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Updated: May 27, 2025
IT is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run away from his family and betake himself to a seafaring life from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe; and I suspect that, in like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle-rods in hand may trace the origin of their passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton.
Cub was listening-in and read this message to his father. "That means we can go on nearly three hours yet before we have to seek a post for the night," the latter announced. "Good!" exclaimed Cub. "Now I'm going to test that radio compass and see what may be expected of it in the morning if we don't find Mr. Crusoe to-night, which isn't very likely."
It is the life of a brave man meeting danger and sorrow with unflinching courage, and never bringing his tears to market. Dickens somewhere says, characteristically, that 'Robinson Crusoe' is the only very popular work which can be read without a tear from the first page to the last.
The author could never have secured such a triumph if he had not compelled readers to take an active part in the story. It was for a long time thought that Defoe was ignorant, that he accidentally happened to write Robinson Crusoe because he had been told of the recent experience of Alexander Selkirk on a solitary island in the Pacific.
She was sobbing on the pages of that book he had given her long ago. I like to dwell on happiness, and I am reluctant to leave these people whom I have grown to love. Jethro Bass lived to take Cynthia's children down by the brook and to show them the pictures, at least, in that wonderful edition of "Robinson Crusoe."
The one may ask more genius I do not say it does; but at least the other dwells as clearly in the memory. True romantic art, again, makes a romance of all things. It reaches into the highest abstraction of the ideal; it does not refuse the most pedestrian realism. "Robinson Crusoe" is as realistic as it is romantic; both qualities are pushed to an extreme, and neither suffers.
What you say goes. You're Robinson Crusoe an' I'm your man Friday. Make up your mind yet which way you're goin' to travel?" Saxon shook her head. "Or how?" She held up one foot and then the other, encased in stout walking shoes which she had begun that morning to break in about the house. "Shank's mare, eh?" "It's the way our people came into the West," she said proudly.
One day Dick Varley was out on a solitary hunting expedition near the rocky gorge, where his horse had received temporary burial a week or two before. Crusoe was with him, of course. Dick had tied Charlie to a tree, and was sunning himself on the edge of a cliff, from the top of which he had a fine view of the valley and the rugged precipices that hemmed it in.
I wouldn't leave a crocodile on that hell hole, if I could help it." An hour later the Robinson Crusoe Syndicate, including the man Friday and the Goat, were safe aboard the Maggie II, and Neils Halvorsen, with the tears streaming down his bronzed cheeks, was sparingly doling out to them a mixture of brandy and water.
"Nay, then, say raither to the dog that turned it," said Dick Varley. "But for Crusoe, that buck would ha' bin couched in the woods this night." "Oh! if it comes to that," retorted Joe, "I'd lay it to the door o' Fan, for if she'd niver bin born nother would Crusoe. But it's good an' tender meat, whativer ways ye got it. Howsiver, I've other things to talk about jist now.
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