 The Oath Against Modernism by Pope Pius X in the multilingual 1910 collection. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Oath Against Modernism given by His Holiness Pope St. Pius X, September 1, 1910. It could be sworn to by all clergy, pastors, confessors, preachers, religious superiors, and professors in philosophical theological seminaries. I, name, firmly embrace and accept each and every definition that has been set forth and declared by the unerring teaching authority of the Church, especially those principal truths which are directly opposed to the errors of this day. And first of all, I profess that God, the origin and end of all things, can be known with certainty by the natural light of reason from the created world, Romans 1, 19, and 20. That is, from the visible works of creation as a cause from its effects, and that therefore His existence can also be demonstrated. Secondly, I accept and acknowledge the external proofs of revelation. That is, divine acts and especially miracles and prophecies as the surest signs of the divine origin of the Christian religion, and I hold that these same proofs are well adapted to the understanding of all eras and all men, even of this time. Thirdly, I believe with equally firm faith that the Church, the guardian and teacher of the revealed Word, was personally instituted by the real and historical Christ when He lived among us, and that the Church was built upon Peter, the prince of the apostolic hierarchy, and his successors for the duration of time. Fourthly, I sincerely hold that the doctrine of faith was handed down to us from the apostles through the Orthodox Fathers in exactly the same meaning and always in the same purport. Therefore I entirely reject the heretical misrepresentation that dogmas evolve and change from one meaning to another different from the one which the Church held previously. I also condemn every error according to which in place of the divine deposit which has been given to the spouse of Christ to be carefully guarded by her. There is put a philosophical figment or product of a human conscience that has gradually been developed by human effort and will continue to develop indefinitely. Fifthly, I hold with certainty and sincerely confess that faith is not a blind sentiment of religion welling up from the depths of the subconscious under the impulse of the heart and the motion of a will trained to morality. But faith is a genuine ascent of the intellect to truth received by hearing from an external source. By this ascent, because of the authority of the supremely truthful God, we believe to be true that which has been revealed and attested to by a personal God, our Creator and Lord. Furthermore, with due reverence, I submit and adhere with my whole heart to the condemnations, declarations, and all the prescripts contained in the encyclical Paschendi, and in the Decree lamentabile, especially those concerning what is known as the history of dogmas. I also reject the error of those who say that the faith held by the church can contradict history and that Catholic dogmas in the sense in which they are now understood are irreconcilable with a more realistic view of the origins of the Christian religion. I also condemn and reject the opinion of those who say that a well educated Christian assumes a dual personality, that of a believer, and at the same time of a historian, as if it were permissible for a historian to hold things that contradict the faith of the believer or to establish premises which, provided there be no direct denial of dogmas, would lead to the conclusion that dogmas are either false or doubtful. Likewise, I reject that method of judging and interpreting sacred scripture which, departing from the tradition of the church, the analogy of faith and the norms of the Apostolic See embraces the misrepresentations of the rationalists and with no prudence or restraint adopts textual criticism as the one and supreme norm. Furthermore, I reject the opinion of those who hold that a professor lecturing or writing on a historical theological subject should first put aside any preconceived opinion about the supernatural origin of Catholic tradition or about the divine promise of help to preserve all revealed truths forever and that they should then interpret the writings of each of the fathers solely by scientific principles excluding all sacred authority and with the same liberty of judgment that is common in the investigation of all ordinary historical documents. Finally, I declare that I am completely opposed to the error of the modernists who hold that there is nothing divine in sacred tradition or what is far worse say that there is but in a pantheistic sense with the result that there would remain nothing but this plain simple fact one to be put on a par with the ordinary facts of history. The fact namely that a group of men by their own labor skill and talent have continued through subsequent ages a school begun by Christ and his apostles. I firmly hold then and shall hold to my dying breath the belief of the fathers in the charism of truth which certainly is was and always will be in the succession of the episcopy from the apostles. The purpose of this is then not that dogma may be tailored according to what seems better and more suited to the culture of each age rather that the absolute and immutable truths preached by the apostles from the beginning may never be believed to be different may never be understood in any other way. I promise that I shall keep all these articles faithfully entirely and sincerely and guard them in violet in no way deviating from them in teaching or in any way in word or in writing thus I promise this I swear so help me God. End of The Oath Against Modernism by Pope Pius X read by Sean McGahey CatholicRoundUp.com Chapter 1 of What 8 Million Women Want by Rita Childe-Dore in the Multilingual 1910 Collection This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Read for you today by Don Larson in Minnesota. What 8 million women want by Rita Childe-Dore Chapter 1 Introductory For the audacity of the title of this book I offer no apology. I have had it pointed out, not altogether facetiously, that it is impossible to determine with accuracy what one woman, much less what any number of women, wants. I sympathize with the first half of the tradition. The desires, that is to say, the ideals of an individual, man or woman, are not always easy to determine. The individual is complex and exceedingly prone to variation. The mass alone is consistent. The ideals of the mass of women are wrapped in mystery simply because no one has cared enough about them to inquire what they are. Men, ardently, eternally interested in women, one woman at a time, are almost never even faintly interested in women. Strangely, deliberately ignorant of women, they argue that their ignorance is justified by an innate unknowableness of the sex. I am persuaded that the time is at hand when this sentimental half-contemptuous attitude of half the population towards the other half will have to be abandoned. I believe that the time has arrived when self-interest, if other motive be lacking, will compel society to examine the ideals of women. In support of this opinion I ask you to consider three facts, each one of which is so patent that it requires no argument. The census of 1900 reported nearly six million women in the United States engaged in wage earning outside their homes. Between 1890 and 1900 the number of women in industry increased faster than the number of men in industry. It increased faster than the birth rate. The number of women wage earners at the present date can only be estimated. Nine million would be a conservative guess. Nine million women who have forsaken the traditions of the hearth and are competing with men in the world of paid labor means that women are rapidly passing from the domestic control of their fathers and their husbands. Surely this is the most important economic fact in the world today. Within the past twenty years no less than nine hundred and fifty thousand divorces have been granted in the United States. Two-thirds of these divorces were granted to aggrieved wives. In spite of the anathemas of the church, in the face of tradition and early precept, in defiance of social ostracism, accepting in the vast majority of cases the responsibility of self-support, more than six hundred thousand women, in the short space of twenty years, repudiated the burden of uncongenial marriage. Without any doubt, this is the most important social fact we have had to face since the slavery question was settled. Not only in the United States, but in every constitutional country in the world, the movement towards admitting women to full political equality with men is gathering strength. In half a dozen countries women are already completely enfranchised. In England the opposition is seeking terms of surrender. In the United States, the stoutest enemy of the movement acknowledges that woman's suffrage is ultimately inevitable. The voting strength of the world is about to be doubled, and the new element is absolutely an unknown quantity. Does anyone question that this is the most important political fact the modern world has ever faced? I have asked you to consider three facts, but in reality they are but three manifestations of one fact. To my mind the most important human fact society has yet encountered. Women have ceased to exist as a subsidiary class in the community. They are no longer wholly dependent, economically, intellectually, and spiritually, on a ruling class of men. They look on life with the eyes of reasoning adults, where once they regarded it as trusting children. Women now form a new social group, separate, and to a degree, homogeneous. Already they have evolved a group opinion and a group ideal. And this brings me to my reason for believing that society will soon be compelled to make a serious survey of the opinions and ideals of women. As far as these have found collective expressions, it is evident that they differ very radically from accepted opinions and ideals of men. As a matter of fact, it is inevitable that this should be so. Back of the differences between the masculine and the feminine ideal lie centuries of different habits, different duties, different ambitions, different opportunities, different rewards. I shall not hear attempt to outline what the differences have been or why they have existed. Charlotte Perkins Gilman, in Women and Economics, did this before me. Did it so well that it need never be done again. I merely wish to point out that different habits of action necessarily result, after long centuries, in different habits of thought. Men accustomed to habits of strife, pursuit of material gains, immediate and tangible rewards, have come to believe that strife is not only inevitable but desirable, that material gain and visible reward are alone worth coveting. In this commercial age strife means business competition, rewards mean money. Man, in the aggregate, thinks in terms of money profit and money loss, and try as he will he cannot think in any other terms. I have in mind a certain rich young man, who, when he is not superintending the work of the cotton mills in Virginia, is giving his time to settlement work in the city of Washington. The rich young man is devoted to the settlement. One day he confided to a guest of the house, a social worker of note, that he wished he might dedicate his entire life to philanthropy. There is much about a commercial career that is depressing to a sympathetic nature, he declared. For example, it constantly depresses me to observe the effect of the cotton mills on the girls in my employ. They come in from the country fresh, blooming and eager to work. Within a few months perhaps they are pale, anemic and listless. Not infrequently a young girl contracts tuberculosis and dies before one realizes that she is ill. It rings the heart to see it. I suspect, said the visitor, that there is something wrong with your mills. Are you sure that they are sufficiently well ventilated? They are as well ventilated as we can have them, said the rich young man. Of course we cannot keep the windows open. Why not? persisted the visitor. Because in our mills we spin both black and white yarn, and if the windows were kept open, the lint from the black yarn would blow on the white yarn and ruin it. A quick vision rose before the visitor's consciousness of a mill room noisy with clacking machinery, reeking with the mingled odors of perspiration and warm oil, obscure with flying cotton flakes which covered the forbs of the workers like snow, and choked in their throats like desert sand. But, she exclaimed, you can have two rooms, one for the white yarn and the other for the black. The rich young man shook his head with an air of one who goes away exceedingly sorrowful. No, he replied, we can't. The business won't stand it. This story presents, in miniature, the social attitude of the majority of men. They cannot be held entirely responsible. Their minds automatically function just that way. They have high and generous impulses. Their hearts are susceptible to tenderest pity. They often possess the vision of brotherhood and human kinship. But habit, long habit, always intervenes in time to save the business from the loss of a few dollars profit. Three years ago Chicago was on the eve of one of its periodical vice-crusades, of which more later. Sensational stories had been published in several newspapers to the effect that no fewer than five thousand Jewish girls were leading lives of shame in the city, a statement which was received with horror by the Jewish population of Chicago. A meeting of wealthy and influential men and women was called in the library of a well-known jurist and philanthropist. Representatives from various social settlements in Jewish quarters of the town were invited, and it was as a guest of one of these settlements that I was privileged to be present. Elegant addresses were made, and an elaborate plan for investigation and relief was outlined. Finally it came to a point where ways and means had to be considered. The presiding officer put this phase of the matter to the conference with smiling frankness. You must realize, ladies and gentlemen, he said, that we have entered upon an extensive, and I am afraid, a very expensive campaign. At this a middle-aged and notably dignified man arose, and said with emotion trembling in his voice. Mr. Chairman, and ladies and gentlemen of the conference, this surely is no time for us to think of economy of expenditure. If the daughters of Israel are losing their ancient dour of purity, the sons of Israel should be willing, nay, eager to ransom them at any cost. Permit me, as a privileged honor which I value highly, to offer as a contribution toward the preliminary expenses of this campaign, my check for ten thousand dollars. He sat down to that polite little murmur of applause which goes round the room, and I whispered to the head resident of the settlement, of which I was a guest, an inquiry as to the identity of the generous donor. That gentleman, she whispered in reply, is one of the owners of a great mail-ordered department store in Chicago. She sighed deeply as she added. During the first week of the panic, that store discharged without warning five hundred girls. These typical examples of the reasoning process of men are offered without the slightest rancor. They had to be given in order that the woman's habit of thought might be explained with clearness. Women, since society became an organized body, have been engaged in the rearing as well as the bearing of children. They have made the home they have cared for the sick, ministered to the aged, and given to the poor. The universal destiny of the massive women trained them to feed and clothe, to invent, manufacture, build, repair, contrive, conserve, economize. They lived lives of constant service within the narrow confines of a home. Their labor was given to those they loved, and the reward they looked for was purely a spiritual reward. A thousand generations of service, unpaid, loving, intimate, must have left the strongest kind of a mental habit in its wake. Women, when they emerged from the seclusion of their homes, and began to mingle in the world procession, when they were thrown on their own financial responsibility, found themselves willy-nilly in the ranks of the producers, the wage earners, when the enlightenment of education was no longer denied them, when their responsibilities ceased to be entirely domestic and became somewhat social, when, in a word, women began to think, they naturally thought in human terms. They couldn't have thought otherwise if they had tried. They might have learned it is true. In certain circumstances women might have been persuaded to adopt the commercial habit of thought, but the circumstances were exactly propitious for the encouragement of the old-time woman, habit of service. The modern thinking, planning, self-governing, educated woman, came into a world which is losing faith in the commercial ideal, and is endeavoring to substitute in its place a social ideal. She came into a generation which is reaching passionate hands toward democracy. She became one with a nation which is weary of wars and hatreds, impatient with greed and privilege, sickened of poverty, disease, and social injustice. The modern free-functioning woman accepted without the slightest difficulty these new ideals of democracy and social service. Where men could do little more than theorize in these matters, women were able to easily and effectively act. I hope that I shall not be suspected of ascribing to women any ingrained or fundamental moral superiority to men. Women are not better than men. The mantle of moral superiority forced upon them as a substitute for intellectual equality they accepted because they could not help themselves. They dropped it as soon as the substitute was no longer necessary. That the mass of women are invariably found on the side of the new ideals is no evidence of their moral superiority to men. It is merely evidence of their intellectual youth. Visitors from western cities and towns are often amazed and vastly amused to find in New York and other eastern cities little narrow-gaged streetcar lines where gaunt horses haul the shabbiest of cars over the oldest and roughest of roadbeds. The Westerner declares that nowhere in the east does he find service cars that equal in comfort and elegance the cars recently installed in his Michigan or Nebraska or Washington hometown. Recently installed. There you have it. The eastern city retains its horse-cars and its out-of-date electric rolling stock because it has them and because there are all sorts of difficulties in the way of replacing them. Old franchises have to expire or otherwise be got rid of. Corporations have to be coaxed or coerced. Greed and corruption often have to be overcome. Huge sums of money have to be appropriated. A whole machinery of municipal government has to be set in motion before the old and established city can change its traction system. The new western town goes on foot until it attains to a certain size and a sufficient prosperity. Then it installs electric railways and of course it purchases the newest and most modern of the available models. New social ideals are difficult for men to acquire in a practical way because their minds are filled with the old traditions, inherited memories, outworn theories of law, government and social control. They cannot get rid of these at once. They have used them so long, have found them so convenient, so satisfactory, that even when you show them something admittedly better they are able only partially to comprehend and to accept. Women, on the other hand, have very few antiques to get rid of. Until recently their minds scantily furnished with a few personal preferences and personal prejudices were entirely bearer of community ideals or any social theory. When they found themselves in need of a social theory it was only natural that they should choose the most modern, the most progressive, the most idealistic. They made their choice unconsciously and they began the application of their new found theory almost automatically. The machinery they employed was the long, derided, misconceived and unappreciated women's club. THE END OF CHAPTER I. OF WHAT EIGHT MILLION WOMEN WANT BY RETA CHILD DOOR. WALNUT GROWING IN ORIGIN EDITED BY J. C. COOPER A COMING INDUSTRY OF GREAT NATIONAL IMPORTANCE. English walnuts for dessert, walnut confectionery, walnut cake, walnuts and candy bags at Christmas time. Thus far has the average person been introduced to this one of the greatest foods of the earth. But if the food specialists are heard, if the increasing consumption of nuts as recorded by the government bureau of imports is consulted, in short, if one opens his eyes to the tremendous place the walnut is beginning to take among food products the world over, he will realize that the walnuts rank as a table luxury is giving way to that of a necessity. He will acknowledge that the time is rapidly approaching when nuts will be regarded as we now regard beef steak or wheat products. The demand is already so great that purveyors are beginning to ask, where are the walnuts of the future to come from? In 1902, according to the Department of Commerce and Labor, we imported from Europe 11,927,432 pounds of English walnuts. Each year since then, these figures have increased, until in 1906, they reached 24,917,023 pounds valued at $2,193,653. In 1907, we imported 32,590,000 pounds of walnuts, and 12 million more were produced in the United States. In Oregon alone, there are consumed $400,000 worth of nuts annually. When we consider the limited area suitable to walnut culture in America, California and Oregon practically being the only territory of commercial importance, and the fact that the old world is no longer planting additional groves to any appreciable extent, there being no more lands available, we begin to realize the important place Oregon is destined to take in the future of the walnut industry. For in Oregon, throughout a strip of the richest land known to man, the great Vlamet basin with its tributary valleys and hills, an area of 60 by 150 miles, walnuts thrive and yield abundantly, and at a younger age than in any other locality not accepting their original home, Persia. In addition, Oregon walnuts are larger, finer flavored, and more uniform in size than those grown elsewhere. They are also free from oiliness, and have a full meat that fills the shell well. These advantages are recognized in the most indisputable manner, dealers paying from two to three cents a pound more for Oregon walnuts than for those from other groves. Thus, the very last and highest test, what will they bring in the market, has placed the Oregon walnut at the top. However, in all of Oregon, throughout the vast domain that seems to have been providentially created to furnish the world with its choices nutfruit, there are perhaps not more than 200 acres in bearing at the present time. The test has been accomplished by individual trees found here and there all the way from Washington and Multnomah counties on the north to Josephine and Jackson counties bordering California. In a number of counties, but two or three handsome old monarchs that have yielded heavy crops year after year without failure for the past 20 to 40 years, bear witness to the soil suitability. In other counties, notably Yamhill, sturdy yielding groves attest the soil's fitness. In none of the counties of the walnut belt has but the smallest fraction of available walnut lands been appropriated for this great industry. People are just beginning to realize Oregon's value as a walnut center and her destiny as a source of supply for the choices markets of the future. We're at practical to plant every unoccupied suitable acre in Oregon this year to walnuts. In eight or ten years the crop would establish Oregon forever as the sovereign walnut center of the world and the crop doubling each year thereafter for five years as is its nature and then maintaining a steady increase up to the 20th year would become a power in the world's markets equal if not superior to that of North American wheat at the present time. The United States yearbook for 1908 estimates the food value of the walnut at nearly double that of wheat and three times that of beef steak. Colonel Henry Dosh, the Oregon pioneer of walnut growing, says, as a business proposition I know of no better in agricultural or horticultural pursuits. Professor C. I. Lewis of the Oregon Experiment Station writes, in establishing walnut groves we are laying the foundation for prosperity for a great many generations. Mr. H. M. Williamson, secretary of the Oregon Board of Horticulture writes, the man who plants a walnut grove in the right place and gives it proper care is making provision not only for his own future welfare but for that of his children and his children's children. Felix Gillette, the veteran horticulturist of Nevada City, California, wrote shortly before his death, Oregon is singularly adapted to raising walnuts. Thomas Prince, owner of the largest bearing walnut grove in Oregon, expresses the most enthusiastic satisfaction with the income from his investment and is planting additional groves on his 800-acre farm in Yamhill County, in many cases uprooting fruit trees to do so. History in brief. The so-called English walnut originated in Persia, where it throbed for many centuries before it was carried to Europe, to England, Germany, France, Spain, and Italy, different varieties adapting themselves to each country. The name walnut is of German origin, meaning foreign nut. The Greeks called it the royal nut, and the Romans, Jupiter's acorn, and Jove's nut, the gods having been supposed to subsist on it. The great age and size to which the walnut tree will attain has been demonstrated in these European countries. One tree in Norfolk, England, 100 years old, 90 feet high, and with a spread of 120 feet, yields 54,000 nuts a season. Another tree, 300 years old, 55 feet high, and having a spread of 125 feet, yields 1,500 pounds each season. In Crimea, there is a notable walnut tree, 1,000 years old, that yields in the neighborhood of 100,000 nuts annually. It is the property of five Tartar families who subsist largely on its fruit. In European countries, walnuts come into bearing from the 16th to the 24th year, in Oregon from the 8th to the 10th year, grafted trees 6th year. The first walnut trees were introduced into America a century ago by Spanish friars who planted them in southern California. It was not until comparatively recent years that the hardier varieties from France adapted to commercial use were planted in California and later in Oregon. They were also tried in other localities but without success. Since the prolific productiveness of the English walnut on the Pacific coast has been assured, many commercial groves have been set out. Test Trees of Oregon The first walnut trees were planted in Oregon in limited number for purely home use, just to see if they would grow, and they did. Thus the state can boast of single trees close to 60 years of age, each with admirable records of unfailing crops demonstrating what a fortune would now be in the grasp of their owners had they planted commercially. In Portland, Oregon, on what is known as the Old Decum Place, 13th and Morrison Streets, there are two walnut trees planted in 1869 that have yielded a heavy crop every fall since their eighth year, not a single failure having been experienced. The ground has never been cultivated. The nuts planted were taken at random from a barrel in a grocery store. During the Silver Thaw of 1907, the most severe cold spell in the history of Oregon, one of the trees was wrenched in two, but the dismembered limb hanging by a shred bore a full crop of walnuts the following season. N. A. King, at 175 21st Street, has some fine old trees that have not missed bearing a good crop since their eighth year. Henry Hewitt, living at Mount Zion Portland, an elevation of a thousand feet, has many handsome trees, one a grafted tree fifteen years old that has borne since his fifth year. Another tree of his buds out the fourth of July and yields a full crop as early as any of the other varieties. In Salem there is what is known as the famous old Shannon Tree, fully thirty years old, with a record of heavy crop every season. Mayor Britt of Jacksonville has a magnificent tree that has not failed in twenty years. Dr. Fink of Dallas has a large tree seventeen years old that bore seventy pounds of nuts in its thirteenth year and has increased ever since. C. H. Samson of Grants Pass has a grove of 250 trees now ten years old that bore at seven years. Mr. Tiffany of Salem has a fifteen-year-old tree that at thirteen years bore a hundred and fifteen pounds. Mr. E. Turpinning of Eugene has four acres of walnuts grafted on the American Black, which in 1905 produced seven hundred pounds, in 1906 produced twelve hundred pounds, in 1907 produced two thousand pounds, and in 1908 produced three thousand pounds. He tried seedlings first, but they were not satisfactory. The Epps and Reese Orchard near Eugene produces about a hundred pounds per tree at twelve years of age. Mr. Mocchi of Aurora planted a dozen walnuts from his father's estate in Germany. They made a splendid grove, and at six years bore from five hundred to eight hundred nuts a tree. Mr. Stober of Carson Heights planted nuts from Germany with satisfactory results. Mrs. Herman Acony of New Era has seven young trees that in 1907 netted her fifteen dollars a tree. Cozine tree on A Street, McMennaville, seedling fifteen years old bears good crop of nuts every year. At fourteen years old the crop was a hundred and twenty-five pounds. It is sixteen inches in diameter and has a spread of forty-two feet. One sixteen-year-old tree near Albany netted its owner thirty dollars. A franket walnut near Brownsville yielded eight bushels at ten years. The French varieties planted in and around Vancouver commenced bearing at seven years and have never failed. Prominent growers are A. A. Quarnberg, A. High, Mr. H. J. Biddle, C. J. Shaw. In Yamhill County, Ed Greer, James Morrison, F. W. Myers, D. H. Turner, and Bland Herring all won prizes at the first walnut fair held in the state on nuts from their groves. Wood of the English Walnut The wood of the English walnut is very hard and close grained, and nearly as hard and tough as hickory. It will no doubt be valuable for furniture, finishing lumber, and any other use that may require a first class hardwood. Young Groves of Oregon The Prince Walnut Grove of Dundee, Yamhill County, thrills the soul of the onlooker with its beauty, present fruitfulness, and great promise. Lying on a magnificent hillside, the long rows of evenly set trees, healthy, luxurious in foliage, and filled with nuts, present a picture of ideal horticulture worth going many miles to sea. There is not a weed to mar the perfect appearance of the well-tilled soil. Not a dead limb, a broken branch, a sign of neglect or decay. In all, two hundred acres are now planted to young walnuts, new areas being added each season. From the oldest grove, about forty-five acres, the trees, from twelve to fourteen years old, there was marketed in 1905 between two and three tons of walnuts. In 1906, between four and five tons. In 1907, ten tons were harvested, bringing the highest market price, eighteen and twenty cents a pound wholesale, two cents more than California nuts. The crop for 1908 was at least one-third heavier than for 1907. One tree on the Prince Place, a mayette that has received extra cultivation by way of experiment, now twelve years old, has a spread of thirty-eight feet, and yielded in its eleventh year a hundred and twenty-five pounds of excellent nuts. Mr. Woods, the superintendent of the Prince Place, considers walnut growing a comparatively simple matter. He advocates planting the nut where the tree is to grow, choosing nuts with care, and then thorough cultivation. The soil is semi-clei, red hill land. Near Albany, Lynn County, seven hundred acres are planted. The soil is rich loam, and seems admirably adapted to walnuts. Near Junction City, in Lane County, there are two hundred acres of young trees. Every condition seems present for the best results. Eugene has two small groves. Yamhill County, where the greatest demonstration thus far has been made, has close to three thousand acres in young trees, the planting having been on both hill and valley lands. At Grant's Pass, Josephine County, there is a promising grove of six hundred young trees. Near Aurora and Hubbard, Marion County, where the soil is a rich black loam rather low, a number of young groves are making a growth of four and five feet a season. J.B. Stump of Monmouth, Polk County, has a very thrifty young grove. This is a view of a part of the R. Jacobson Orcher, one and a half miles west of McMinnville. The land was bought for sixty dollars per acre, and when planted to walnuts sold for two hundred dollars. The orchard is now five years old, and could not be bought for six hundred dollars per acre. It is located on a hill a hundred and fifty feet above the level of the valley. The largest single grafted grove in Oregon is situated one mile from Junction City, the property of A.R. Martin. He has sixty five acres. Washington County is rapidly acquiring popularity as a walnut center, many fine orchards being now planted. Mr. Fred Groener, near Hillsborough, is now planting a hundred acres to grafted trees. The Oregon Nursery Company is establishing large walnut nurseries in Washington County. In Douglas County, vicinity of Drain, little attention has been paid to walnut culture, but a sufficient number of trees are doing well to ensure good results from large plantings. In Jackson County, near Medford, a number of young groves have been planted, and individual trees throughout the Rogue River Valley furnish ample evidence of correct soil and climatic conditions in that section. Even when apple trees have been caught by frost, the walnuts have escaped uninjured, bearing later a full crop. In Tillamook County, only sufficient trees have been planted to demonstrate favorable soil conditions. While Western Oregon is universally conceded to be the natural walnut center, Eastern Oregon also has its localities where walnuts bear heavily, and will prove a good commercial crop. In Baker County, there are thousands of acres of land adapted to walnuts. Young groves are being planted, and a number of trees have produced fine crops. When one considers the years of the future, when the trees of each of these young groves will lift their symmetrical heads fifty, sixty, ninety feet into the air, laden with full capacity with a plenteous crop, each October dropping their golden brown nut harvest that falls with a clink of dollars to the commercial minded, but with an accompaniment of finest sentiments in the hearts of those otherwise inclined, one turns away with a desire to repeat the wisdom of these pioneer planters and start a grove of his own. With what grander monument could one commemorate his little span on earth? End of Walnut Growing in Oregon edited by J. C. Cooper Recording by Patty Cunningham Pilling Shot Detective by P. G. Woodhouse In the Multilingual 1910 Collection This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Life at St. Austen's was rendered somewhat hollow and burdensome for Pilling Shot by the fact that he fagged for Scott. Not that Scott was the beetle-browed bully in any way, far from it, he showed a kindly interest in Pilling Shot's welfare, and sometimes even did his Latin verses for him. But the noblest natures have flaws, and Scott's was no exception, he was by way of being a humorist. And Pilling Shot, with his rather serious outlook on life, was puzzled and inconvenienced by this. It was through this defect in Scott's character that Pilling Shot first became a detective. He was toasting muffins at the study fire one evening, while Scott seated on two chairs and five cushions, read Sherlock Holmes, when the prefect laid down his book, and fixed him with an earnest eye. Do you know Pilling Shot? he said. You've got a bright intelligent face. I shouldn't wonder if you weren't rather clever. Why do you hide your light under a bushel, Pilling Shot grunted? We must find some way of advertising you. Why don't you go in for a junior scholarship? Too old, said Pilling Shot with satisfaction. Senior then, too young. I believe by sitting up all night and swatting. Here I say, said Pilling Shot alarmed. You've got an enterprise, said Scott, sadly. What are those, muffins? Well, well, I suppose I'd better try and peck a bit. He ate four in rapid succession, and resumed his scrutiny of Pilling Shot's countenance. The great thing, he said, is to find out your special line. Till then we're working in the dark, perhaps its music. Singing, sing me a bar or two, Pilling Shot wriggled uncomfortably. After your music at home, said Scott, never mind then. That's all for the best. For those still muffins, hand me another. After all, I must keep one's strength up. You can have one if you like. Pilling Shot's face brightened. He became more affable. He chatted. There's rather a row on downstairs, he said, in the junior day-room. There always is, said Scott. If it gets too loud, I shall get an amongst them with a swagger stick. I attribute half my success at bringing off late cuts to the practice I have had in the junior day-room. It keeps the wrist supple. I don't mean that sort of row. It's about Evans. What about Evans? He's lost a sovereign. Silly young ass. Pilling Shot furtively helped himself to another muffin. He thinks someone's taken it, he said. What, stolen it? Pilling Shot nodded. What makes him think that? He doesn't see how else it could have gone. Oh, I don't. By Jove. Scott sat up with some excitement. I've got it, he said. I knew we should hit on it sooner or later. Here's a field for your genius. You shall be a detective, Pilling Shot. I hand this case over to you. I employ you. Pilling Shot gaped. I feel certain that's your line. I've noticed you walking over to school, looking exactly like a bloodhound. Get to work. As a start, you better fetch Evans up here and question him. But look here. Buck up, man, buck up. Don't you know that every moment is precious? Evans, a small stout youth, was not disposed to be reticent. The gist of his rambling statement was as follows. Rich uncle, Impecunius Nephew, visit a former to latter, hand some tip, one sovereign. Impecunius Nephew pouches sovereign, and it vanishes. And I call it beastly rot, concluded Evans volubly. And if I could find the cat who's pinched it, I jolly well, less of it, said Scott. Now then, Pilling Shot, I'll begin this thing just to start you off. What makes you think the quit has been stolen, Evans? Because I jolly well know it has. What you jolly well know isn't evidence. We must thresh this thing out. To begin with, where did you last see it? When I put it in my pocket. Good. Make a note of that, Pilling Shot. Where's your notebook? Not got one. Here you are then. You can tear out the first few pages, the ones I've written on. Ready? Carry on, Evans. When? When what? When did you put it in your pocket? Yesterday afternoon. What time? About five. Same pair of bags you're wearing now? No, my cricket bags. I was playing at the Nets when my uncle came. Ah, cricket bags. Put it down, Pilling Shot. That's a clue. Work on it. Where are they? They've gone to the wash. About time too, I noticed them. How do you know the quid didn't go to the wash as well? I turned both the pockets inside out. Any hole in the pocket? No. Well, when do you take off the bags? Did you sleep in them? I warmed up bedtime, and then shoved them on a chair by the side of the bed. It wasn't till next morning that I remembered the quid was in them. But it wasn't, objected Scott. I thought it was. It ought to have been. He thought it was. That's a clue, young Pilling Shot. Work on it. Well, when I went to take the quid out of my cricket bags, it wasn't there. What time was that? I've bought seven this morning. What time did you go to bed? Ten. Then the theft occurred between the hours of ten and seven thirty. Mind you, I'm giving you a jolly leg up, young Pilling Shot. But is it your first case? I don't mind. That'll be all from you, Evans. Pop off. Evans disappeared. Scott turned to the detective. Well, young Pilling Shot, he said. What do you make of it? I don't know. What steps do you propose to take? I don't know. You're a lot of use, aren't you? As a star, you'd better examine the scene of the robbery, I should say. Pilling Shot reluctantly left the room. Well, said Scott when he returned. Any clues? No. You thoroughly examined the scene of the robbery? I looked under the bed. Under the bed? What's the good of that? Did you go over every inch of the strip of carpet leading to the chair with a magnifying glass? I hadn't got a magnifying glass. Then you'd better back up and get one. If you're going to be a detective. Do you think Sherlock Holmes ever moved a step without his? Not much. Well, anyhow. Did you find any footprints or tobacco ash? There was a jolly lot of dust about. Did you preserve a sample? No. My word, you have a lot to learn. Now, weighing the evidence, does anything strike you? No. You're a bright sort of sleuth, aren't you? Seems to me I'm doing all the work on this case. I'll have to give you another leg up. Considering the time when the quid disappeared, I should say that somebody in the dormitory must have collared it. How many fellows are there in Evans' dormitory? I don't know. Cut along and find out. The detective reluctantly trudged off once more. Well, said Scott on his return. Seven, said Pilling Shot, counting Evans. We didn't count Evans. If he's ass enough to steal his own quids, he deserves to lose them. Who are the other six? There's Trent, he's Prefect. Then a pallion of crime. Watch his every move, yes? Sims, a dangerous man sinister to the core. And Green, Barclay, Hanson, and Daubney. Every one of them well-known to the police. Why, the place is a perfect thieves' kitchen. Look here, we must act swiftly, Young Pilling Shot. This is a black business. We'll take them in alphabetical order. Run and fetch Barclay. Barclay, interrupted in a game of helma, came unwillingly. Now then, Pilling Shot, put your questions. Said Scott. This is a black business, Barclay. Young Evans has lost a sovereign. If you think I've taken his beastly quid, said Barclay warmly. Make a note of that. On being questioned, the man Barclay exhibited suspicious emotion. Gone, jam it down. Pilling Shot reluctantly entered the statement under Barclay's indignant gaze. Now then, carry on. You know, it's all wrought, protested Pilling Shot. I never said Barclay had anything to do with it. Never mind. Ask him what his movements were on the night of the... What was yesterday? On the night of the 16th of July. Pilling Shot put the question nervously. I was in bed, of course, you silly ass. Were you asleep? Inquired Scott. Of course I was. Then how do you know what you're doing? Pilling Shot, making out of the fact that the man Barclay's statement was confused and contradictory. It's a clue. Work on it. Who's next? Dabney. Barclay, send Dabney up here. All right, Pilling Shot, you wait. It was Barclay's exit speech. Dabney, when examined, exhibited the same suspicious emotion that Barclay had shown. And Hanson, Sims and Green, behaved in a precisely similar manner. This, said Scott, somewhat complicates the case. We must have further clues. You better pop off now, Pilling Shot. I've got a Latin prose to do. Bring me reports of your progress daily, and don't overlook the importance of trifles. Why, in silver blaze, it was a burnt match that first put homes on the scent. Entering the junior day room with some apprehension, the sleuthhound found an excited gathering of suspects waiting to interview him. One sentiment animated the meeting. Each of the five wanted to know what Pilling Shot meant by it. What's the row? Queer eat interested spectators rallying round. That cad Pilling Shot's been accusing us of bugging Evan's quid. What's Scott got to do with it, he inquired one of the spectators. Pilling Shot explained his position. All the same, said Dabney. You needn't have dragged us into it. I couldn't help it, he made me. Awful ass, Scott, admitted Green. Pilling Shot welcomed this sign that the focus of popular indignation was being shifted. Shoving himself into other people's business, grumbled Pilling Shot. Trying to be funny. Barkley summed up. Rotten cricket, too. Can't play a york of a nuts. See him drop that scissor on Saturday? So that was all right. As far as the junior day room was concerned, Pilling Shot felt himself vindicated. But his employer was less easily satisfied. Pilling Shot had hoped that by the next day he would have forgotten the subject, but when he went into the study to get tea ready, up it came again. Any clues yet, Pilling Shot? Pilling Shot had to admit that there were none. Hello, this won't do. You must bustle about. You must get your nose to the trail. Have you cross-examined Trent yet? No? Well, there you are then. Nip off and do it now. But I say, Scott, he's a prefect. In the Dictionary of Crime, said Scott, sententiously, there is no such word as prefect. All are alike. Go and take down Trent's statement. To tax a prefect with having stolen a sovereign was a task at which Pilling Shot's imagination boggled. He went to Trent's study in a sort of dream. A horse roar answered his feeble tap. There was no doubt about Trent being in. Inspection revealed the fact that the prefect was working and evidently ill-attuned to conversation. He wore a haggard look, and his eye, as it caught that of the collector of statements, was dangerous. Well, said Trent, scowling murderously. Pilling Shot's legs felt perfectly boneless. Well, said Trent, Pilling Shot yammered. Well! The roar shook the window, and Pilling Shot's presence of mind deserted him altogether. Heading back to sovereign, he asked. There was an awful silence, during which the detective his limbs suddenly becoming active again banged the door and shot off down the passage. He re-entered Scott's study at the double. Well, said Scott, what did he say? Nothing. Get out your notebook and put down onto the heading Trent. Suspicious silence. A very bad lot, Trent. Keep him under constant espionage. It's a clue. Work on it. Pilling Shot made a note of the silence, but later on when he and the prefect met in the dormitory, felt inclined to erase it. For silence was the last epithet one would have applied to Trent on that occasion. As he crawled painfully into bed, Pilling Shot became more than ever convinced that the path of the amateur detective was a thorny one. This conviction deepened next day. Scott's help was possibly well meant, but it was certainly inconvenient. His theories were of the brilliant dashing order, and Pilling Shot could never be certain who and in what rank of life the next suspect would be. He spent the afternoon shadowing the greaser, the combination of boot boy and butler, who did the odd jobs about the schoolhouse. And in the evening seemed likely to be about to move in the very highest circle. This was when Scott remarked in a dreamy voice, You know, I'm told the old man has been spending a good little money lately, to which the burden of Pilling Shot's reply was that he would do anything in reason, but he was bloat if he was going to cross-examine the headmaster. Seems to me, said Scott sadly, that you don't want to find that sovereign. Don't you like Evans, or what is it? It was, on the following morning, after breakfast that the close observer might have noticed a change in the detective's demeanor. He no longer looked as if he were weighed down by a secret sorrow. His manner was even jaunty. Scott noticed it. What's up? He inquired. Got a clue? Pilling Shot nodded. What is it? Let's have a look. Shhh! Said Pilling Shot mysteriously. Scott's interest was aroused. When his fag was making tea in the afternoon, he questioned him again. Out with it! He said. What's the point of all this silent mystery business? Sherlock Holmes never gave anything away. Out with it! Walls have ears, said Pilling Shot. So have you, replied Scott crisply, and I'll smite them in half a second. Pilling Shot sighed resignedly, and produced an envelope. From this he poured some dried mud. Here, steady on with my tablecloth, said Scott. What's this? Mud. What about it? Where do you think it came from? How should I know road, I suppose? Pilling Shot smiled faintly. Eighteen different kinds of mud about here? He said patronizingly. This is flower bed mud from the house front garden. Well, what about it? Pilling Shot glided out of the room. Well, asked Scott next day. Clues pouring in all right? Rather. What got another? Pilling Shot walked silently to the door and flung it open. He looked up and down the passage, then closed the door, and returned to the table, where he took from his waistcoat pocket a used match. Scott turned it over inquiringly. What's the idea of this? A clue, said Pilling Shot. See anything queer about it? He said that rummy brown stain on it. Yes. Blood. It's not a Pilling Shot. What's it got a blood? There's been no murder. Pilling Shot looked serious. I never thought of that. You must think of everything. The worst mistake a detective can make is to get switched off onto another track while he's working on a case. This match is a clue to something else. You can't work on it. I suppose not, said Pilling Shot. Don't be discouraged. You're doing fine. I know, said Pilling Shot. I shall find that quid all right. Nothing like sticking to it. Pilling Shot shuffled, then rose to a point of order. I've been reading those Sherlock Holmes stories, he said, and Sherlock Holmes always got a fee if he brought a thing off. I think I ought to, too. Mercenary young brute. It's been a beastly sweat. Don't you good. Supplied you with a serious interest in life. Well, I expect Evans will give you something, a dueled snuff box or something. If you pull the thing off. I don't. Well, he'll buy you a tea or something. He won't. He's not going to break the quid. He's saving up for a camera. Well, what are you going to do about it? Pilling Shot, kick the leg of the table. You put me on to the case, he said casually. What? If you think I'm going to squander, I think you ought to let me or fagging for the rest of the term. It's got reflected. There's something in that. All right. Thanks. Don't mention it. You haven't found the quid yet. I know where it is. Where? Ah. Fool, said Scott. After breakfast the next day, Scott was seated in his study when Pilling Shot entered. Here you are, said Pilling Shot. He unclasped his right hand and exhibited a sovereign. Scott inspected it. Is this the one? He said. Yes, said Pilling Shot. How do you know? It is. I've sifted all the evidence. Who had bagged it? I don't want to mention names. Oh, all right. As you didn't spend any of it, it doesn't much matter. Not that it's much catch having a thief roaming at large about the house. Anyhow, what put you on to him? How did you get on the track? You're a jolly smart kid, young Pilling Shot. How did you work it? I have my methods, said Pilling Shot with dignity. Back up. I should have to be going over to school in a second. I hardly like to tell you. Tell me, dash it all. I put you on the case. I'm your employer. You won't touch me up if I tell you. I will if you don't. But not if I do. No. How about the fee? That's all right. Go on. All right then. Well, I thought the whole thing over and I couldn't make anything out of it at first because it didn't seem likely that Trent or any of the other fellows in the dormitory had taken it. And then, suddenly, something Evans told me the day before yesterday made it all clear. What was that? He said that the matron had just given him back his quid, which one of the housemates had found on the floor by his bed. It had dropped out of his pocket that first night. Scott eyed him fixedly. Pilling Shot coyly evaded his gaze. That was it, was it? Said Scott, Pilling Shot nodded. It was a clue, he said. I worked on it. End of Pilling Shot Detective by P. G. Woodhouse. Read by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org A Tuteur Embarrassé by Roger Dombre in the Multilingual 1910 collection. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Morte. Positivement et littéralement morte. La preuve, c'est que Tante Germaine se mouchait avec bruit. Or, elle ne se mouge que quand elle pleure, elle ne pleure que devant le trépas. Tante Bertrand, elle, récité des prières funèbres d'une voix entrecoupée de sanglots, et mon oncle Valère s'écriait en gémissant, ma pauvre petite pupille. Elle m'a fait enrager bien souvent, mais je la regrette quand même. Et puis, s'en aller ainsi, à quinze ans, c'est trop tôt. Quant à moi, j'ai honte de l'avouer, j'avais envie de rire. Pourtant, je me disais, il paraît bien que je suis morte, puisqu'on me pleure et me regrette. Mais alors, où donc est le bon Dieu ? Pourquoi ce jugement annoncé de mon vivant ne commence-t-il pas ? J'avais beau me répéter. Je ne suis plus qu'une âme. Mon corps, ce petit corps mince, jadis si remuant, d'audates déristelles, et maintenant immobile sur mon lit froid. Je ne pouvais me faire à l'idée que j'avais quitté la terre. Comment cela m'avait-il pris de mourir ? Je me le rappelais assez bien. J'ai désoccupé à trier de la musique tout contre le piano, avec Robert qui chantonnait les premières mesures des morceaux en les prenant de mes mains. Tout à coup, il me dit, tu es pas l'audate, est-ce que tu souffres ? Pas du tout, répliquais-je. Quelle idée, je ne me suis jamais mieux portée. Mais aussitôt, je sentis un grand trouble en moi, un malaise indéfinissable comme celui qui pressait de la syncope. Cela ne me faisait pas précisément mal, seulement à froid me gagnaient les veines en commençant par les extrémités. Tout tournait sous mes yeux, et mes jambes devenaient molles. J'entendis Robert qui s'écriait, plein d'angoisse, mon Dieu,audates se trouvent mal. Et je le sentis qui me prenait dans ses bras, ses grands bras robustes où je me savais en sûreté. Ensuite, il y a comme un voile sur mes souvenirs. J'ai dû demeurer évanoui, tout à fait, quelque temps. La faculté d'entendre mes revenus je ne sais trop quand, mais non celle de parler, ni de me m'ouvoir. La voix de notre docteur, Monsieur Mérintier, fera pas mon oreille au milieu des exclamations de m'étante. C'est une emboli, prononcait avec ampleur cet homme célèbre dont je me suis souvent moqué, de mon vivant. La mort a dû être instantanée, ce qui a évité à la chère enfant de grandes souffrances. Mais ce cas est assez rare dans un âge aussi tendre. En effet, pensais-je, prête à pleurer sur moi-même, je m'envais à la fleur de mon printemps. C'est peut-être très poétique, mais la vie ne m'ennuyait pas encore, et je n'aurais pas été fâchée d'enjouer quelques années de plus. Pourvu qu'on ne m'entère pas trop vite, me dis-je aussi. Car enfin, je dois être morte, puisque tout cela firme, mais moi je n'en suis pas très sûre. Quelque chose en moi protestait contre cette affirmation. Je n'avais pas eu d'agonie, d'abord, et cela m'apparaissait trop beau de m'en aller si doucement dans l'autre monde, en gondole, dirait Guy. Ensuite, j'appartenais encore trop à la terre, puisque j'entendais ce qui me parlait. Enfin, je n'étais pas jugée. Non que le jugement me fit grand-peur. Mon Dieu, je n'avais pas pêché grèvement, si non souvent de fois. Je m'examinais, comme lorsque j'allais à Confesse, très grave, avec, de temps à autre, une petite envie de rire aux souvenirs de certaines freudaines. Mais j'avais confiance en la miséricorde divine. Pour me donner du courage, je me comparais mentalement à tous les grands cérés-ras connus. Ravachol, Néron, Baltazar, Cartouche, Tropman, Vaché, Domicien, Mara et Robespierre. Tout ce monde-là formait dans ma pauvre tête une salade plutôt rassurante. Seulement, on pensait, ces gens ont sans doute des circonstances atténuantes à leur appui. Les uns ont reçu une éducation cynique, ou pas du tout d'éducation. Les autres ont été entraînés par de mauvaises exemples, par des tempéraments exceptionnels, par l'érédité. Moi, quelle excuse puis-je invoquer ? Et le vais-choyer, gâté par de bons parents que j'ai perdu trop tôt, j'ai été remise aux mains de mon oncle Saint-Mozane, la crème des tuteurs, homme absolument inoffensif, tout livré à l'innocente manie de la frénologie, et qui me laisse à peu près faire ce que je veux, et ne me gronde presque jamais. Et pourtant, il y aurait tant lieu de me gronder. J'aime moins sa femme, tant de germaine, qui se croit obligé de m'abbrever de nombreux sermons, et dont l'esprit est quelque peu étroit. J'aime encore moins sa sœur, tant de Bertrande, qui possède, amplifié, les mêmes travers. Je tyrannise tant que je peux leurs filles aignesses, mes cousines, planches et jannes. Quant à mon cousin Robert, je n'ai rien à dire sur lui. C'est la perfection de la perfection. Et si jamais il m'exaspère, c'est justement parce que je ne peux pas lui trouver un travers, un défaut. Son frère Cadet, Guy, ou Guillaume, que je me plais à appeler Guimau va cause de la couleur violette de ses yeux, est un si bon garçon, si fou, si amusant, que je regrettais de quitter ce monde, rien qu'à cause de lui. Mais revenons à ma mort. Toujours j'entendais la voix de m'étante, m'humurer, j'émissante. Du fond de la pime, j'ai crié vers vous, Seigneur, Seigneur, je ne voyais toujours rien surgir devant moi. Devant mon âme, devrais-je dire. Le bon Dieu finira bien par venir, pensais-je. Mon stage va être terminée, et, après un court jugement, j'irai certainement en purgatoire. À moins qu'on ne m'ait oublié, ou que Saint-Pierre est tellement d'affaire, et de luxe perpétois louqué à dix. Je dois être affreuse sur mon lit de mort, me disais-je encore. Cette idée ne laissait pas que de m'inquiéter beaucoup. Que devait penser tous ceux qui m'ont connu? Gentil. Il n'y a pas à poser pour la modestie. Je sais bien que je ne fais pas peur. Oui, que devait-il penser? Robert, surtout, ce cher Robert dans les yeux profs, s'attachait si souvent, avec une indulgente affection, sur le mi-noir rire de cette folle de dette. On m'avait habillé, je le savais, toute de blanc, comme une fiancée ou une première comminuante. Sans doute avec ma robe de crêpe de chine que j'avais mise pour le bal blanc de madame de Boutrie, et qui, au dire de mes cousins, m'allait si bien. Bon, voilà que j'avais des pensées de vanité jusque par-delà la tombe. Il y avait un va et vien autour de mon lit funèbre. Des gens s'approchaient de moi, me baisant au front, sapis toillant. Puisque le bon Dieu tardait tant à me juger et que j'avais fait et refait mon examen de conscience, je pouvais bien m'amuser à écouter ce qu'on disait aux dettes d'Héristel, d'essayer tout fraîchement dans la 16e année de son âge. Je me suis instruite très utilement, mais procédons par ordre. L'oncle valère, d'un ton triste. J'avais toujours dit que cette petite était tant dehors du commun des mortels, outre la bosse de l'excentricité, elle avait celle. Je ne pus' avoir la suite, tant de germaines interrompant le tuteur. Que Dieu lui pardonne ses fautes à la chère enfant, car elle a beaucoup péché. Nous en a-t-elle fait des misères, la pauvre mignonne, avec ses idées saugrenues, depuis bientôt six ans qu'elle vit avec nous ? Oui, Harry postait tant de Bertrand, mais elle va bien nous manquer, et la maison nous paraîtra fort triste, elle les guéait tellement. Le jour où je sentirai mon rheumatisme, qui me le fera oublier en me racontant de drôle l'histoire. Avouez qu'ici le regret que j'inspirai était un tantinet égoïste. Blanche étrénit mes mains froides et, sanglotant, ne pus' que répéter. Au dette, pauvre au dette. Sa soeur Jeanne, que j'aime moins, se pencha sur moi et, dans un souffle moins désolé, prononça très bas. Cousinet, ta mort nous laisse riche, je pourrais épouser, monsieur de grand flair. Merci. Ses paroles me rendaient rêveuses. Au fait, j'étais riche. Riche et mineur, je n'avais pas écrit d'autestament. Mais bien revenait donc tout naturellement à mes parents les plus proches, les Samozans. Est-ce que cela n'allait pas atténuer de beaucoup leur regret de me perdre ? Pas. Je m'en voulu pour cette idée injurieuse, déplacer, et je dressai de nouveau l'oreille. Un grand fracar retentit dans ma chambre, mortuaire, et je devinais Guy, Guy Mauve, mon bon camarade, le complice accoutumé de mes freudaines. Que me dit-on ? Au dette, morte ! C'est impossible ! Ce matin, quand je suis partie pour le collège, elle allait comme un charme. Eh oui, soupira tant de Bertrande. Mais cela est survenu subitement. Regarde-la, la pauvre chérie, elle n'a pas souffert. Ne dirais-t-on pas qu'elle dort ? Absolument ! répondit Guy dans un grand sanglot. Et c'est à se demander, si… Ah, Nenette, je t'aimais bien, va, en dépit de nos fréquentes disputes. Ah, comme tu vas me manquer ! Puis, changeant soudain de ton, anxieux, et repère, comment supporte-t-il cela ? Dis le grand fou, on se mouche en bruyamment. Pauvre frère, le voilà veuve de sa petite fiancée. Sa petite fiancée ? Il me sembla que je bondissais. Ou Guy prenait-il cela ? Jamais il n'a été question d'avenir entre Robert et moi. Et je crois que si ses parents et lui ont avait plutôt des vues sur ma personne, ils auraient pu m'en instruire. Certes, j'aime bien Robert. Je l'admire même, comme un grand frère très aîné. Il a dix ans de plus que moi. Et très sérieux. Mais il ne m'est jamais venu à l'idée. Robert, au fait, comment n'était-il pas là à pleurer et à prier, au pied de mon lyphu nebre ? L'oublieux, l'indifférent. Son absence m'offusca et je lui en voulu beaucoup. Je lui en veux encore à l'heure qu'il est. Ne manquait-il pas à tous ses devoirs ? Mon oncle, lui, pouvait avoir affaire ailleurs. Métantes aussi, appelées au dehors par les amis à recevoir, les ordres à donner relativement à mes funérailles. Mes jannes et blanches égrenaient leurs chaplets auprès de moi, et Guy ne quittait pas mon chevet où il se lamentait tout haut. Que faisait donc Robert ? Peu à peu, un grand silence se fit dans la pièce. Sans doute, on m'avait assez pleuré, on respirait un brun. Je profitais de ce répit pour réciter un psaume pour le repos de ma pauvre âme, m'étonnant toujours de ne meurer entre ciel et terre, sans m'arrêter nulle part, ni à percevoir l'ombre même d'un juge. Soudain un pas, dans le lointain de la maison, fit gémir l'escalier. Comme j'avais Louis Fine, alors. Voilà enfin Robert, pensais-je. Mais non, le pas se rapprochait, non léger et harmonieux, comme celui de mon cousin, mais lourd et inégal. C'était Miss Angora, bientôt suivie de son inséparable mademoiselle d'appremont que je ne puis souffrir. En ce moment, toutefois, sur le point de paraître devant Dieu, j'essayais de l'aimer de tout mon cœur. Ah bien oui, vous allez voir si cela mettait facile. Elle se répondir d'abord, toutes les deux, en clameurs énervantes et en douléances sur la pauvre tête. Une si charmante fille, qui avait tant d'esprit, des yeux si espiegles, la réplique si vive. Ici également les regrets manquaient de chaleur. Il me semble qu'on pouvait bien m'aimer et me plurer pour des raisons plus sérieuses, pour au moins les quelques qualités morales que je me flatte de posséder. Miss Angora s'approchait de mon corps et déclara que j'étais une délicieuse petite morte, un peu palotte, voilà tout, et pas du tout effrayante. Au fond de moi-même, je lui suis gris de se montrer si expensive et de m'apprendre, sans le vouloir, que je ne faisais pas peur. Puis ces deux mois-elles s'assirent auprès de mes cousines et tentèrent de les consoler, ce qui ne fut pas difficile, avec des natures aussi superficielles que Blanche et Jeanne. Porterez-vous longtemps le deuil, le noir ira bien à votre thym, faisait remarquer mademoiselle d'appremont. Faites-vous fabriquer un toquet de soie noire par Cresspin, Jeanne, car le crêpe ne se prend pas pour une cousine. Presque une soeur murmura la voix d'olande de ma cousine. Oui, mais on réserve le crêpe pour des parents plus proches, autrement ma chair ignorait plus de différence, n'est-ce pas Blanche ? Blanche inquiessa faiblement. Tante Bertrand de rentra, affaire et expose à la manière par laquelle on comptait m'enterrer. Je compris que l'on ferait bien les choses et que mon tuteur ne regardait pas à la dépense. Des domestiques entrèrent aussi, apportant des fleurs. Ma vieille bonne euphranie était plongée dans la désolation. Ses larmes ruisselaient bruyamment et elles faisaient toucher à mes mains inertes son chapeau lait de bois pour conserver, disait-elle, une relique de mademoiselle. Tout comme si j'étais morte en odeur de sainteté. Les jeunes filles profitèrent, pour quitter la chambre un instant, de l'arrivée de la brave servante qui voulait me veiller au moins une heure. Pauvre vieille, elle commença par prier, puis s'assoupit, puis ronflat, et ne s'éveilla que lorsque Gertrude vint s'asseoir à côté d'elle. Alors elle conversait. Bien entendu, je fis le sujet de leur entretien. Si la pauvre mignonne avait vécu, disait le cordon bleu de la famille Saint-Mozane, elle serait devenue la brûle de son tuteur et la femme de M. Robert. Il y eut un silence. Euphranie reprit. C'est un beau parti qui échappe à M. Robert. La petite mignonne aurait eu 700 000 francs de dos. Il doit être bien marie, M. Robert. Il y a de quoi, avouez-le, nos maîtres n'ont pas de fortune qu'il paraît, et la jeune famille ne sera pas d'un casement facile. À présent, tout est changé, nos demoiselles sont dotées, et quant à nos jeunes messieurs, M. Guy est intent inéparé, ce monsieur bon garçon, si amusant qu'il trouvera facilement une femme pour s'épouser avec lui. M. Robert, on ne sait que dire sur lui. Il arrivera à tout ce qu'il voudra. Mais c'est un artiste, un indépendant, comme il dise, et il lui aurait fallu une petite demoiselle, comme un demoiselle audate, pour lui apporter la fortune. Aussi avait-il jeté son évolu sur elle. Lui ou ses parents, on ne sait pas. Conclu Euphranie, à laquelle j'aurais volontiers arracher les yeux, car elle m'arrachait, elle, mes illusions. Ainsi, tout le monde me fiançait donc à ce Robert, qui ne venait pas me pleurer, lui, et que j'avais eu la sauteuse de tant admirer, moi. C'était exaspérant en vérité, et il me tardait de disparaitre tout à fait de ce monde, dont je n'entrevoyais que trop, à présent, la cupidité et la petitesse. Tout à l'heure, je m'en dirais, pensais-je, et ce sera mi-un-temps. On me déposera entre quatre planches, puis dans le cavo des héristelles, et... Mais un petit frisson me prie. Et quoi, demain ou après-demain, au lieu de me réveiller le matin sous mes rideaux de soie pâle caressés par le soleil levant, entre des murs à étendue des toffes veloutées, dans une jolie chambre parfumée et riyante, je me trouverais à plusieurs pieds sous terre au milieu d'une froid d'humidité. Au lieu de ces bottes de fleurs qui rembaume, j'aurais les parois rudes d'un cercueil. Mon frisson s'accentua au point que je m'écriai, en moi-même. Mais est-ce bien réellement très passé? Et aussitôt, dans ma mémoire flottante, s'éveille à l'histoire touchante de la fille de Jair. Cette enfant n'est point morte, elle n'est qu'endormie. Grand Dieu, si quelqu'un avait la bonne inspiration de prononcer cette parole. Un médecin un peu intelligent. Si Robert seulement a daigné t'approcher de Monlis, lui qui voyait tout, devinait tout. Si la bonne frannie avait la charitable idée de me verser une carafe d'eau sur la tête, sûrement cela me remettrait. Car plus le temps s'écoulait, plus je me sentais revivre, sortir de la létergie qui paralysait mes membres et enchaînait ma langue avec les battements de mon cœur. Les deux servantes se rendormaient, sourdent à tout appel. Dans la chambre assombrie par l'approche de la nuit, flottait un bruit insaisissable, comme affrôlement de fantômes, dû, peut-être, au vassillement léger des flammes des sièges ou au souffle de la brise, à peine sensible, qui soulevait imperceptiblement les rideaux. Mais une intense frayeur me venait de ne pouvoir manifester jamais la vie qui se réveillait en moi. Alors, qu'aviendrait-il ? On mentait revivante, et je ne serai pas la première victime d'une semblable erreur. Si seulement on avait l'idée de me brûler la plante des pieds, pensais-je, ou celle de me tâter le pou, je suis sûre que mon cœur bat de nouveau. Après tout, s'il est que soit le monde, je ne suis pas fâché d'y rentrer. Je comprends maintenant pourquoi je ne paraissais pas devant Dieu et pourquoi le jugement était si long à arriver. J'ouvris les yeux et regardais autour de moi. Le jour mourrait doucement. Dans la cheminée, plus de bûches, mais descendre encore roses qui envoyaient un peu de chaleur dans l'appartement, malgré la fenêtre restée entre ouvertes. Je souris à tout cela. Le plus pressé, pour le moment, était de changer la position de ma pauvre tête véritablement enquilosée depuis tant d'heures qu'elle reposait, immobile, sur le rayet. Mais sans aide, je ne pouvais encore me mouvoir. Franny, Gertrude, prononçais-je, mais si bas qu'un double ronflement sonore me répondit seul. Je rassemblais mes forces et tentais de remuer, un vertillage allant jusqu'à la souffrance me ploi de nouveau sur mon lit. L'impatience me prit, c'était bon signe. Où est mon mouchoir, me demandais-je. On l'a inondé d'eau de colonne, et si je pouvais aspirer ce parfum, il me semble que cela me ferait du bien. Le Franny, Gertrude, vieil sorcière, ne voulez-vous me venir en aide ? Ma voix reprenait un peu de force. Mais comment me faire entendre de ces deux commerces que le bruit du canon ne pourrait même réveiller ? C'est bien, me dis-je. On se passera d'elle, et je vais leur jouer un bon tour. Quand elles rouvriront les yeux, la mort aura fui pour apparaître, telle que la statue du commandeur, dans l'appartement où ma chère famille suit, pute peut-être ce que va lui rapporter mon trait pas. End of Chapter 1 of Un Tuteur Embarrassé by Robert Dombre. Read by Nadine Eckhart-Boulet. Restoration of Paleolithic Man by Richard Swan-Lull in the Multilingual 1910 collection. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Restoration of Paleolithic Man by Richard Swan-Lull a contribution from the Paleo-Lontological Laboratory, Peabody Museum, Yale University, to the American Journal of Science. An attempt has recently been made by the writer to restore in plastic form the type of mankind dwelling in Europe during a portion of the Paleolithic period and variously known to science under the names of Homo Pramiginius, Neanderthalensis, or Mosteriensis. The restoration, which is life-size, is a tentative one and will be kept in the clay for a time in order that authoritative criticism may be met before it is cast in plaster. The model is based mainly upon what is known as the Man of Spy Number One, one of the two specimens found at Spy in Belgium, of which the museum contains excellent plaster casts. The illustrations of the remains of man found at Krapina in Croatia and described by Professor Gorjanovic Kramberger in his The Diluviale Mensch von Krapina in Croatia in 1906 were largely used, together with certain other measurements such as the estimate for total height, etc. For the use of the casts and the assembling of data, together with kindly criticism, I am indebted to Dr. George Grant McCurdy, curator of anthropology in this museum, while to Professor Joseph Barrel, who has taken a very lively interest in the work, I wish also to acknowledge my gratitude. My conception of homoprimiginus is that of a man of low stature, standing only five feet three inches in height, but of great physical prowess as indicated by the robustness of the limp bones and especially of their articular ends. The great punch of the higher anthropoid apes, which are almost exclusively vegetarians, is lacking and in its place is shown the clean cut, athletic form of torso, such as one sees in the typical North American Indians, for I imagine food conditions were much the same. We have abundant evidence that paleolithic men was a crafty hunter, for the remains of various animals, which he slew for food, are found in the bone brachias of the caverns, wherein his own relics are entombed. Great power is indicated, however, in the upper portion of the trunk and in the arms, compensating this ancient type for his lack of adequate tools and weapons. The knees are somewhat flexed, as the curved thigh bone would indicate, and probably should be more so, and the trunk is only partially erect, for the inward curves of the backbone, so characteristic of modern man, are but feebly developed, as in the case of babes of the present day, or in individuals bowed down by the weight of years. The shin is relatively short, as with certain present-day races, and the great toes somewhat offset, though having long since lost its ape-like opposability. The head shows the prominent supra-orbital ridges above the deep-set eyes, the low flat forehead, the broad concave nasal bridge, and the somewhat prognacious jaws. The lower jaw is deep and powerful, and lacks the characteristic chin prominence of modern man. Other restorations give a greater prognathism than mine, and it may be that here I am in error in showing too great a refinement of countenance, as compared with the low type of calvarium. The contour of the jaw is based upon actual measurement of one of the crappina specimens, and one should bear in mind that the far older jaw recently brought to light at Heidelberg, though of a more brutal type than any yet known, shows less dental prognathism than do the modern negroes, indicating a very great antiquity for the radiative evolution of the several human stocks. In all probability, the men of that day were much more hairy than the model would indicate, as they had little or no clothing, and the climate, during part of their racial career at least, was severe. They were, however, cave dwellers and knew the use of fire. I have purposely refrained from indicating this conjectural character, as it would, to a certain extent, conceal the conformation of the underlying parts. A jaw of the cave bear, Ursus spellosis, a contemporary animal, though now long since extinct, is born in the left hand, while the right contains a chipped stone implement from one of the typical stations, thus indicating the cultural plain of the race. This type, dwelt in Europe before the last glacial period, estimated at from 100 to 200,000 years ago, and continued for a long period of time, for his remains are found entombed successively with both cold and warm climate animals. The relics are found within or near rock shelters and caves, the best known of which are those of Neanderthal, Germany, Spie, Belgium, Crapina, Croatia, Le Moustier and La Chapelle Saint in France. As a race, Homo primiginius is today entirely extinct, though whether he was blotted out or absorbed by the invading horde of the superior Homo sapiens, we have no certain knowledge. Occasionally, however, something of his type appears in Modern Man, notably in St. Mausberg, a medieval bishop of Tull, and in Lyca, a scientific dain of the 18th century, as well as among Australians and Melanesians, the lowest living races of mankind. These may be looked upon as instances of atavistic reversion. The man of Spie, while showing more Pythagorean characters than his successor, was nevertheless eminently human, representing as he does the type just preceding Modern Man, and one far removed from a true ape-like ancestry. In the popular conception, prehistoric man should be grilloid or at any rate distinctly simian, against this misconception, the model stands as a silent protest. End of Restoration of Paleolithic Man by Richard Swan Lull Read by Avae in March 2010