of ideas, but by philosophical reflection. Trained in the philosophy which flourished in Italy in the 16th century, deeply imbued with the doctrines of Aristotle, and practised in all subtleties of the schools, Cesalpino was not the man to surrender himself quietly to the influence of nature on the unconscious powers of the mind; on the contrary, he sought from the first to bring all that he learnt from the writings of others and from his own acute observation of the forms of plants into subjection to his own understanding. Hence he approached the task of the scientific botanist in an entirely different way from that of de l’Obel and Kaspar Bauhin. It was by philosophical reflections on the nature of the plant and on the substantial and accidental value of its parts, according to Aristotelian conceptions, that he was led to distribute the vegetable kingdom into groups and sub-groups founded on definite marks.


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"You mean the Machine has beaten Grabo?" Sandra asked.

“Oh, Bud, I’ll never forgit that homecomin’ when she met me at the gate an’ kissed me an’ laughed a little an’ cried a heap, an’ we walked in the little parlor an’ the preacher made us one.

"Birds of a feather," said George. "He's a beast, and I hate him."

He put up his hand to his head which was burning and throbbing with fever, and tried to control his wandering senses. He wanted to speak and tell Trixie not to be frightened. He was vaguely aware that she feared his reproaches, his anger; on her arrival her face and her voice had betrayed it, and she had trembled, poor child, as he helped her out of the dog-cart. He wanted to ask her easily, gently, where she had been, what had happened, with natural intonation, to make her believe that whatever she told him, of course he should quite understand. Instead he knew he was saying something entirely different, and he found himself powerless to prevent it. Trixie looked dim, indistinct, and her voice sounded far away, at the other end of the compound.

"Hey, Doc!" she called.

He looked down the room. Miss Kenyon had come back, and they were all sitting about, reading or working in an uninterested kind of way—doing something or other as if it did not matter whether the thing was done or not. What was it the place and the people reminded him of? Yes! It was that boarding-house he had stayed in at Scarborough one winter. He had been there for a week with his mother. But that was a very different kind of place, and those were very different people. This room was beautifully designed and furnished, and these relations and connections of his were all rich and presumably care-free. Nevertheless there was something that reminded him of that Scarborough boarding-house. Something in the pose of those indifferently diligent women, perhaps?

Mammy and Memory.

degradation; and now there was nothing he could do. It was irredeemable, beyond his power to cancel or to atone.

The golden coils drooped above her chips. “Yes—yes. Just a minute. Hayley, you’ll have to pay for me.—There,

Vanderhoef broke off. Grabo knew he had been going to say something improper but from the heart, such as, "For God's sake don't blow this game out of nervousness now that you have a win in sight"—and this sympathy somehow made the Hungarian furious.


And from that day forth they two travelled together all over the country; and they practised many strange mysteries and charms, for Elaine, his wife, was learned in all the secrets of herb lore. And the people paid them well for their help and knowledge, so that they never wanted anything, and lived like princes, though never an evil act was done by their hands, nor did a word of strife ever pass between them.


2.Hartford stared at the calligrapher's drawing, then exclaimed. "Of course! A bow and arrow."


How we met old friends and an older enemy in Rome with whom I was forced to subscribe to a Truce, having passed my word to the Duke of York; how it came that I resigned from the Company of St. James.



Jorgenson laid the matter indignantly before him, repeating the exact phrases that said the trading company wanted—wanted!—practically to give itself to the Never-Mistaken Glen-U, who was the Grand Panjandrum of Thriddar. He waited to be told that it couldn't have happened; that anyhow it couldn't be intended. But the theologian's Thriddish ears went limp, which amounted to the same thing as a man's face turning pale. He stammered agitatedly that if the Grand Panjandrum said it, it was true. It couldn't be otherwise! If the trading company wanted to give itself to him, there was nothing to be done. It wanted to! The Grand Panjandrum had said so!


We were seated in a lonely place outside the town, overlooking the sea, and watched the lights below us gently rising and falling on the fishing-vessels and other craft at anchor, and marked among them the bright lanthorns of a man-of-war which topped all the others.


“We’ll do better’n that,” supplemented Rance, his 8spirits rising at his brother’s tone of confidence. “We won’t shoot ’em. We’ll get out the traps, instead. They’re both tame and neither of ’em ever had to hustle for a meal. They’ll walk right into the traps, as quick as they get the sniff of cooked food. C’mon in and help me put the traps in shape. We ought to be setting ’em before sunrise. The two foxes will be scouting for breakfast by that time.”

. . .