December 2009 - Pppehrserver-legal-eu

{Spam?} As it is, she may hardly be termed as such. But Catholic Sp
by Ngvyen Marze 08 Dec '09

08 Dec '09

Ed, until mass is again daily said within these consecrated walls, and finally until San Carlos of Carmelo is again a worthier Carmel, "for the greater honor and glory of God" and the praises of His Virgin Mother once more are sung about this smiling valley where the Christian Indian children gathered the beautiful wild flowers of the blooming meadows to adorn the hallowed shrines, ere chimed the Angelus at evenings mellow glow. Chapter IX Reverend Raymond M. Mestres of Monterey Writes Historical Drama--"Fray Junipero" Beautiful among beautiful historical dramas is the mission play "Fray Junipero" written by Reverend Raymond Mestres, pastor of San Carlos Church (Capilla Real de San Carlos) of Monterey. Many men and women have undertaken to write about mission times, but we may safely assert that this good priest so unassuming in what he does, is above all qualified to handle this subject, being first of all a religious, a native of Barcelona, the Metropolis of the Province of Catalonia, which can claim Junipero Serra and so many of the early Spanish missionaries, explorers and settlers, and being too an artist and scholar in every way acquainted with the history of the missions, having made it a special study during his twenty-seven years of residence (as a priest) in four mission towns of California, twenty-one of which have been spent in that chief of mission towns, Monterey. Unbiased, careful of detail and true to history, while not wanting in artistic setting "Fray Junipero" carries the audience in Act I back to the College of Fernando, when Junipero Serra received his commission to come to California as Father Pre

1 0

{Spam?} Though he had but just arrived he was already contempla
by Dworaczyk 07 Dec '09

07 Dec '09

Rapped like a silly, dumb creature. He was to die in a few hours, and with him would go the child's last chance of succour. Rokoff had been in to see and revile and abuse him several times during the afternoon; but he had been able to wring no word of remonstrance or murmur of pain from the lips of the giant captive. So at last he had given up, reserving his particular bit of exquisite mental torture for the last moment, when, just before the savage spears of the cannibals should for ever make the object of his hatred immune to further suffering, the Russian planned to reveal to his enemy the true whereabouts of his wife whom he thought safe in England. Dusk had fallen upon the village, and the ape-men could hear the preparations going forward for the torture and the feast. The dance of death he could picture in his mind's eye--for he had s

1 0

t of brown leather,
by Sliva 06 Dec '09

06 Dec '09

D out of hearing distance, and soon disappeared on the horizon. The beach was covered in every direction with little hills of sand, like haycocks, with scraggy bunches of sea-weed sticking out of the tops of them; and Davy was wondering how they came to be there, when he caught sight of a man walking along the edge of the water, and now and then stopping and gazing earnestly out to sea. As the man drew nearer, Davy saw that he was dressed in a suit of brown leather, and wore a high-peaked hat, and that a little procession, consisting of a dog, a cat, and a goat, was following patiently at his heels, while a parrot was perched upon his shoulder. They all wore very large linen collars and black cravats, which gave them a very serious appearance. Davy was morally certain that the man was Robinson Crusoe. He carried an enormous gun, which he loaded from time to time, and then, aiming carefully at the sea, fired. There was nothi

1 0

veins. A look colours
by Riggsby Kastl 05 Dec '09

05 Dec '09

Ons of things for other people to do buzzing like bees about his head, acquired his tremendous and incredible power with us as a people because, in spite of his violent way of breaking out into a missionary every morning and every evening when he talked, it was not his talking but his singing that made him powerful--his singing, or doing things as if he believed in people, his I wills and I won'ts, his assuming every day, his acting every day, as if American men were men. He sang his way roughly, hoarsely, even a little comically at times into the hearts of people, stirred up in the nation a mighty heat, put a great crackling fire under it, put two great parties into the pot, boiled them, drew off all that was good in them, and at last, to-day, as I write (February 1913), the prospect of a good square meal in the White House (with some one else to say grace) is before the people. The people are waiting to sit down once more in the White House and refresh themselves. At least, the soup course is on the table. Who did it, please? Who bullied the cook and got everybody ready? Theodore Roosevelt, singing a little roughly, possibly hurrahing "_I will, I will, I won't, I won't_," and acting as if he believed in the world. Bryan in the village of Chicago sitting by at a reporter's table saw him doing it. Bryan saw how it worked. Bryan had it in him too. Bryan heard the shouts of the people across the land as they gloried in the fight. He saw the signals from the nations over the sea. Then Armageddon moved to Baltimore. * * * * * And now table is about to be spread. It is to be Mr. Wilson's soup. But the soup will have a Roosevelt flavour or tang to it. And we will wait to see what Mr. Wilson will do with the other courses. * * * * * A poet in words, with two or three exceptions, America has not produced. The only touch of poetry or art as yet that we have in America is--acting as if we believed in people. This particular art is ours. Other people may

1 0