother? What sign of the hope in our hearts that had grown? We went to our lodging afar from the river, And slept and forgot--and remembered in dreams; And friends that I knew not I strove to deliver From a crowd that swept o'er us in measureless streams, Wending whither I knew not: till meseemed I was waking To the first night in London, and lay by my love, And she worn and changed, and my very heart aching With a terror of soul that forbade me to move. Till I woke, in good sooth, and she lay there beside me, Fresh, lovely in sleep; but awhile yet I lay, For the fear of the dream-tide yet seemed to abide me In the cold and sad time ere the dawn of the day. Then I went to the window, and saw down below me The market-wains wending adown the dim street, And the scent of the hay and the herbs seemed to know me, And seek out my heart the dawn's sorrow to meet. They passed, and day grew, and with pitiless faces The dull houses stared on the prey they had trapped; 'Twas as though they had slain all the fair morning places Where in love and in leisure our joyance had happed. My heart sank; I murmured, "What's this we are doing In this grim net of London, this prison built stark With the greed of the ages, our young lives pursuing A phantom that leads but to death in the dark?" Day grew, and no longer was dusk with it striving, And now here and there a few people went by. As an image of what was once eager and living Seemed the hope that had led us to live or to die. Yet nought else seemed happy; the past and its pleasure Was light, and unworthy, had been and was gone; If hope had deceived us, if hid were its treasure, Nought now would be left us of all life had won. O love, stand beside me; the sun is uprisen On the first day of London; and shame hath been here. For I saw our new life like the bars of a prison, And hope grew a-cold, and I parleyed with fear. Ah! I sadden thy face, and thy grey eyes are chiding! Yea, but life is no longer as stories of yore; From us from henceforth no fair words shall be hiding The nights of the wretched, the days of the poor. Time was we have grieved, we have feared, we have faltered, For ourselves, for each other, while yet we were twain; And no whit of the world by our sorrow was altered, Our faintness grieved nothing, our fear was in vain. Now our fear and our faintness, our sorrow, our passion, We shall feel all henceforth as we felt it erewhile; But now from all this the due deeds we shall fashion Of the eyes without blindness, the heart without guile. Let us grieve then--and help every soul in our sorrow; Let us fear--and press forward where few dare to go; Let us falter in hope--and plan deeds for the morrow, The world crowned with freedom, the fall of the foe. As the soldier who goes from his homestead a-weeping, And whose mouth yet remembers his sweetheart's embrace, While all round about him the bullets are sweeping, But stern and stout-hearted dies there in his place; Yea, so let our lives be! e'en such that hereafter, When the battle is won and the story is told, Our pain shall be hid, and remembered our laughter, And our names shall be those of the bright and the bold. NOTE--This section had the following note in The Commonweal. It is the intention of the author to follow the fortunes of the lovers who in the "Message of the March Wind" were already touched by sympathy with the cause of the people. ___________________________________ Change your options by visiting [4]here 2220 Meridian Blvd.,Suite #763, Minden, NV 89423 References 1. http://www.hneku.com/22dD86OIU4q21*a4BVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjhe32/checkerboarding-merges 2. http://www.hneku.com/22dD86OIU4q21*a4BVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjhe32/checkerboarding-merges 3. http://www.hneku.com/8098Ki642kL2Ka4LVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjh7bf/loners-superuser 4. http://www.hneku.com/6a1FS89o42H3Ra4gVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjh5fd/professionally-recoding

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1ink Saves You Money on Printer Ink! 1 Ink Don't pay a fortune for printer ink. Save with 1ink! Free Shipping Available. [1]Learn More [2]1 Ink [3][2e2y7an41i7DTza2BVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjhe14] 1ink Saves You Money on Printer Ink! Fair now is the springtide, now earth lies beholding With the eyes of a lover the face of the sun; Long lasteth the daylight, and hope is enfolding The green-growing acres with increase begun. Now sweet, sweet it is through the land to be straying Mid the birds and the blossoms and the beasts of the field; Love mingles with love, and no evil is weighing On thy heart or mine, where all sorrow is healed. From township to township, o'er down and by tillage Far, far have we wandered and long was the day, But now cometh eve at the end of the village, Where over the grey wall the church riseth grey. There is wind in the twilight; in the white road before us The straw from the ox-yard is blowing about; The moon's rim is rising, a star glitters o'er us, And the vane on the spire-top is swinging in doubt. Down there dips the highway, toward the bridge crossing over The brook that runs on to the Thames and the sea. Draw closer, my sweet, we are lover and lover; This eve art thou given to gladness and me. Shall we be glad always? Come closer and hearken: Three fields further on, as they told me down there, When the young moon has set, if the March sky should darken, We might see from the hill-top the great city's glare. Hark, the wind in the elm-boughs! From London it bloweth, And telling of gold, and of hope and unrest; Of power that helps not; of wisdom that knoweth, But teacheth not aught of the worst and the best. Of the rich men it telleth, and strange is the story How they have, and they hanker, and grip far and wide; And they live and they die, and the earth and its glory Has been but a burden they scarce might abide. Hark! the March wind again of a people is telling; Of the life that they live there, so haggard and grim, That if we and our love amidst them had been dwelling My fondness had faltered, thy beauty grown dim. This land we have loved in our love and our leisure For them hangs in heaven, high out of their reach; The wide hills o'er the sea-plain for them have no pleasure, The grey homes of their fathers no story to teach. The singers have sung and the builders have builded, The painters have fashioned their tales of delight; For what and for whom hath the world's book been gilded, When all is for these but the blackness of night? How long and for what is their patience abiding? How oft and how oft shall their story be told, While the hope that none seeketh in darkness is hiding And in grief and in sorrow the world groweth old? Come back to the inn, love, and the lights and the fire, And the fiddler's old tune and the shuffling of feet; For there in a while shall be rest and desire, And there shall the morrow's uprising be sweet. Yet, love, as we wend the wind bloweth behind us And beareth the last tale it telleth to-night, How here in the spring-tide the message shall find us; For the hope that none seeketh is coming to light. Like the seed of midwinter, unheeded, unperished, Like the autumn-sown wheat 'neath the snow lying green, Like the love that o'ertook us, unawares and uncherished, Like the babe 'neath thy girdle that groweth unseen, So the hope of the people now buddeth and groweth - Rest fadeth before it, and blindness and fear; It biddeth us learn all the wisdom it knoweth; It hath found us and held us, and biddeth us hear: For it beareth the message: "Rise up on the morrow And go on your ways toward the doubt and the strife; Join hope to our hope and blend sorrow with sorrow, And seek for men's love in the short days of life." But lo, the old inn, and the lights and the fire, And the fiddler's old tune and the shuffling of feet; Soon for us shall be quiet and rest and desire, And to-morrow's uprising to deeds shall be sweet. THE BRIDGE AND THE STREET In the midst of the bridge there we stopped and we wondered In London at last, and the moon going down, All sullied and red where the mast-wood was sundered By the void of the night-mist, the breath of the town. On each side lay the City, and Thames ran between it Dark, struggling, unheard 'neath the wheels and the feet. A strange dream it was that we ever had seen it, And strange was the hope we had wandered to meet. Was all nought but confusion? What man and what master Had each of these people that hastened along? Like a flood flowed the faces, and faster and faster Went the drift of the feet of the hurrying throng. Till all these seemed but one thing, and we twain another, A thing frail and feeble and young and unknown; What sign mid all these to tell foeman from brother? What sign of the hope in our hearts that had grown? We went to our lodging afar from the river, And slept and forgot--and remembered in dreams; And friends that I knew not I strove to deliver From a crowd that swept o'er us in measureless streams, Wending whither I knew not: till meseemed I was waking To the first night in London, and lay by my love, And she worn and changed, and my very heart aching With a terror of soul that forbade me to move. Till I woke, in good sooth, and she lay there beside me, Fresh, lovely in sleep; but awhile yet I lay, For the fear of the dream-tide yet seemed to abide me In the cold and sad time ere the dawn of the day. Then I went to the window, and saw down below me The market-wains wending adown the dim street, And the scent of the hay and the herbs seemed to know me, And seek out my heart the dawn's sorrow to meet. They passed, and day grew, and with pitiless faces The dull houses stared on the prey they had trapped; 'Twas as though they had slain all the fair morning places Where in love and in leisure our joyance had happed. My heart sank; I murmured, "What's this we are doing In this grim net of London, this prison built stark With the greed of the ages, our young lives pursuing A phantom that leads but to death in the dark?" Day grew, and no longer was dusk with it striving, And now here and there a few people went by. As an image of what was once eager and living Seemed the hope that had led us to live or to die. Yet nought else seemed happy; the past and its pleasure Was light, and unworthy, had been and was gone; If hope had deceived us, if hid were its treasure, Nought now would be left us of all life had won. O love, stand beside me; the sun is uprisen On the first day of London; and shame hath been here. For I saw our new life like the bars of a prison, And hope grew a-cold, and I parleyed with fear. Ah! I sadden thy face, and thy grey eyes are chiding! Yea, but life is no longer as stories of yore; From us from henceforth no fair words shall be hiding The nights of the wretched, the days of the poor. Time was we have grieved, we have feared, we have faltered, For ourselves, for each other, while yet we were twain; And no whit of the world by our sorrow was altered, Our faintness grieved nothing, our fear was in vain. Now our fear and our faintness, our sorrow, our passion, We shall feel all henceforth as we felt it erewhile; But now from all this the due deeds we shall fashion Of the eyes without blindness, the heart without guile. Let us grieve then--and help every soul in our sorrow; Let us fear--and press forward where few dare to go; Let us falter in hope--and plan deeds for the morrow, The world crowned with freedom, the fall of the foe. As the soldier who goes from his homestead a-weeping, And whose mouth yet remembers his sweetheart's embrace, While all round about him the bullets are sweeping, But stern and stout-hearted dies there in his place; Yea, so let our lives be! e'en such that hereafter, When the battle is won and the story is told, Our pain shall be hid, and remembered our laughter, And our names shall be those of the bright and the bold. NOTE--This section had the following note in The Commonweal. It is the intention of the author to follow the fortunes of the lovers who in the "Message of the March Wind" were already touched by sympathy with the cause of the people. ___________________________________ Change your options by visiting [4]here 2220 Meridian Blvd.,Suite #763, Minden, NV 89423 References 1. http://www.hjewf.com/Egyptianizations-blanker/f308Pm6uBO413Ka2SVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjhc8e 2. http://www.hjewf.com/Egyptianizations-blanker/f308Pm6uBO413Ka2SVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjhc8e 3. http://www.hjewf.com/4678wG64vE14Ka2lVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjhc33/Viking-Lichter 4. http://www.hjewf.com/reconstructs-pounding/1f2r8u9O415sa2AVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjh30e

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Thanks to all who responded to my inquiry. Everyone was very helpful. Debi ----- Original Message ----- From: "Barbara Mathews" <barbara@demandinggenealogist.com> To: "Rob Weir" <rob@robweir.com>, debiham@comcast.net Cc: TRANSITIONAL-GENEALOGISTS-FORUM@rootsweb.com Sent: Monday, August 15, 2016 7:50:52 PM Subject: RE: [TGF] Birth in Maine before 1820 I would say Bristol, Province of Maine, Massachusetts. Barbara -----Original Message----- From: TRANSITIONAL-GENEALOGISTS-FORUM [mailto:transitional-genealogists-forum-bounces@rootsweb.com] On Behalf Of Rob Weir Sent: Monday, August 15, 2016 1:43 PM To: debiham@comcast.net Cc: TRANSITIONAL-GENEALOGISTS-FORUM@rootsweb.com Subject: Re: [TGF] Birth in Maine before 1820 If your convention for this work is to refer to the period name for places (a good convention to have) you could say, "Bristol, District of Maine, Massachusetts." Regards, -Rob On Mon, Aug 15, 2016 at 12:57 PM, <debiham@comcast.net> wrote: > I've run into my first instance of having to record an event that happened in what is present-day Maine, but before Maine actually became a state in 1820. The record I have is a 1931 certification from a Maine town clerk regarding information in a family Bible presented to her for verification by an ancestor who was applying to the DAR. The clerk states "I find in said Bible the record of Reuben Lewis, born at Bristol, Maine, on December 8, 1793...married at Bristol, Maine on July 30, 1818..." > > What is the correct way to reflect the location of these events since the document references Maine, but Maine didn't exist at that time. At this point, I'm just putting the info into my RootsMagic database and would like to reflect it correctly, but not be confusing! > > Thanks for any advice. I've enjoyed being a "lurker" on this list for a couple years and always learn something new. > ------------------------------- To unsubscribe from the list, please send an email to TRANSITIONAL-GENEALOGISTS-FORUM-request@rootsweb.com with the word 'unsubscribe' without the quotes in the subject and the body of the message

1ink Saves You Money on Printer Ink! 1 Ink Don't pay a fortune for printer ink. Save with 1ink! Free Shipping Available. [1]Learn More [2]1 Ink [3][af8O7UaR3Yf6D9dtVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjhb43] 1ink Saves You Money on Printer Ink! "Look, Roberto," exclaimed Senora Windham as they cantered into San Francisco one morning. "A ship all gay with banners! See the townsfolk are excited. They rush to the Embarcadero. The band plays. It must be the festival of some Americano patron saint." "It is the long expected New York volunteers," replied her husband. "They've been recruited for the past year for service in California. Colonel Stevenson, the commander, is a most distinguished man. The president himself made him an offer of command if he could raise a regiment of California volunteers." Windham smiled. "I believe it is for colonization rather than actual military duty that they've been sent out here ... three shiploads of them with two doctors and a chaplain." As they picked their way along a narrow footpath toward the beach, the portly Leidesdorff advanced to greet them. "Would that I had a cloak of velvet," he said gallantly, "so that I might lay it in the mire at your feet, fair lady." Anita Windham flashed a smile at him. "Like the chivalrous Don Walter Raleigh," she responded. "Ah, but I am not a Queen Elizabeth. Nor is this London." She regarded with a shrug of distaste the stretch of mud-flats reaching to the tide-line, rubbish--littered and unfragrant. Knee-deep in its mire, bare-legged Indians and booted men drove piles for the superstructure of a new pier. Lieutenant Bryant joined them, brisk and natty in his naval garb. He was the new alcalde, Bartlett having been displaced and ordered to rejoin his ship. "No, it's not London," he took up Anita's statement, "but it's going to be a better San Francisco if I have my way. We'll fill that bog with sand and lay out streets between Fort Montgomery and the Rincon, if the governor'll cede the tide-flats to the town. Jasper O'Farrell is making a map." "See, they are landing," cried the Dona Windham, clapping her hands. A boat put off amid hails from the shore. Soon four officers and a boat's crew stood upon the landing pier and gazed about them curiously. "That's Colonel Stevenson," said Bryant, nodding toward the leader. On the verge of fifty, statesmanlike of mien and manner, stood the man who had recruited the first volunteer company which came around The Horn. He fingered his sword a bit awkwardly, as though unused to military dress formalities. But his eyes were keen and eager and commanding. More boats put off from the anchored vessel. By and by the parade began, led by Captain Stevenson. It was a straggling military formation that toiled up-hill through the sand toward Portsmouth Square. These men were from the byways and hedges of life. Some of them had shifty eyes and some bold, predatory glances which forebode nothing good for San Francisco's peace. Adventurers for the most part, lured to this new land, some by the wander spirit, others by a wish to free themselves from the restraints of law. Certain of them were to die upon the gallows; others were to be the proud and honored citizens of a raw, potential metropolis. They talked loudly, vehemently, to one another as they marched like school boys seeing strange sights, pointing eagerly at all that aroused their interest. The officers marched more stiffly as though conscious of official noblesse oblige. "I wish that Inez might have seen it," Mrs. Windham said a little wistfully. "But she must help the Indian seamstress with her gown for the dance. Don Adrian is to be there." "He has decided that there are other ways of serving God than in the pulpit," remarked Stanley. "They talk of making him the master of the school ... if our committee can ever decide on a location and what's to pay for it." * * * * * In the full regimentals of his rank, Colonel Stevenson graced Leidesdorff's ballroom that evening, cordially exchanging smiles and bows with San Francisco's citizenry. Besides him was his quartermaster, Captain Joseph Folsom who, though less than thirty, had seen active service in a Florida campaign against the Seminoles. He held himself slightly aloof with the class consciousness of the West Pointer. Nearby stood a lanky surgeon of the volunteers discussing antiseptics with Dr. Jones. Leidesdorff was everywhere, pathetically eager to please, an ecstatic, perspiring figure, making innumerable inquiries as to the comfort of his guests. "He's like a mother hen worried over a brood of new chicks," said Brannan to Jasper O'Farrell. "And a damned fine little man," the Irishman answered. "Oh--I beg your pardon, Senorita." Inez Windham smiled forgiveness, nodding when he asked her for a dance. "Tell me," she asked eagerly, "of the grand new map you make for San Francisco." "Ah," O'Farrell said, "they laugh at it because I have to change Vioget's acute and obtuse angles. They call it 'O'Farrell's Swing.' You see, I've had to change the direction of some streets. There are many more now. Eight hundred acres laid out like a city." As the music stopped he led her to a bench and fumbled in his pocket for a drawing which he straightened on his knees. "See, here is a new road through the center, a broad way, straight as an arrow from the bay to the foot of Twin Peaks. It parallels the Mission camino, and Bryant wants to call it Market street." "But how is this?" asked Inez puzzled, "streets where there is only mud and water--" "They will be reclaimed with the waste from our leveled sand hills," said O'Farrell. He glanced about him searchingly, then whispered: "Tonight Governor Mason told me confidentially he would cede the tide flats to our local government, provided they are sold at auction for the benefit of San Francisco. They'll go cheap; but some day they'll be worth thousands. Tell your father--" He broke off hastily. Toward them stalked Benito Windham, covered with dust as though from a long ride. There was trouble in his eyes. With a swift apology he drew his sister aside. "McTurpin," he panted. "He is back ... with a dozen men ... riding toward the rancho." CHAPTER XIII THE "SYDNEY DUCKS" Dazed with the suddenness of Benito's announcement and its menacing augury, Inez sought her father and Adrian. The latter acted instantly. "Do not tell your wife," he said to Windham. "There may be nothing amiss. And if there should be, she will find no profit in knowing. Tell her you are called away and follow me to the square. We will ride at once to the rancho." He pressed Inez' hand and was gone. "Take care of your mother," he said over his shoulder, an admonition which Don Roberto repeated a moment later as he hurried out. She was left alone in a maze of doubts, fears, speculations. What was McTurpin doing in San Francisco? Why had he and his companions ridden toward the Windham rancho? There was only one answer. Most of the vaqueros were at a fandango in the Mission. Only the serving women and a few men too old for dancing remained at home. Meawhile her brother, father, lover were speeding homeward, into what? A trap? An ambush? Certainly to battle with a foe out-numbering them four to one. At the Mission were a dozen of their servants; men whose fathers and grandfathers had ridden herd for her family. Any one of them would give his life to serve a Windham. Inez looked about her feverishly. Should she ask O'Farrell to accompany her? He was dancing with one of the Mormon women. Brannan and Spear were not to be seen. Leidesdorff was impossible in such an emergency. Besides, she could not take him from his guests. She would go alone, decided Inez. Quietly she made her way to the cloak-room, in charge of an Indian servant, caught up her mantilla and riding crop and fled. On the square her horse whinnied at her approach as if eager to be gone. Swiftly she climbed into the saddle and spurred forward. Far ahead gleamed the lights of the Mission. They were making merry there with the games and dance of old Spain. And to the south Benito, Adrian, her father, rode toward a battle with treacherous men. Breathlessly she spurred her horse to greater effort. Trees flashed by like witches in the dark Presently she heard the music of the fandango. Another picture framed itself before her vision. Excited faces round her. A sudden stoppage of the music, a frocked priest making anxious inquiries. Her own wild words; a jingle of spurs. Then many hoofs pounding on the road beside her. She never knew just what had happened, what she had said. But now she felt the sting of the bay breeze in her face and Antonio's steady hand upon her saddle pommel. "Caramba!" he was muttering. "The pig of a gringo once more And your father; the little Benito. Hurry, comrades, faster! faster! To the rescue!" Came a third picture, finally more clear, more disconcerting. The entrance to her father's ranch barred by armed riders. McTurpin smiling insolent in the moonlight, bowing to her while Antonio muttered in suppressed wrath. "We have three hostages here, senorita ... relatives of yours and ah--a friend." His voice, cold, threatening, spoke on. "They are unharmed--as yet." "I don't believe you," Inez stormed at him. "Tell them, Senor Windham," said McTurpin, "that I speak the truth." "Inez, it is true," her father spoke out of some shadowed darkness. "We were ambushed. Taken by surprise." "What do you propose?" asked Antonio, unable longer to restrain himself. "To turn them loose ... upon their word not to trouble us further," said McTurpin. "I have merely assumed control of my property. I hold the conveyance of Benito Windham. It is all quite regular," he laughed shortly. Antonio moved uneasily. His hand upon the lariat itched for a cast. McTurpin saw it. "You'll do well to sit still in the saddle," he reminded, "all of you. We have you covered." "What are your orders, master?" said the chief vaquero tensely. "Say the word and we will--" "No," commanded Windham. "There shall be no fighting now. We will go. Tomorrow we shall visit the Alcalde. I can promise no more than this." "It's enough," McTurpin answered. "I've possession. I've a deed with your son's signature. And a dozen good friends to uphold me." He turned. "Take their pistols, friends, and let them go." * * * * * George Hyde looked up from a sheaf of drawing which lay on the table before him and which represented the new survey of San Francisco. A boy with a bundle of papers under his arm entered unannounced, tossed a copy of "The California Star" toward him and departed. Hyde picked it up and read: "GREAT SALE OF VALUABLE REAL ESTATE IN THE TOWN OF SAN FRANCISCO, UPPER CALIFORNIA. "By the following decree of His Excellency, General S.W. Kearny, Governor of California, all the right, title and interest of the United States and of the territory of California to the BEACH AND WATER lots on the east front of the town of San Francisco have been granted, conveyed and released to the people or corporate authorities of said town--" Hyde read on. There was a post-script by Edwin Bryant, his predecessor as alcalde, calling a public sale for June 29. That was rather soon. But he would see. Hyde had an antipathy to any rule or circumstance fixed by another. His enemies called him "pig-headed"; his friends "forceful," though with a sigh. There was something highhanded in the look and manner of him, though few men had better intent. Now his glance fell on another, smaller item in the newspaper. "SYDNEY DUCKS ARRIVE." "In recent vessels from the antipodes have come numerous men from Australia who, according to rumor, are deported English criminals, known as 'Sydney Ducks.' It is said that the English government winks at the escape of these birds of ill omen, who are lured hither by tales of our lawlessness carried by sailormen. It is high time we had a little more law in San Francisco." That was another of his problems, Hyde reflected irritably. "Sydney Ducks." There would be many more no doubt, for San Francisco was growing. It had 500 citizens, irrespective of the New York volunteers; 157 buildings. He would need helpers in the task of city-governing. Half idly he jotted down the names of men that would prove good henchmen: "William A. Leidesdorff, Robert A. Parker, Jose P. Thompson, Pedro Sherreback, John Rose, Benjamin Buckalew." It had a cosmopolitan smack, though it ignored some prominent and capable San Franciscans. William Clark, for instance, with whom Washington Bartlett had quarreled over town lots, Dr. Elbert Jones and William Howard. Hyde was not certain whether they would be amenable to his program. Well, he would see. ___________________________________ Change your options by visiting [4]here 2220 Meridian Blvd.,Suite #763, Minden, NV 89423 References 1. http://www.hnozq.com/serializations-personally/1208*Z63Gf2SO9dUVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjh729 2. http://www.hnozq.com/serializations-personally/1208*Z63Gf2SO9dUVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjh729 3. http://www.hnozq.com/serializations-personally/eb886_n3fMt3ox9dzVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjh7de 4. http://www.hnozq.com/3b3q89y3f4Wo9dTVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjh728/eyeglasses-mockup

Having trouble to view the images... Go ahead and click me. President waives requirements for the military to receive home loans His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is ——” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is — the truthof the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them to-morrow. In fact,there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my very best to get away.” i hid an unrestrained “huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F. ——” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby — one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfsheim; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company, ” and at first there didn’t seem to be any one inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in, ” she said. “Mr. Wolfsheim’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him. ” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfsheim’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door.“Leave your name on the desk, ” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh — h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just — What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfsheim stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to whenI first met him, ” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he come into Winebrenner’s poolroom at .

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Tactical LED Flashligh [1]Learn More [2]Tactical LED Flashlight [3][9367aBk3et6xOJ9aTVmKinvVvjiKydtOiOKyjtvnVndsjmWhFmjjVnYOL0Mjh4f0] Tactical LED Flashlight Come, you men and women automobilists, get off the paved streets of Los Angeles and betake yourselves to the back country of San Diego county, where you can enjoy automobile life to the utmost during the summer. There drink in the pure air of the mountains, perfumed with the breath of pines and cedars, the wild lilacs, the sweet-pea vines, and a thousand aromatic shrubs and plants that render every hillside ever green from base to summit. Lay aside the follies of social conditions, and get back to nature, pure and unadorned, except with nature's charms and graces. To get in touch with these conditions, take your machines as best you can over any of the miserable roads, or rather apologies for roads, until you get out into the highway recently constructed from Basset to Pomona. Run into Pomona to Gary avenue, turn to the right and follow it to the Chino ranch; follow the winding roads, circling to the Chino hills, to Rincon, then on, over fairly good roads, to Corona. Pass through that city, then down the beautiful Temescal Canyon to Elsinore. Move on through Murrietta to Temecula. Three Routes. Beyond Temecula three routes are open to you. By one of them you keep to the left, over winding roads full of interest and beauty, through a great oak grove at the eastern base of Mt. Palomar. Still proceeding through a forest of scattering oaks, you presently reach Warner's ranch through a gate. Be sure and close all gates opened by you. Only vandals leave gates open when they should be closed. Warner's ranch is a vast meadow, mostly level, but sloping from northeast to southwest, with rolling hills and sunken valleys around its eastern edge. A chain of mountains, steep and timber laden, almost encircles the ranch. For a boundary mark on the northeastern side of the ranch, are steep, rocky and forbidding looking mountains. Beyond them, the desert. The ranch comprises some 57,000 acres, nearly all valley land. It is well watered, filled with lakes, springs, meadows and running streams, all draining to its lowest point, and forming the head waters of the San Luis Rey River. You follow the road by which you enter the ranch, to the left, and in a few miles' travel you bring up at Warner's Hot Springs, a resort famed for many years for the curative properties of its waters. The springs are now in charge of Mr. and Mrs. Stanford, and are kept in an admirable manner, considering all of the difficulties they labor under. The run from Los Angeles to the springs is about 140 miles, and can be made easily in a day. Once there, the choice of many interesting trips is open to you. Past Temecula. After leaving Temecula, another road much frequented by the autoists is the right hand road by the Red Mountain grade to Fallbrook, either to Del Mar, by way of Oceanside, or into the Escondido Valley by way of Bonsal, Vista and San Marcos. The third route, the center one between those I have described, leads to Pala. With a party of five in a six-cylinder Franklin car, I went over the latter route on April 20th, 1911. Every inch of the road was full of interest. We passed through Pala, with its ancient mission of that name, and its horde of Indian inhabitants. The children of the Indian school were having a recess, and they carried on just about in the same manner that so many "pale-faced" children would. Leaving Pala, we followed the main road along the left bank of the San Luis Rey River--where the San Diego Highway Commission is now doing work, which will, when finished, bring one to Warner's ranch by an easy grade--until we had gotten a few miles into the Pauma rancho. We crossed the Pauma Creek, and some distance beyond it we left the river to our right, turned sharply to the left, and ran up to the base of Smith's, or Palomar Mountain. Then came the grade up the mountain. If you are not stout-hearted, and haven't a powerful machine, avoid this beautiful drive. If you are not driving an air-cooled car, carry extra water with you. You will need it before you reach the top. The road is a narrow zigzag, making an ascent of 4000 feet in a distance of from ten to twelve miles of switch-backing around the face of a steep rock-ribbed mountain. To add to its difficulties, the turns are so short that a long car is compelled to back up to negotiate them. About an hour and a quarter is required to make the trip up the mountain. We did all of it on low gear. When the top is finally reached, the view of the surrounding country is simply beyond description. Belated Spring. The mountain oaks of great size and broad of bough, were not yet fully in leaf. Pines and cedars, and to my astonishment, many large sycamores, were mingled with the oaks. A gladsome crop of luscious grasses covered the earth. Shrubs and plants were bursting into bloom. As we moved on we saw several wild pigeons in graceful flight among the trees. After traveling the backbone of the mountain for some distance we came to a dimly marked trail, leading to the left. The "Major Domo" of our party said that this road led to Doane's Valley, and that we must go down it. It was a straight up and down road, with exceedingly abrupt pitches, in places damp and slippery, and covered with fallen leaves. At the bottom of the descent, which it would have been impossible to retrace, we came to a small stream. Directly in the only place where we could have crossed it a log stuck up, which rendered passage impossible. After a deal of prodding and hauling, we dislodged it and safely made the ford. Doane's Valley is one of those beauty spots which abound in the mountains of California. Its floor is a beautiful meadow, in which are innumerable springs. Surrounding this meadow is heavy timber, oaks, pines and giant cedars. Pauma Creek flows out of this meadow through a narrow gorge, which nature evidently intended should some day be closed with a dam to make of the valley a reservoir to conserve the winter waters. We followed a partially destroyed road through the meadow to its upper end. Then as high and dry land was within sight we attempted to cross a small, damp, but uncertain looking waterway. Wheels Stuck. The front wheels passed safely, but when the rear wheels struck it they went into the mud until springs and axles rested on the ground. Two full hours we labored before we left that mud hole. We gathered up timbers and old bridge material, then jacked up one wheel a little way, and got something under it to hold it there. The other side was treated the same way. By repeating the operation many times we got the wheels high enough to run some timbers crosswise beneath them. We put other timbers in front and pulled out. We soon reached Bailey's Hotel, a summer resort of considerable popularity. We continued up the grade until we came onto the main road left by us when we descended into Doane's Valley. We got up many more pigeons, graceful birds, which the Legislature of our State should protect before they are exterminated. We moved on through heavily timber-covered hills, up and down grade, and finally came out on the south side of the mountain overlooking the canyon, some 5000 feet deep, at the bottom of which ran the San Luis Rey River. What would have been a most beautiful scene was marred by a fog which had drifted up the canyon. But the cloud effect was marvelous. We were above the clouds. A more perfect sky no human being ever saw. The clouds, or fog banks, were so heavy that it looked as if we could have walked off into them. I never saw similar cloud effects anywhere else except from Mt. Lowe, near Los Angeles, and Mt. Tamalpais, in Marin County. Warner's Ranch. We now began our descent to Warner's Ranch. It was gradual enough for some distance, and the road and trees were as charming as any human being could desire. Finally we came out onto a point overlooking the ranch. The view was simply entrancing. Imagine a vast amphitheater of 57,000 acres, surrounded by hills, dotted here and there with lakes, with streams of water like threads of burnished silver glittering in the evening light, softened by the clouds hanging over the San Luis Rey River. There were no clouds on the ranch; they stopped abruptly at the southwest corner. This vast meadow was an emerald green, studded with brilliant colored flowers. Vast herds of cattle were peacefully completing their evening meal. The road down to the ranch follows a ridge, which is so steep that no machine has ever been able to ascend it. I held my breath and trusted to the good old car that has done so much for my comfort, safety and amusement. We were all glad when the bottom was reached. We forded the river and whirled away to Warner's Hot Springs, over good meadow roads, arriving there before 7 o'clock p. m. Some day these springs are going to be appreciated. Now only hardy travelers, as a rule, go there. Their medicinal qualities will in time be realized, and the people of Southern California will find that they have a Carlsbad within a short distance of Los Angeles, in San Diego County. We slept the sleep of the tired, weary tourist that night. Hot Baths. The following day we passed in bathing in the hot mineral waters, sightseeing and driving around the valley. Saturday morning at 7:30 o'clock we bade adieu to Mr. and Mrs. Stanford and left the ranch by way of the Rancho Santa Isabel. The rain god must have been particularly partial to this beautiful ranch this season. Nowhere on our trip did we see such a splendid growth of grass and flowers, such happy looking livestock, such an air of plenty and prosperity as we did here. Leaving the ranch at the Santa Isabel store, we took the Julian road, which place we reached after a few hours' riding over winding roads good to travel on, and through scenery which was a constant source of enjoyment. Julian is one of the early settlements of San Diego County. Mining has been carried on there with varying successes and disappointments these many years. Now apple raising is its great industry. The hillsides are given over to apple culture. The trees are now laden with blossoms. As we topped a hill or crossed a divide before beginning an ascent or descent, the view backward of the apple orchards, peeping up over slight elevations in the clearings, was extremely beautiful. Leaving Julian, we whirled along over splendid roads through a rolling country, given over to fruit farming, stock raising and pasturage. We next reached Cuyamaca and visited the dam of that name, which impounds the winter rains for the San Diego Flume Company. The country around the lake showed a deficiency of rainfall. The lake was far from full. We took our lunch at the clubhouse near the dam. After resting in the shade of the friendly oaks we then pursued our journey to Descanso. We passed through Alpine and finally entered the El Cajon Valley, famed far and wide for its muscatel grapes, which seem especially adapted to its dark red soil. The vines were in early leaf, and not as pleasing to the eye as they will be when in full bloom. Then came Bostonia, a comparatively new settlement, Rosamond, La Mesa, and finally we whirled off on a splendid road, through an unsettled country overgrown with sage and shrubs, to Del Mar. The sky was overcast all the afternoon. A stiff ocean breeze blew inland, cool and refreshing. The entire day had been spent amid scenes of rare beauty. 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i>>? [1]View this email in your browser X800 TACTICAL LED FLASHLIGHT Tactical Flashlight' s Are The " Hottest Item" of The Year Don' t want any more emails form me? Click here to [2]unsubscribe SWAT team carries this special tool. Now you can too! Were I musically inclined, I could very appropriately sing, "Darling, I Am Growing Old." The realization of this fact, as unwelcome as it is, is from time to time forced upon me. On Friday, November 10, 1911, I went to the Westminster Gun Club, in an open machine, through wind and storm. Got up the next morning at 5 o'clock, had a duck shoot, drove back thirty miles to Los Angeles, arriving there at 11:30 a. m. At 1 o'clock I drove to my home, and at 2 o'clock was off for Ferris Valley on a quail shoot. Had a good outing, with much hard labor. The next day I got home at half past five, completely done up. As I went to retire, I had a good, stiff, nervous chill. So you can well see that I can no longer stand punishment, and am "growing old." As I lay there and shook, I said to myself, "Old fellow, you will soon be a 'has-been.' Your gun and fishing rod will soon decorate your shooting case as ornaments, rather than as things of utility." Ah, well, let it be so! The memory of pleasant days when youth and strength were mine; days when the creel was full, and game limits came my way, will be with me still. I would not exchange the experience I have had with rod and gun for all the money any millionaire in the world possesses. On my trip to the grounds of the Quail Valley Land Company, some thirty miles below Riverside, two members of the club and my wife accompanied me. We were in one of my good, old reliable Franklin cars, and from Ontario to Riverside we bucked a strong head wind that was cold and pitiless. It necessarily impeded our progress, as we had on a glass front, and the top was up, and yet we made the run of seventy-six miles in three hours and a quarter without ever touching the machine. In fact, none of the party got out of the machine, from start to finish. The big, open fireplace at Newport's home, and the bountiful, well-cooked supper with which we were greeted, were well calculated to make us happy and contented. The long drive in the wind rendered all of us sleepy, and by 9 o'clock we had retired. I never woke up until 6 o'clock next morning. Shooting Grounds. After breakfast we proceeded in our machine to the shooting ground. The sky was heavily overcast with watery, wicked looking clouds. Rifts in the sky, here and there, let some frozen looking sunbeams through, but there was no warmth in their rays. We had our first shoot on the edge of a grain field, but the birds quickly flew to some high hills to the west. Rounding the pass through these hills, I never saw the Perris Valley more weirdly beautiful. The clouds were high. On the north Mt. San Bernardino loomed up, grim, snow-capped and forbidding. To the east old Tahquitz, guardian of the passes to the desert, reared his snow-capped head, far above the surrounding country. To the south Mt. Palomar stretched his long, lazy looking form, with his rounded back and indented outline, from east to west. His distance from us made him look like a line of low, outlying hills, instead of the sturdy old mountain that he is. All of these mountains bore most exquisite purple hues. The same coloring was assumed by those groups of lesser hills that, cone-like, are scattered over the easterly edge of the Perris Valley, and which separate the Hemet and the San Jacinto country from the rest of the valley. The coloring of the floor of the valley itself was particularly exquisite. There was just enough light, just enough of sunbeams struggling through the sodden clouds to illuminate, here and there, an alfalfa field, or here and there a grove of trees, so as to bring them out in startling contrast to the somber colors of the shaded portions of the valley. But with it were signs of the dying year, a premonition of storms to come, storms unpleasant while they last, but revivifying in their effects. Many Quail--Too Cold. In the fifteen years during which I have shot upon these grounds, I never got up more or larger bands of quail than we did that morning. The day was too cold for good shooting. Give me the good old summer time, with the thermometer about 80 degrees, for good quail shooting. In the cool days the birds run or get up and fly a half mile at a time. They will not scatter out and lie close, so that you can get them up one by one and fill your bags. On the cold days they also break cover at very long range. They led us a merry chase up the steepest hills and down the most abrupt declivities. All of the time we were slowly making good. Lloyd Newport was there on his buckskin horse. Now you could see him way up on a hillside, then again down in some deep valley, running like mad to check the flight, or turn the running march of some band of birds that was leading those of us on foot a double-quick run. Shooting as he rode, now to the right, now to the left, then straight ahead, he got his share of the birds. Little Fred Newport, only 14 years old, was shooting like a veteran, and long before the rest of us had scored, he proudly announced that he had the limit. The final round-up found us with 109 birds for seven guns--a good shoot, under very adverse circumstances. We had the satisfaction of knowing that we left plenty of birds on the ground for next year. The quail shooting of 1911 is at an end. Only the memory of it remains. I shall cherish the memory deeply in my affections, and let it stir my enthusiasm for the out-of-door life when the world seems all balled up, and things are going wrong. The Rattlesnake. While proceeding along an unfrequented road, with sage brush on each side of it, we ran across a rattlesnake, about four feet long, and of good circumference, twisted up into a most peculiar position. Investigation found that, notwithstanding the coolness of the day, he was foraging for game, and was engaged in swallowing a good-sized kangaroo rat. The tail of the rat protruded several inches from his mouth. The snake glared at us, but made no effort to escape or fight. He seemed dazed, probably half choked by his efforts to swallow the rat. We straightened him out on the ground and blew his head off with a shotgun. We then disgorged the rat, which was at least four or five inches long, and an inch and a half in diameter. The snake was then quickly skinned. He had eleven rattles and a button. Snakes eat the eggs and the young of the quail. In view of the ravages by snakes, hawks, weasles, skunks, wildcats and coyotes I do not see how there are any quail left for the sportsmen. The fight of these marauders is constantly going on, while the sportsmen's efforts are at present limited to a very short period. At a quarter after two we left Newport's for home We took in a little gasoline at Riverside. This was the only stop made on the home run, which was accomplished in three hours and a quarter (seventy-six miles) with a perfect score so far as the machine was concerned. Nature at Her Loveliest. We did not encounter the cruel wind in returning that buffeted us on the outward trip. I never saw the San Gabriel Valley more beautiful than it was that afternoon. As we bowled along the road this side of San Dimas, the entire valley lay before us. To the west were the rugged Sierra Madre Mountains; on the east, the San Jose Hills. They connected with the Puente Hills to the south. West of these came the hills of the Rancho La Merced, running from the San Gabriel River westerly, and still west of them come the hills, which run east from the Arroyo Seco, north of the Bairdstown country. From our position these hills all seemed to connect without any breaks or passes in them. Thus the valley before us was one mountain-and-hill-bound amphitheater. The sky was overcast by grayish clouds. The sun hung low in the west, directly in front of us. How gorgeous was the coloring of the sky and valley! How the orchards and vineyards were illuminated! How the colors lingered and seemed to fondle every growing thing, and paint each rock and point of hill as no artist could! The sun hung in one position for quite a time before taking its final dip below the horizon. The clouds assumed a golden tinge, turning to burnished copper. Through breaks or irregular rifts therein, we got glimpses of the sky beyond of an opalescent blue in strong contrast with the crimson coloring of the clouds, all of which were intensely illuminated by the setting sun. Underneath this vast sea of riotous coloring there was a subdued, intense light, which I can not describe or account for. It brought every object in the valley plainly into view, lifted it into space, and illuminated it. After we had passed Azusa we chanced to look back at "Old Baldy" and the Cucamonga peaks. They were in a blaze of glorious light, purple, pink, crimson, fiery red, all mingled indiscriminately, yet all preserved in their individual intensity. Oh, land so rare, where such visions of delight are provided by the unseen powers for our delectation! As I surveyed this vast acreage, evidencing the highest cultivation, with princely homes, vast systems of irrigation, with orange orchards and lemon groves in, every stage of development, from the plants in the seed beds to trees of maturity and full production, I congratulated myself on living in such an age, and amid such environments. Let us appreciate, enjoy and defend until our dying day, this glorious land, unswept by blizzards, untouched by winter's cruel frosts, unscathed by the torrid breath of sultry summer, a land of perpetual sunshine, where roses, carnations, heliotrope, and a thousand rare, choice and delicate flowers bloom in the open air continually, where in the spring time the senses are oppressed by the odor of orange and lemon blossoms, and where the orchards yield a harvest so fabulous in returns as to be almost beyond human comprehension. An Auto Trip Through the Sierras. Tule River and Yosemite. I have been in California fifty-four years. During all of this time I had never visited the Yosemite. Before it was too late I determined to go there. We started in June, 1911. Accompanied by Mrs. Graves, my son Francis and a friend, Dr. A. C. Macleish, we left Alhambra, June seventh of this year at seven o'clock a. m. We passed through Garvanza, Glendale and Tropico, and were soon on the San Fernando road. The run through the town of that name and through the tunnel, recently constructed to avoid the Newhall grade, was made in good time and without incident. Newhall. At Newhall we procured and carried with us a five-gallon can of gasoline. A short distance out of Saugus, we turned into the San Francisquito Canyon road. Shortly afterwards a brand new inner tube on the right rear wheel went completely to pieces. It had been too highly cured and could not stand the heat. We replaced it with another one, and were soon crossing and recrossing the stream which meanders down the canyon. Constantly climbing the grade, we were whirling from sunshine to shadow alternately as the road was overhung with or free from trees. Old Memories Aroused. I could not help recalling my trip over the same road with my old friend, Mr. A. C. Chauvin, on the third day of October, 1876. The road was fairly good. Our machine was working nicely, the day a pleasant one, and the trip enjoyable. In a few hours we reached Elizabeth Lake. I pointed out the very spot at which Chauvin and myself camped thirty-five years before. Ah, the fleeting years! How quickly they have sped! What experiences we have had! What pleasures we have enjoyed! What sorrows endured in thirty-five years! Well it is, that then the future was not unfolded to me, and that all the enthusiasm and hope and ambition of youth led me on to the goal, which has brought me so much joy, as well as much sorrow. Momentous events have affected not only my own life, but the life of nations in these thirty-five years. 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HAVE A STEAMY NIGHT IN THE BEDROOM I wanted to do it so bad but he just wasn't in the moodSeconds after giving him this pill he was ready to go and was pleasing me Do This >>> Make every night feel great REPORTThis pill changed our love life It works for all men >>> Make him perform better and last longer Again the mender of roads went through the whole performance in which he ought to have been perfect by that timeseeing that it had been the infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village during a whole year Jacques One struck inand asked if he had ever seen the man before Neveranswered the mender of roadsrecovering his perpendicular Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then By his tall figuresaid the mender of roadssoftlyand with his finger at his nose When Monsieur the Marquis demands that eveningSaywhat is he like I make responseTall as a spectre You should have saidshort as a dwarfreturned Jacques Two But what did I know The deed was not then accomplishedneither did he confide in me Observe Under those circumstances evenI do not offer my testimony Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his fingerstanding near our little fountainand saysTo me Bring that rascal My faithmessieursI offer nothing He is right thereJacquesmurmured Defargeto him who had interrupted Go on This page will cause these updates to no longer be sent to youFree Bird Research 2220 Meridian Blvd Suite #AD666 Minden, NV 89423 Part September On a September morning Toni Little was enraged at the number of students in her class There were students when she only expected half In total frustration she asks the students to write an essay based on a pro s2a mpt that she would provide so that she can weed out some of the students Meanwhile Scott Braxton was overwhelmed during the first day of classes Despite his business he still finds the time to try and track down Olivia He was worried that she might not enroll for her senior yea ar The follog morning Little asks her students if they had any idea where Olivia is None of them seemed to know where the she is By the end of the assignment five students dropped out of her class The first piece that she introduces to her class was The Crucible by Arthur Miller She notices that Olivia is abse 2ant from her class While Little was discussing a student named Sadikifu or Sadi interrupted her He discussed about how religion was forced on the people After her class Julia! one of Olivias best friends went into her classroom She asked about Olivia to which Julia told her that Olivia didnt have any means to get to school Little asked Julia to make sure that Olivia gets in touch with herLittle wants Olivia to get back to school even if it meant that shed drive her everyday Sadi is one of Littles favorite students He is black and aspires to become a writer He used to dislike people from other races but after reading The Great Gatsby his perspective changed Sadis mother Thelma was one w s2a eek shy of her st birthday when he was born The only of Muslim parents he was considered to be their gift from Allah His name Sadifiku means truthf 2aul and honest Sadis father became addicted to crack and left their family when he was five Thelma became a single mother and because of her need for a liver transplant they had to survive on welfare She believes that he became bright and articulate because she talked to him as her equal and not as a Throughout his hood Sadi always attended gifted classes Thelma knew that his intelligence would be his ticket out of the ghetto aSadi was about to get into a prep school in Pasadena on a scholarship when his father resurfaced Thinking that it might help he decided to give the school a call However on the application it was stated that Sadis father was absent His application was rejected and his father disappeared once again Sadi ended up being rebellious out of anger towards his father and being tired of his mothers lectures about academics Sadi was expelled from Cr 2aenshaw because of fighting He changed when he was arrested His first year back at Crenshaw was difficult but he persevered He had no friends However after ning first prize in the city speech championships he felt accepted once again and is now back on the right path Toni L s2a ittle was conducting a review a of AP Literature with her class on the second week of class wherein they spent a lot of time with the basic concepts after the roll call During the discussion Olivia a working student who has been missing for quite some time due to her work schedule turned up and joined the class Olivias classmates asked how she was and she obliged them with some information about her financial status and where she was curr! 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