United States or Spain ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
But now, looking on the mountains for himself, he decided, with a start of the heart, that they were beautiful beautiful and terrible at once, with the reality that he had never found in his books. What leveled spear of a knight, in the pages of romance, could equal the invisible thrust of this wind? He reached the timberline.
"Did you notice how he flew from the dinner table straight back to his books?" she asked, as they turned out of the gate. "When I looked over his shoulder a while ago he was with Cicero again. He adores Cicero!" "I'm beginning to like old Cis myself," Brent forced a grin and let the horse out a step. "Never knew he could be such a good friend till now. Crawfish and Cicero! henceforth my amulets!"
And one night in December, when they were all sitting round the warm fire in the kitchen, and the Doctor was reading aloud to them out of books he had written himself in animal-language, the owl, Too-Too, suddenly said, "Sh! What's that noise outside?" They all listened; and presently they heard the sound of some one running.
"Not too stiff?" "No, sir." "Very well, then. I'll be there by a quarter-past seven." Jack Bruce was waiting to see the headmaster in his study at the end of afternoon school. "Well, Bruce," said the headmaster, coming into the room and laying down some books on the table, "do you want to speak to me? Will you give your father my congratulations on his victory. I shall be writing to him tonight.
"I say," said the man, "are you going to stop at the presbytery? You know the curé?" "I have known him ever since I was a child. He was my master when I was a student." "Is he learned in books?" "My friend, M. Safrac, is as learned as he is good." "So they say. But they also say other things." "What do they say, my friend?" "They say what they please, and I let them talk."
"I am alone in this world. I have no family to love me, and my work is to me what I suppose dear relatives must be to other women. For six years I have been studying to fit myself for usefulness, have lived with and for books; and though I have a few noble and kind friends, do you suppose I ever forget that I am kinless?
In Germany and out of it, it has for a hundred years and more simply rained books, pamphlets, and articles on Kant and his philosophy, some of them good, many of them far from clear and far from original.
What all these books primarily recall is the winks that adults exchange over the heads of children who are minding their own business, as the adults are not; the winks, moreover, of adults who have forgotten the inner concerns of adolescence and now observe only its surface awkwardnesses.
As you study the books that do live, you note that they are the books that have been lived. Perhaps the books that fail have just as much of truth in them and they may even be better written, yet they lack the vital impulse. They come out of the author's head. The books that live must come out of his heart. They are his own life. They come surging and pulsating from the book of his experience.
Then he turned on more of the illuminating gas, which, coming through the Bunsen burner, was made intensely hot. A little column of flame now enveloped the big test tube containing the powder. There was a little crackling sound as the heat expanded the powder, and the end of the test tube became quite red from the flame. "That tube'll melt!" exclaimed Mark, peering over the pile of books.
Word Of The Day