Recently added books

Joy in the Morning

Creator: Andrews, Mary Raymond Shipman, 1860-1936
Translator: -
Contributor: -
Editor: -


Brand new books:


log by a little river, putting together fishing tackle and casting an eye, off and on, where rapids broke cold over rocks and whirled into foam-flecked, shadowy pools. There should be trout in those shadows. "Take the butt, Rafael, while I string the line." Rafael slipped across--still in my vision of memory--and was holding my rod as a rod should be held, not too high or too low, or too far or too near--right. He was an old Huron, a chief of Indian Lorette, and woods craft was to him as breathing. "A varry light rod," commented Rafael in his low voice which held no tones out of harmony with water in streams or wind in trees. "A varry light, good rod," paying meanwhile strict attention to his job. "M'sieu go haf a luck today. I t'ink M'sieu go catch a beeg fish on dat river. Water high enough--not too high. And cold." He shivered a little. "Cold last night--varry cold nights begin now. Good hun-ting wedder." "Have you got a moose ready for me on the little lake, Rafael? It's the 1st of September next week and I expect you to give me a shot before the 3d." Rafael nodded. "Oui, m'sieur. First day." The keen-eyed, aquiline old face was as of a prophet. "We go get moose first day. I show you." With that the laughter-loving Frenchman in him flooded over the Indian
The Talking Deaf Man

TO THE READER. Candid Reader, _In these few Pages, I expose to thee openly and ingenuously, by what means I can learn the Deaf, (and because they were born so) the Dumb to speak articulately_, and easily to understand others also when they are speaking, so as they may be able both to read, and to understand a Book, or Letter, and to discover their own Minds, either by Speach or Writing. How important a Benefit is this? How advantageous is the not hearing supplied by this Art? If Envy, or the detestable greedy Desire of Gain_ _could have prevailed with me, I had retained this Art, as lockt up in my own Breast. But alass! How miserable is the condition of the Deaf? How lame and defective is that Speach, which is performed by Signs and Gestures? How little are they capable to receive of those things which concern their eternal Salvation? Who doth not commiserate_ _this sort of Persons? Who can refuse to help them by all means which are possible? For my part, I, by the help of God's Grace,
hunter; for a second the two inheritances played like colors in shot silk, producing an elusive fabric, Rafael's charm. "If nights get so colder, m'sieur go need moose skin kip him warm." I was looking over my flies now, the book open before me, its fascinating pages of color more brilliant than an old missal, and maybe as filled with religion--the peace of God, charity which endureth, love to one's neighbor. I chose a Parmachene Belle for hand-fly, always good in Canadian waters. "A moose-skin hasn't much warmth, has it, Rafael?" The hunter was back, hawk-eyed. "But yes, m'sieu. Moose skin one time safe me so I don' freeze to death. But it hol' me so tight so I nearly don' get loose in de morning." "What do you mean?" I was only half listening, for a brown hackle and a Montreal were competing for the middle place on my cast, and it was a vital point. But Rafael liked to tell a story, and had come by now to a confidence in my liking to hear him. He flashed a glance to gather up my attention, and cleared his throat and began: "Dat was one time--I go on de woods--hunt wid my fader-in-law--_mon beau-pere_. It was mont' of March--and col'--but ver' col' and wet. So it happen we separate, my fador-in-law and me, to hunt on both side of large enough river. And I kill moose. What, m'sieur? What sort of gun? Yes. It was rifle--what one call flint-lock. Large round bore. I cast dat beeg ball myself, what I kill dat moose. Also it was col'. And so it happen my matches got wet, but yes, ev-very one. So I couldn' buil' fire. I was tired, yes, and