Democratic Federation—the crude Marxite teaching. It still awaits permeation by true Socialist conceptions. It is a version of life adapted essentially to the imagination of the working wage earner, and limited by his limitations. It is the vision of poor souls perennially reminded each Monday morning of the shadow and irksomeness of life, perpetually recalled each Saturday pay time to a watery gleam of all that life might be. One of the numberless relationships of life, the relationship of capital or the employer to the employed, is made to overshadow all other relations. Get that put right, “expropriate the idle rich,” transfer all capital to the State, make the State the humane, amenable, universal employer—that, to innumerable, Socialist working men, is the horizon. The rest he sees in the forms of the life to which he is accustomed. A little home, a trifle larger and brighter than his present one, a more abounding table, a cheerful missus released from factory work and unhealthy competition with men, a bright and healthy
It must not be inferred that good results will be had in growing apples, or any kinds of fruit without up-to-date methods of culture; for fruits do not take kindly to careless and slovenly ways. There are many details necessary to success, and explicit directions cannot be given in an article of this kind that will be a sufficient guide to those who have no practical knowledge of fruit growing. There are some general rules, however, that apply in all cases, and that cannot be too strongly emphasized. No one should go into commercial fruit growing without first considering well their surroundings as to soil, location, shipping facilities and other matters of that kind, and more especially to their own fitness for the business. A man must have an adaptability to, and a taste for, any business to make a success of it, for each individual has, more or less, an adaptation for some calling; and many of the failures in life are the result of the individual’s failing to get into the right channel.
Do not fail to come to night early as Miss Flyte needs attention J. B.”
He controlled himsilf wid diffyculty his voyce all the cammer for his inwurd anger.
Just then Mr. James wint into the dyning-roon and rung the bell lowdly.
“Once thou used to call me thy light of life, Basil,” murmured the girl. “I would not come to anger thee.”
"A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom," Retief said.
Joe Kenyon stopped in his walk and stared his surprise. "Good God!" he ejaculated on a note of alarm. "Surely you don't mean it?"
“Whats the matter?” ses he, “Why did you hauld me out?”
"One was torn down in St. Stanislas Street at eight o'clock, and before nine there were dozens like it posted all over the town—on the Cathedral doors, over the Nikolas bridge, everywhere," said an officer with whom I was conversing. As he spoke, I turned and saw Vladimir Kourásoff listening to him with a conscious smile on his countenance.
“Lemme tell you, chile,” he added, impressively, “two years ob konsolashun frum er widder will make a dead man or a Patriark outen ’most ennybody,” and he resumed his sawing with a vigor.
These two sons were Philip and William M. Ford (whose ages, in 1831, were respectively thirty-one and twenty-eight years). He had one daughter, the Cassandra who, February 5, 1827, married Dr. Charles H. Webb, as previously noted. The daughter was an accomplished and highly respected woman, and is so represented in Watt’s Chronicles. Her husband was all his life a model citizen. Ford’s first wife, it is said, was a Miss Miles, whose brother at one time ran a ferry where the village of Weston, Kentucky, now stands. After the death of his first wife, Ford, January 15, 1829, as shown by Livingston County marriage records, married Mrs. Elizabeth Frazer, a widow with three daughters. Mr. Frazer and his family, so runs the story, were coming down the Ohio in a flatboat and chanced to stop at Ford’s home. Mr. Frazer became ill while there, and a few days later died. In the course of a short time
“Mrs. Wolley do be arfter firing me, Mrs. Bangs,” ses I, “and all because I’m odyiss in the site of Miss Claire and all because I hilped her meet Mr. Harry Doodly—the crool faithless good-for-nothing villyun” ses I.
Do you know the feeling of living in a house pervaded by an unseen presence—a person who has lived there once, and whose spirit seems to dwell there forever afterward? That was what Mrs. Jack Hereford felt when she and her husband took refuge from New York and Newport and Tuxedo at Malvern, the old Virginia plantation, with its tumbledown house, full of rickety furniture, and staring daubs of family portraits in every room in it. The house and everything in it, and six hundred acres of land grown up with pine saplings, had been bought for a song from the heirs of the estate, who had never seen it, and never wanted to see it.详情 ➢
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