January 2010 - Controlsocial-usuarios

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31 Jan '10

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by Trussel Kindregan 23 Jan '10

23 Jan '10

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by Messana Medicine 22 Jan '10

22 Jan '10

Ses Here in Bohemia, this has none--no country; This is an outcast of all foreign lands, Unclaimed by town or tribe, to whom belongs Nothing except the universal sun. And this Bohemian land for which we fight Loves not the master whom the chance of war, Not its own choice or will, hath given to it. Men murmur at the oppression of their conscience, And power hath only awed but not appeased them. A glowing and avenging memory lives Of cruel deeds committed on these plains; How can the son forget that here his father Was hunted by the bloodhound to the mass? A people thus oppressed must still be feared, Whether they suffer or avenge their wrongs. WRANGEL. But then the nobles and the officers? Such a desertion, such a felony, It is without example, my lord duke, In the world's history. WALLENSTEIN. They are all mine-- Mine unconditionally--mine on all terms. Not me, your own eyes you must trust. [He gives him the paper containing the written oath. WRANGEL reads it through, and, having read it, lays it on the table,--remaining silent. So then; Now comprehend you? WRANGEL. Comprehend who can! My lord duke, I will let the mask drop--yes! I've full powers for a final settlement. The Rhinegrave stands but four days' march from here With fifteen thousand men, and only waits For orders to proceed and join your army. These orders I give out immediately We're compromised. WALLENSTEIN. What asks the chancellor? WRANGEL (considerately). Twelve regiments, every man a Swede--my head The warrant

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by Dorcas Besco 19 Jan '10

19 Jan '10

He gardens at Lampit. They grow freely there. Your silk stockings hung round her neck, a posy of flowers twisted into them.--When I came on this exhibition, I can't quite tell you how I felt. It raised Cain in me to think of that degraded, misbegotten creature pawing over and playing about with anything which had belonged to you. I was for making Sclanders, his father, bring him over and give him the thrashing of his life, right there before the proofs of his sins." "But you didn't," Damaris cried. "You didn't. What do my shoes and stockings matter? I oughtn't to have left them on the shore. It was putting temptation in his way." Faircloth looked at her smiling. "No I didn't, and for two reasons. One that I knew--even then--you would find excuses, plead for mercy, as you have just now. Another, those flowers. If I had found--well--what I might have found, oh! he should have had the stick or the dog-whip without stint. But one doesn't practise devil-worship with flowers. It seemed to me some craving after beauty was there, as if the poor germ of a soul groped out of the darkness towards what is fair and sweet. I dared not hound it back into the darkness, close down any dim aspiration after God it might have. So I left its pitiful joss-house inviolate, the moan of the wind and sighing of the great reed-beds making music for such strange rites of worship as have been, or may be, practised within. Any god is better than none--that's my creed, at least. And to defile any man's god--however trumpery--unless you're amazingly sure you've a better one to offer him in place of it is to sin against the Holy Ghost." Faircloth rose to his feet. "Time's up"--he said. "I must go. Here is farewell to the most beautiful day of my life.--But see, Damaris"-- And he knel

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by Kopis 18 Jan '10

18 Jan '10

And I noticed there were several "unsatisfactorys" there; But one little bit of credit which was given brought me joy-- He was "excellent in effort," and I fairly hugged the boy. "Oh, it doesn't make much difference what is written on your card," I told that little fellow, "if you're only trying hard. The 'very goods' and 'excellents' are fine, I must agree, But the effort you are making means a whole lot more to me; And the thing that's most important when th

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by Grace 12 Jan '10

12 Jan '10

Hing better, it is _you_ I want, North Wind," he persisted. She made no answer but rose with him in her arms and sailed away over the tree-tops till they came to a meadow where a flock of sheep was feeding. "Do you remember the song you made up here in this meadow to sing to the baby?" asked North Wind, "about Bo-peep's sheep that ran away from her to follow after the sun? And when she went after them, she could not find the old sheep at all--only some lambs--twice as many new lambs?" "Oh, yes," said Diamond. "But I do not like that song. It seems to say that one is just as good as another--or that two new ones are better than the one old one you had before. But somehow when once you have looked into anybody's eyes--deep down into them, I mean--no one else will do for you any more. Nobody ever s

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by Flaharty 11 Jan '10

11 Jan '10

ALOUSY. CHAPTER XXVIII. The bill was paid; the black horse saddled and brought round to the door. Mr. and Mrs. Vint stood bare-headed to honor the parting guest; and the latter offered him the stirrup-cup. Griffith looked round for Mercy. She was nowhere to be seen. Then he said, piteously, to Mrs. Vint, "What, not even bid me good by?" Mrs. Vint replied, in a very low voice, that there was no disrespect intended. "The truth is, sir, she could not trust herself to see you go; but she bade me give you a message. Says she, 'Mother, tell him I pray God to bless him, go where he will.'" Something rose in Griffith's throat "O Dame!" said he, "if she only knew the truth, she would think better of me than she does. God bless her!" And he rode sorrowfully away, alone in the world once more. At the first turn in the road, he wheeled his horse, and took a last lingering look. There was nothing vulgar, nor inn-like, in the "Packhorse." It stood fifty yards from the road, on a little rural green, and was picturesque itself. The front was entirely clad with large-leaved ivy. Shutters there were none: the windows, with their diamond panes, were lustrous squares, set like great eyes in the green ivy. It looked a pretty, peaceful retreat, and in it Griffith had found peace and a dove-like friend. He sighed, and rode away from the sight; not raging and convulsed, as when he rode from Hernshaw Castle,

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