August 2009 - Solar-certifica - lists.ourproject.org

Em a bin of equal length, and fo
by Fleischer 31 Aug '09

31 Aug '09

Per quarter; this must be evidently on the best goods; this will give us a length of three barrels per quarter of malt of eight bushels, of twenty-five pounds per barrel, specific gravity. Suppose the apparent attenuation of these goods to be nineteen pounds, the transparent gravity will be six pounds per barrel, viz. Gravity of the worts in the cooler just before letting down into the guile-tun, per barrel, 25 lb. Apparent attenuation per barrel, 19 lb. Transparent gravity per barrel, 6 --- 25 lb. Or take it as it really is, viz. specific gravity per barrel, 25 lb. Real attenuation per barrel, 13 lb. 8 oz. Yest and lees, 5 8 -------- 19 lb. Gravity per barrel, when transparent, 6 --- 25 lb. It may be said that nineteen pounds is the real attenuation, and the yest and lees produced is part thereof, as the fluid, or beer, in a state of transparency is but six pounds per barrel specific gravity, and it may, in some degree, be allowed to be so, as there is really so much gravity lost during the process of fermentation. If we multiply thirteen pounds eight ounces, which I have called the real attenuation, by four, we shall find the result to be fifty-four pounds, which is nineteen pounds more of superfluous gas upon four barrels of worts, of twenty-five pounds gravity each, than is extricated from an equivalent quantity of saccharine matter; that is, from one hundred pounds of raw sugar or one hundred and twelve pounds of molasses, and their respective waters of dilution, when the yest and lees do not exceed five pounds eight ounces per barrel. This may be truly called an analysis of the fermentable matter, giving the component parts tolerably exact; though much depends on the management of the fermentation, and the subsequent cleansing. By this analysis it appears, that the mucilage of malt, or gr

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T his writing has quality and flavour none but a pure pedant wo
by Campas 30 Aug '09

30 Aug '09

S the country in general; it is a small sort of village, almost entirely of wood houses, painted white, with Venetian blinds, green outside, with two white wooden churches. There are some American elms of a weeping kind, and sycamores, i.e. planes; but the wood is mostly pine--white pine and yellow pine--somewhat scrubby, occupying the tops of the low banks, and marshy hay-land between, very brown now. A little brook runs through to the Concord River.'[3] The brook flowed across the few acres that were Emerson's first modest homestead. 'The whole external appearance of the place,' says one who visited him, 'suggests old-fashioned comfort and hospitality. Within the house the flavour of antiquity is still more noticeable. Old pictures look down from the walls; quaint blue-and-white china holds the simple dinner; old furniture brings to mind the generations of the past. At the right as you enter is Mr. Emerson's library, a large square room, plainly furnished, but made pleasant by pictures and sunshine. The homely shelves that line the walls are well filled with books. There is a lack of showy covers or rich bindings, and each volume seems to have soberly grown old in constant service. Mr. Emerson's study is a quiet room upstairs.' [Footnote 3: Clough's _Life and Letters_, i. 185.] Fate did not spare him the strokes of the common lot. His first wife died after three short years of wedded happiness. He lost a little son, who was the light of his eyes. But others were born to him, and in all the relations and circumstances of domestic life he was one of the best and most beloved of men. He long carried in his mind the picture of Carlyle's life at Craigenputtock as the ideal for the sage, but his own choice was far wiser and happier, 'not wholly i

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module convertor
by Donn 02 Aug '09

02 Aug '09

timn i [cid:4A75AA22-6168977] Eel through cloth and felt a sharp stab in my left leg. For a minute I thought some drunk had used his knife on me, and I mighty near derringered him as he lay. But somehow I didn't, and looking closer, I saw the man was unconscious. Then I scouted to see what had cut me, and found that the fellow had lost a hand. In place of it he wore a sharp steel hook. This I had tangled up with and gotten well pricked. I dragged him out into the light. He was a slim-built young fellow, with straight black hair, long and lank and oily, a lean face, and big hooked nose. He had on only a thin shirt, a pair of rough wool pants, and the rawhide home-made zapatos the Mexicans wore then instead of boots. Across his forehead ran a long gash, cutting his left eyebrow square in two. There was no doubt of his being alive, for he was breathing hard, like a man does when he gets hit over the head. It didn't sound good. When a man breathes that way he's mostly all gone. Well, it was really none of my business, as you might say. Men got

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