the morning star, written near the sea, by Charlotte's Turner Smith, read for LibriVox.org, by Corey Samuel. The lucid arbiter twicks to day and night, the seaman greets, as on the ocean's stream reflected by precursive friendly beam, points out the long-sought haven to his sight. Looking for thee, the lover's ardent eyes turn to the eastern hills, and as above thy brilliance trembles hails the lights that rise to guide his footsteps to expecting love. I mark thee too, as night's dark clouds retire, and thy bright radiance glances on the sea, but never more shall thy heraldic fire speak of approaching mourn with joy to me. Quenched in a gloom of death that heavenly ray, once lent to light me on my thorny way. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 73. To a Kerala's acquaintance. By Charlotte Turner Smith, read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. Thou, whom prosperity has always led, or level paths, with moss and flower at strewn, for whom she still prepares a downy bed with roses scattered, and to thorns unknown, wilt thou yet murmur at a misplaced leaf? Think, ere thy irritable nerves repine, how many, born with feelings keen as thine, taste all the sad vicissitudes of grief. How many steep in tears their scanty bread, or lost to reason, sorrows, victims, rave. How many know not where to lay their head, while some are driven by anguish to the grave. Think, nor impatient at a feather's weight, to mar the uncommon blessings of thy fate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 74. The winter night. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by Corey Samuel. Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care, forsakes me, while the chill and sullen blast, as my sad soul recalls its sorrows past, seems like a summons bidding me prepare for the last sleep of death. Memoring, I hear the hollow wind around the ancient towers, while night and silence reign, and cold and drear the darkest gloom of middle winter lowers. But wherefore fear existence, such as mine, to change for long an undisturbed repose? Ah, when this suffering being I resign, and o'er my miseries the tomb shall close, by her, whose loss in anguish I deplore, I shall be laid, and feel that loss no more. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 75. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. Where the wild woods and pathless forests frown, the darkling pilgrim seeks his unknown way, till on the grass he throws him weary down, to wait in broken sleep the dawn of day. Drew Bows just waving in the silent air, with pale capricious light the summer moon, checkers his humid couch, while fancy there, that loves to wanton in the night's deep noon, calls from the mossy roots and fountain-edge, fair visionary nymphs that haunt the shade, rising from the whispering sedge, and mid the beauteous group his dear loved maid seems beckoning him with smiles to join the train, then, starting from his dream, he feels his woes again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 76. To a Young Man Entering the World. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by Corey Samuel. Go now, ingenious youth! The trying hour is come. The world demands that thou shouldst go, to active life. There, titles, wealth, and power, may all be purchased. But I joy to know thou wilt not pay their price. The base control of petty despots in their pedant reign already hast thou felt, and high disdain of tyrants is imprinted on thy soul. Not, where mistaken glory in the field rears her red banner, be thou ever found. But against proud oppression raise the shield of patriot daring. So shalt thou renown'd for the best virtues live, or that denied mayst die, as Hamden, or as Sydney died. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 77. To the Insect of the Gossamer. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. Small, viewless aeronaut, that by the line of Gossamer suspended in mid-air floats on a sunbeam. Living atom, where ends thy breeze-guided voyage. With what design in aether dost thou launch thy form minute, mocking the eye? Alas, before the veil of denser clouds shall hide thee, the pursuit of the keen swift may end thy fairy sail. Thus, on the golden thread that fancy weaves, buoyant, as hope's elusive flattery breathes, the young and visionary poet leaves life's dull realities, while sevenfold wreaths of rainbow light around his head revolve. Ah, soon at sorrow's touch the radiant dreams dissolve. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 78. Snowdrops. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by Corey Samuel. One heralds of the sun and summer gale, that seem just fallen from infant Zephyr's wing. Not now, as once, with heart revived, I hail your modest buds. That for the brow of spring form the first simple garland. Now no more is escaping for a moment all my cares. Shall I, with pensive, silent step explore, the woods yet leafless, where to chilling airs your green and penciled blossoms trembling wave? Ah, ye soft, transient children of the ground, more fair was she, on whose untimely grave flow my unceasing tears. There varied round the seasons go, while I through all repine, for fixed regret and hopeless grief are mine. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 79. To the Goddess of Botany. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. Of folly weary, shrinking from the view of violence and fraud, allowed to take all peace from humble life. I would forsake their haunts for ever, and sweet nymph with you find shelter. Where my tired and tear-swollen eyes, among your silent shades of soothing hue, your bells and florets of unnumbered dyes, might rest. And learn the bright varieties that from your lovely hands are fed with dew. And every veined leaf that trembling sighs in mead or woodland, or in wilds remote, or lurk with mosses in the humid caves mantle the cliffs, on dimpling rivers float, or stream from coral rocks beneath the ocean's waves. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 80. To the Invisible Moon. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by Corey Samuel. Dark and concealed art thou, soft evening's queen, and melancholy's votaries that delight to watch thee, gliding through the blue serene, now vainly seek thee on the brow of night. Mild sorrow, such as hope has not forsook, may love to muse beneath thy silent rain. But I prefer from some steep rock to look, on the obscure and fluctuating main, what's time the marshal's star with lurid glare, portentious gleams above the troubled deep, or the red comet shakes his blazing hair, or on the fire-tinged waves the lightning's leap, while thy fair beams elume another sky, and shine for beings lesser cursed than I. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 81. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. He may be Envid, who with tranquil breast can wander in the wild and woodland scene, when summer's glowing hands have newly dressed the shadowy forests, and the copses green, who, un-pursued by care, can pass his hours where bryony and woodbine fringe the trees, on timey banks reposing, while the bees murmur their fairy tunes in praise of flowers, or on the rock with ivy clad, and fern that overhangs the osier whispering bed of some clear current, bid his wishes turn from this bad world, and by calm reason led, nose in refined retirement, to possess, by friendship hallowed, rural happiness. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 82. To the Shade of Burns. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by Corrie Samuel. Mute is thy wild harp now, O barred sublime. Who, amid Scotia's mountain solitude, great nature taught to build the lofty rhyme. And even beneath the daily pressure, rude of laboring poverty, thy generous blood, fired with the love of freedom, not subdued, worked thou by thy low fortune, but a time like this we live in, when the abject chime of echoing parasite is best approved, was not for thee. Indignantly is fled thy noble spirit, and no longer moved by all the ills o'er which thine heart has bled. Associate, worthy of the illustrious dead, enjoys with them the liberty it loved. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 83. The Sea View. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. The upland shepherd, as reclined he lies on the soft turf that clothes the mountain brow, marks the bright sea-line mingling with the skies, or from his coarse celestial sinking slow the summer sun in purple radiance low, blaze on the western waters. The wide scene magnificent and tranquil seems to spread even o'er the rustic's breast a joy serene, when, like dark plague-spots by the demons shed, charged deep with death upon the waves far seen, move the war-frated ships, and fierce and red flash their destructive fires. The mangled dead and dying victims then pollute the flood. Ah, thus man spoils heaven's glorious works with blood. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 84. To the Muse. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by Corey Samuel. Wilt thou forsake me, who in life's bright may lent warmer luster to the radiant mourn, and even o'er summer scenes by tempest's torn, shed with elusive light the dewy ray of pensive pleasure? Wilt thou, while the day of saddening autumn closes, as I mourn in languid hopeless sorrow, far away bend thy soft step, and never more return? Crushed to the earth, by bitterest anguish pressed, from my faint eyes thy graceful form recedes, thou canst not heal a heart like mine that bleeds. But when in quiet earth that heart shall rest. Happily mayest thou one sorrowing vigil keep, where pity and remembrance bend and weep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dead Beggar. By Charlotte Turner Smith. Read for LibriVox.org, by David Barnes. The Dead Beggar. An Elegy. Addressed to a Lady, who was affected at seeing the funeral of a nameless pauper, buried at the expense of the parish, in the churchyard at Brighton Stone, in November 1792. Swelst, then, thy feeling heart, and streams thine eye, o'er the deserted being, poor and old, whom cold, reluctant parish charity consigns to mingle with his kindred mould. Mornst thou, that here the time-worn sufferer ends those evil days still threatening woes to come, here where the friendless feel no want of friends, where even the houseless wanderer finds a home. What though no kindred crowd in sable forth and sigh, or seem to sigh, around his beer, though o'er his coffin with the humid earth no children drop the unavailing tear. Rather rejoice that here his sorrows cease, whom sickness, age, and poverty oppressed, where death, the leveller, restores to peace the wretch living, knew not where to rest. Rejoice that though an outcast spurned by fate, through Penury's rugged path his race he ran, in earth's cold bosom, equalled with the great, death vindicates the insulted rites of man. Rejoice that though severe his earthly doom, and rude, and sown with thorns the way he trod, now, where unfeeling fortune cannot come, he rests upon the mercies of his God. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. So far and then foams to the shore. Dark clouds o'er the sea gather heavy and scowling, and the white cliffs re-echo the wild wintery roar. Beneath that chalk rock a fair stranger reclining has found on damp seaweed a cold, lonely seat. Her eyes filled with tears and her heart with repining, she starts at the billows that burst at her feet. There, day after day, with an anxious heart heaving, she watches the waves where they mingle with air, for the sail which, alas, all her fond hopes deceiving, may bring only tidings to add to her care. Loose stream to wild winds those fair-flowing tresses, once woven with garlands of gay summer flowers. Her dress unregarded bespeaks her distresses, and beauty is blighted by grief's heavy hours. Her innocent children, unconscious of sorrow, to seek the glossed shell or the crimson weed stray. Amused with the present, they heed not to-morrow, nor think of the storm that is gathering today. The guilt, fairy-ship, with its ribbon sails spreading, they launch on the salt pool the tide left behind. Ah, victims, for whom their sad mother is dreading the multiplied miseries that wait on mankind. To fair fortune-born she beholds them with anguish, now wanderers with her on a once hostile soil, perhaps doomed for life in chill penury to languish, or abject dependence, or soul crushing toil. But the sea-boat, her hopes and her terrors renewing, o'er the dim grey horizon now faintly appears. She flies to the key, dreading tidings of ruin, or breathless with haste, half expiring with fears. Poor Mauna! I would that my fortune had left me the means to alleviate the woes I deplore. But like thine my hard fate has of affluence bereft me. I can warm the cold heart of the wretched no more." Occasional Address by Charlotte Turner-Smith Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Occasional Address, written for the benefit of a distressed player, detained at Bright Elmstone for debt, November 1792, when, in a thousand swarms, the summer oar, the birds of passage quit our English shore. By various routes the feathered myriad moves. The beckafika seeks Italian groves no more a wheat ear, while the soaring files of seafowl gather round the hebrid aisles. But if by bird-lime touched, unplumed, confined, some poor ill-fated straggler stays behind, driven from his transient perch, beneath your eaves on his unsheltered head the tempest raves, while drooping round, redoubling every pain, his mate and nestlings ask his help in vain. So we, the boskin and the sock-who-wear, and strut and fret our little season here, dismissed at length as fortune bids divide. Some, lucky rogues, sit down on Thames's side, others to Liffey's western banks proceed, and some, driven far afield, across the tweed. But, pine and here, alas, I cannot fly, the hapless, unplumed, lingering straggler eye, unless the healing pity you bestow shall imp my shattered wings and let me go. Hard is his fate, whom evil stars have led to seek in scenic art precarious bread, while still, through wild vicissitudes afloat, a hero now, and now a song-culott, that elimicinery bread he gains, mingling, with real distresses, mimic pains. See, in our group, a pale, lank false staff there, much needs he's stuffing, while young Ammon there rehearses in a garret ten feet square, and as his soft statera size consent, Roxana comes not, but a done for rent. Here, shivering Edgar in his blanket rolled, exclaims, with too much reason, toms are cold, and vainly tries his sorrows to divert, while Goneril or Regan wash his shirt.  More blessed the Fisher, who undaunted braves in his small bark the impetuous winds and waves, for though he plough the sea, when others sleep, he draws, like Glendauer, sighs from the deep, and while the storm howls round amidst his trouble, bright moonshine still illuminates the cobble, pale with her fears for him, some fair Poissard watches his nearing boat, with fond regard smiles when she sees his little canvas-handing, and clasps her dripping lover on his landing. More blessed the peasant, who with nervous toil hues the rough oak, or breaks the stubborn soil, where he indeed he sees the evening come, but then the rude yet tranquil hut, his home, receives its rustic inmate, then are his secure repose and dear domestic bliss. The orchards blushing fruit, the garden's store, the pendant hop, that mantles round the door, are his, and while cheerful faggots burn, his lisping children hail their sire's return. But wandering players, unhousled, unannealed, and unappointed, scour life's common field, a flying squadron, disappointments cross them, and the campaign concludes, perhaps at Horsham. Oh, ye who's timely bounty-danes to shed, compassion's balm upon my luckless head, benevolence with warm and glowing breast, and soft celestial mercy doubly blessed, smile on the generous act, where means are given to aid the wretched, is to merit heaven. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Inscription, on a stone in the churchyard at Borum, in Essex, raised by the honourable Elizabeth Olmias, to the memory of Anne Gardner, who died at Newhall after a faithful service of forty years, by Charlotte Turner Smith, read for Librarox.org by Corey Samuel. What air of praise, and of regret, attend the grateful servant, and the humble friend, where strict integrity and worth unite, to raise the lowly in their maker's sight, are hers, whose faithful service, long approved, wept by the mistress whom through life she loved. Here ends her earthly task, in joyful trust, to share the eternal triumph of the just. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Descriptive Ode, by Charlotte Turner Smith, read for Librarox.org by David Barnes. A Descriptive Ode, supposed to have been written under the ruins of Rufus' castle, among the remains of the ancient church on the Isle of Portland. Chaotic pile of barren stone, that nature's hurrying hand has thrown, half finished, from the troubled waves, on whose rude brow the rifted tower has frowned through many a stormy hour, on this drear site of tempest-beaten graves. Sure desolation loves to shroud his giant form within the cloud, that hovers round thy rugged head, and as through broken vaults beneath the future storm's low muttering breathe, hears the complaining voices of the dead. Here marks the fiend with eager eyes, far out at sea the fogs arise, that dimly shade the beak and strand, and listens the portentous roar of sullen waves, as on the shore, monotonous, they burst, until the storm at hand. Northward the demons' eyes are cast, or yonder bear and sterile waste, where, born to hue and heave the block, man, lost in ignorance and toil, becomes associate to the soil, and his heart hardens like his native rock. On the bleak hills with flint or spread, no blossoms rear the purple head, no shrub perfumes the zephyr's breath, but o'er the cold and cheerless down grim desolation seems to frown, blasting the ungrateful soil with partial death. Hear the scathed trees with leaves half-dressed, shade no soft songster's secret nest, whose spring-note sooth the pensive ear, but high the croaking cormorant flies, and muse and hawks with clamorous cries tire the lone echoes of these caverns drear. Perchance among the ruins gray, some widowed mourner loves to stray, marking the melancholy main, where once afar she could discern, or the white waves his sail return, who never, never now returns again. On these lone tombs by storms up-torn, the hopeless wretch may lingering mourn, till from the ocean, rising red, the misty moon with lurid ray lights her, reluctant on her way, to steep in tears her solitary bed. Hence the dire spirit oft surveys the ship that to the western bays with flavouring gales pursues its course, then calls the vapor dark that blinds the pilot, calls the felon winds that heave the billows with resistless force, co-mixing with the blotted skies, high and more high the wild waves rise, till, as impetuous torrents urge, driven on yon fatal banker cursed, the vessel's massy timbers burst, and the crew sinks beneath the infuriate surge. There finds the weak and early grave, while youthful strength the whelming wave repels, and labouring for the land, with shortened breath and upturned eyes sees the rough shore above him rise, nor dreams that rapine meets him on the strand. And are there then in human form monsters more savage than the storm, who from the grasping sufferer tear the dripping weed, who dare to reap the inhuman harvest of the deep from half-drowned victims whom the tempest spare? Ah, yes, by avarice once possessed no pity moves the rustic breast. Callus he proves, as those who happily wait till I, a pilgrim weary warn, to my own native land return, with legal toils to drag me to my fate. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Versus, supposed to have been written in the New Forest in early spring, by Charlotte Turner Smith, read for Libra Rocks.org by Corey Samuel, as in the woods where leathery litchin weaves its wintry webth among the sallow leaves, which, through cold months and whirling eddies blown, decay beneath the branches once their own, from the brown shelter of their foliage sear, spring the young blooms that lead the floral year. When, waked by vernal suns, the pile-wart dares expand her spotted leaves, and shining stars, and veins in purpling all her tassels pale, bends the soft wind-flower in the tepid gale. Uncultured bells of Asia jasinths blow, and the breeze-senting violet lurks below. So views the wanderer with delighted eyes, reviving hopes from black despondence rise. When, blighted by adversity's chill breath, those hopes had felt a temporary death. Then, with gay heart, he looks to future hours, when love shall dress for him the summer bowers. And, as delicious dreams enchant his mind, forgets his sorrows past, or gives them to the wind. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Song From the French by Charlotte Turner-Smith Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Ah, say, the fair Louisa cried, say where the abode of love is found. Pervading nature, I replied, his influence spreads the world around. When morning's arrowy beams arise, he sparkles in the enlivening ray, and blushes in the glowing skies when rosy evening fades away. The summer winds that gently blow, the flocks that bleed along the glades, the nightingale that soft and low with music fills the listening shades. The murmurs of the silver surf all echo love's enchanting notes, from violets lurking in the turf, his barmy breath through ether floats. From perfumed flowers and dewy leaves, delicious scents he bids exhal, he smiles amid autumnal sheaves, and clothes with green the grassy veil. But when that throne the God assumes, where his most powerful influence lies, tis on Louisa's cheek he blooms, and lightens from her radiant eyes. Apostrophe to an Old Tree by Charlotte Turner-Smith Read for LibriVox.org by Corey Samuel Where thy broad branches brave the bitter north, like rugged, indigent, unheeded worth, low, vegetation's guardian hands emboss each giant limb with fronds of studded moss, that clothes the bark in many a fringed fold, bejemmed with scarlet shields and cups of gold, which to the wildest winds their webs oppose, and mock the arrowy sleet, or weltering snows. But to the warmer west, the wood-bine fair, with tassels that perfumed the summer air, the mantling clematis, whose feathery bowers waved in festoons with nightshades purple flowers, the silver weed, whose corded fillets wove round thy pale rind, even as deceitful love of mercenary beauty would engage the dotard fondness of decrepit age. All these, that during summer's halcyon days, with their green canopies concealed thy sprays, are gone for ever, or disfigured trail their sallow relics in the autumnal gale, or o'er thy roots in faded fragments tossed, but tell of happier hours and sweetness lost. Thus, in fate's trying hour, when furious storms strip social life of pleasure's fragile forms, and awful justice, as his rightful prey tears luxury's silk and jewelled robe away, while Reed's adversity her lessons stern, and fortune's minions tremble as they learn. The crowds around her gilded car that hung bent the lithe knee and trawled the honeyed tongue, desponding for, or fly in paled spare, and scorn alone remembers that they were. Not so integrity unchanged he lives in the rude armour conscious honour gives, and dares with hardy front the troubled sky in honesty's uninjured panoply. Nair on prosperity's enfeebling bed, or rosy pillows he reposed his head, but given to useful arts his ardent mind has sought the general welfare of mankind, to mitigate their ills his greatest bliss, while studying them has taught him what he is. He, while the human tempest rages worst, and the earth shudders as the thunders burst, firm as thy northern branch is rooted fast, and if he can't avert, endures the blast. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. And lived so beloved till the moment accursed when he went from the woodland away. Among all the lads of the plough or the fold, best esteemed by the sober and good, was will of the woodlands, and often the old would tell of his frolics for active and bold, was William, the boy of the wood.  And when his poor father the forester died, and his mother was sad and alone, he toiled from the dawn, and at evening he hide in storm or in snow, or what air might be tied, to supply all her wants from the town. One neighbour they had on the heath to the west, and no other the cottage was near, but she would send Phoebe, the child she loved best, to stay with the widow, thus sad and distressed, her hours of dejection to cheer. As the buds of wild roses, the cheeks of the maid, were just tinted with youth's lovely hue, her form like the aspen wild graces displayed, and the eyes over which her loxuriant locks strayed, as the skies of the summer were blue. Still labouring to live, yet reflecting the while, young William considered his lot, to his hard, yet to his honest, and one tender smile from Phoebe at night overpaid every toil, and then all his fatigues were forgot. By the brook where it glides through the copse of Arbil, when to eat his cold fare he reclined, then soft from her home his sweet Phoebe would steal, and bring him wood straw-briss to finish his meal, and would sit by his side while he dined. And though when employed in the deep forest-glade his days have seemed slowly to move, yet Phoebe going home through the woodwalk has strayed to bid him good-night, and whatever she said was more sweet than the voice of the dove. Fair hope that the lover so fondly believes, then repeated each soul-soothing speech, and touched with illusion that often deceives the future with light, as the sun through the leaves illumines the boughs of the beach. But once more the tempests of chill winter blow, to depress and disfigure the earth, and now ere the dawn the young woodman must go to his work in the forest half-buried in snow, and at night bring home wood for the hearth. The bridge on the heath by the flood was washed down, and fast fell the sleet and the rain. The stream to a wild rapid river was grown, and long might the widow sit sighing alone, ere sweet Phoebe could see her again. At the town was a market, and now for supplies, such as needed her humble abode, young William went forth, and his mother with sighs watched long at the window, with tears in her eyes till he turned through the fields to the road. Then darkness came on, and she heard with a fright the wind every moment more high. She looked from the door, not a star lent its light, but the tempest redoubled the gloom of the night, and the rain poured in sheets from the sky. The clock in her cottage now mournfully told the hours that went heavily on. To his midnight her spirits sank hopeless and cold, and it seemed as each blast of wind fearfully told that long, long would her William be gone. Then heart-sick and cold to her sad bed she crept, yet first made up the fire in the room to guide his dark steps, but she listened and wept, or if for a moment forgetful she slept, soon she started, and thought he was come. It was mourn, and the wind with a hoarse sullen moan now seemed dying away in the wood, when the poor wretched mother still drooping alone beheld at the threshold a figure unknown in gorgeous apparel who stood.  Nay, be not cast down. You perhaps may soon see your William a captain. He now sends by me the purse he already has gained. So William, entrapped to its persuasion and force, is embarked for the aisles of the west, but he seemed to begin with ill omens his course, and felt recollection, regret and remorse continually weigh on his breast. With useless repentance he eagerly eyed the high coast as it faded from view, and saw the green hills on whose northernmost side was his own silver home, and he faltered and cried, A dew, ah, for ever a dew! Who now, my poor mother, thy life shall sustain, since thy son has thus left thee forlorn? Ah, canst thou forgive me, and not in the pain of this cruel desertion of William complain, and lament that he ever was born? Sweet Phoebe, if ever thy lover was dear, now forsake not the cottage of woe, but comfort my mother, and quiet her fear, and help her to dry up the vain, fruitless tear that too long for my absence will flow. Yet what if my Phoebe another should wed, and lament her lost William no more? The thought was too cruel, and anguish now spared the dart of disease, with the brave, numerous dead he has fallen on the plague-tainted shore. In the lone village-church-yard, the chancell wall near, high grass now waves over the spot, where the mother of William, unable to bear his loss, who to her widowed heart was so dear, as both him and her sorrows forgot. By the brook where it winds through the wood of Arbil, or amid the deep forest to moan, the poor wandering Phoebe will silently steal, the pain of her bosom no reason can heal, and she loves to indulge it alone. Her senses are injured, her eyes dim with tears, she sits by the river and weaves, read garlands against her dear William appears, then breathlessly listens, and fancies she hears his step in the half-withered leaves. Ah, such are the miseries to which ye give birth, ye statesmen, near dreading a scar, who from pictured saloon, or the bright sculptured hearth, disperse desolation and death through the earth, when ye let loose the demons of war. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ode to the Poppy. Written by a deceased friend. By Charlotte's Tanner Smith. Red for LibriVox.org by Corrie Samuel. Not for the promise of the laboured field, not for the good the yellow harvests yield, I bend at Serezi's shrine, for dull to human eyes appear the golden glories of the year. Alas! a melancholy worships mine. I hail the goddess for her scarlet flower, thou brilliant weed, that's dust so far exceed the richest gifts gay flora can bestow. Heedless I past thee, in life's morning hour, thou comforter of woe, till sorrow taught me to confess thy power. In early days, when fancy cheats, a varied wreath I wove, of laughing springs luxuriant sweets, to deck ungrateful love, the rose or thorn my labours crowned, as Venus smiled, or Venus frowned. But love and joy and all their train are flown, in languid hope no more is mine, and I will sing of thee alone, unless, per chance, the attributes of grief, the cypress-bud and willow leaf, their pale funereal foliage blend with thine. Hail lovely blossom, thou canst ease the wretched victims of disease, canst close those weary eyes in gentle sleep, which never open but to weep. For, oh, thy potent charm can agonising pain disarm, expel imperious memory from her seat, and bid the throbbing heart forget to beat. Soul-soothing plant, the can such blessings give, by thee the mourner bears to live, by thee the hopeless die. Oh! ever friendly to despair, might sorrow's pallid votary dare, without a crime, that remedy implore, which bids the spirit from its bondage fly, I'd caught thy palliative aid no more. No more I'd sue that thou shouldst spread thy spell around my aching head, but would conjure thee to impart thy balsam for a broken heart, and by thy soft lethian power, in esteemable flower, burst these terrestrial bonds, and other regions try. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Verses written by the same lady on seeing her two sons at play by Charlotte Turner Smith, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. Sweet age of blessed delusion. Blooming boys are revel long in childhood's thoughtless joys, with light and pliant spirits, that can stoop to follow sportively the rolling hoop, to watch the sleeping top with gay delight, or mark with raptured gaze the sailing kite, or eagerly pursuing pleasure's call can find it centred in the bounding ball. Alas! the day will come when sports like these must lose their magic and their power to please. Too swiftly fled the rosy hours of youth shall yield their fairy charms to mournful truth. Even now a mother's fond prophetic fear sees the dark train of human ills appear, views various fortune for each lovely child, storms for the bold, and anguish for the mild. Beholds already those expressive eyes beam a sad certainty of future size, and dreads each suffering those dear breasts may know in their long passage through a world of woe. Perchance predestined every pang to prove that treacherous friends inflict, or faithless love, for are how few have found existence sweet, where grief is sure, but happiness deceit. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Verses On the Death of the Same Lady Written in September 1794 By Charlotte Turner Smith Read for LibraVox.org by Corey Samuel Like a poor ghost the night I seek Its hollow winds repeat my sighs The cold dew's mingle on my cheek With tears that wander from mine eyes The thorns that still my couch molest Have robbed these heavy eyes of sleep But though deprived of tranquil rest I here at last am free to weep. Twelve times the moon that rises red o'er yon tall wood of shadowy pine Has filled her orb since low was laid My Harriet, that sweet form of thine While each sad month, as slow it passed, Brought some new sorrow to deplore, Some grief more poignant than the last, But thou canst calm those griefs no more. No more thy friendship soothes to rest This weird spirit tempest tossed, The cares that weigh upon my breast A doubly felt since thou art lost. Bright visions of ideal grace, That the young poet's streams in flame Were not more lovely than thy face, Were not more perfect than thy frame. Wit that no sufferings could impair Was thine, and thine those mental powers Of force to chase the fiends that tear From fancy's hands her budding flowers. Oh, what, my angel friend, thou word, Dejected memory loves to mourn, Regretting still that tender heart, Now withering in a distant urn. But ere that wood of shadowy pine Twelve times shall yon full orb behold This sickening heart that bleeds for thine, My Harriet, may, like thine, be cold. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Fragment descriptive of the miseries of war From a poem called The Emigrants, printed in 1793 By Charlotte Turner Smith, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes To a wild mountain whose bare summit Hides its broken eminence in clouds, Whose steeps are dark with woods, Where the receding rocks are worn With torrents of dissolving snow. A wretched woman, pale and breathless, flies, And gazing round her, listens to the sound Of hostile footsteps. No, they die away, nor noise remains But of the cataract, or surly breeze of night, That mutters low among the thickets, Where she trembling seeks a temporary shelter. Class being close to her quick throbbing heart, her sleeping child, All she could rescue of the innocent group That yesterday surrounded her, Escaped almost by miracle. Fear, frantic fear, winged her weak feet. Yet half repenting now her headlong haste, She wishes she had stayed to die, With those affrighted fancy paints the lawless soldier's victims. Hark! Again the driving tempest bears the cry of death, And with deep, sudden thunder The dread sound of cannon vibrates on the tremulous earth, While bursting in the air The murderous bomb glares o'er her mansion, Where the splinters fall like scattered comets, Its destructive path is marked by wreaths of flame. Then, overwhelmed beneath accumulated horror, Sinks the desolate mourner, The feudal chief whose gothic battlements frown on the plain beneath, Returning home from distant lands, alone and in disguise, Gains at the fall of night his castle walls, But at the silent gate no porter sits To wait his lord's admittance. In the courts all is drear stillness. Guessing but too well the fatal truth, He shudders as he goes through the mute hall, Where by the blunted light That the dim moon through painted casement lends, He sees that devastation has been there. Then, while each hideous image To his mind rises terrific, Or a bleeding corpse stumbling he falls, Another intercepts his staggering feet, All, all who used with joy to meet him, All his family lie murdered in his way. And the day dawns on a wild, raving maniac, Whom a fate so sudden and calamitous has robbed of reason, And who round his vacant walls screams unregarded, And reproaches heaven. In the transparent floods the oak its seer and sallow foliage shedding, From their most cradles start its infant buds, Pale as the tranquil tide of summer's ocean, The willow now its slender leaf unveils, And through the sky with swiftly fleeting motion, Driven by the wind the rack of April sails. Then, as the gust declines, the stealing showers fall fresh and noiseless, While at closing day the low sun gleams on moist and half-blown flowers, That promise garlands for approaching May. Blessed are yon peasant children, simply singing, Who through the new sprung grass rejoicing rove, More blessed to whom the time fond thought is bringing, Of friends expected or returning love. The pensive wonderer blessed, to whom reflection Points out some future views that soothe his mind, Me how unlike, whom cruel recollection, But tells of comfort I shall never find. Hope, that on nature's youth is still attending, No more to me her siren song shall sing, Never to me her influence extending, Shall I again enjoy the days of spring. Yet how I loved them once, these scenes remind me, When light of heart, in childhood's thoughtless mirth, I wrecked not that the cruel lot assigned me, Should make me curse the hour that gave me birth. Then, from the wild wood-banks, Aruna roving, Thy timey downs with sportive steps I sought, And nature's charms with artless transport loving, Sung like the birds unheeded and untaught. But now the springtide's pleasant hours returning, Serve to awaken me to sharper pain, Recalling scenes of agony and mourning, Of baffled hope and prayers preferred in vain. Thus shone the sun, his vernal rays displaying, Thus did the woods in early Virgil wave, While dire disease on all I loved was preying, And flowers seemed rising but to strew her grave. Now, mid-reviving blooms, I coldly languish, Spring seems devoid of joy to me alone, Each sound of pleasure aggravates my anguish, And speaks of beauty, youth, and sweetness gone. Yet, as stern duty bids, with faint endeavour, I drag on life, contending with my woe, Though conscious misery still repeats, That never my soul, one pleasurable hour, shall know. Lost in the tomb, when hope no more appeases, The festered wounds that prompt the eternal sigh, Grief, the most fatal of the heart's diseases, Soon teaches whom it fastens on to die. The wretch undone, for pain alone existing, The abject dread of death shall sure subdue, And far from his decisive hand resisting, Rejoice to bid a world like this adieu. From thee are wherefore fears to die, He who compelled each poignant grief to know, Drain's to its lowest dregs the cup of woe. Would cowardice postpone thy calm embrace, To linger out long years in torturing pain, Or not prefer thee to the ills that chase him, Who too much impoverished to obtain From British themis right implores her aid in vain. Sharp goading indigence, who would not fly, That urges toil the exhausted strength above, Or shone the once fond friend's averted eye, Or who to thy asylum not remove, To lose the wasting anguish of ungrateful love. Can then the wounded wretch Who must deplore what most she loved To thy cold arms consigned, Who hears the voice that soothed her soul no more, Fear thee, O death, Or hug the chains that bind To joyless, cheerless life, Her sick, reluctant mind. O misery's cure, Who ere in pale dismay has watched the angel-form They could not save, And seen their dearest blessing torn away, May well the terrors of thy triumph brave, Nor pause in fearful dread before the


Our strategic plan that we have titled Forging Our Future is a plan for the university's outlook as we build a map of where we want to go for the future. One focus is growth and then also building our regional development and then we want to look at ways in which we can enhance our capital. You know how do we attract people here to want to work, to want to live in this area of Northeastern North Carolina and I'm very proud of our students and they never forget their past but it becomes part of their story, part of their journey and it becomes part of their narrative that they are even more anxious and excited to share and talk about. We always say we want our students to come here to discover their passions but leave to conquer their dreams and here I think they will definitely get that opportunity to do exactly that.


You've all seen a dictionary and you would like to know what is a dictionary? Well a dictionary as we all know is a book, a book that lists the words of the language. It lists them and records the words of a language. It is not only a record. It is also, it also spells, tells you the how to pronounce words, it defines words, it explains words and it also tells you the uses of words. Now there are many dictionaries. You will find a dictionary of science scientific terms. You will find a dictionary which is, which will tell you about music. You will find a dictionary about art. You as students of English, your concern is with a language dictionary. There are many dictionaries. There is the Oxford Advanced Learners Dictionary and there is the Webster's Dictionary, two very famous dictionaries. And in this lesson we will be telling you about how to use these dictionaries. There are many things that a dictionary will tell you. I shall just count nine of those things that a dictionary will tell you. Number one, if you want to consult the spellings you should, the dictionary will tell you. The next thing is the pronunciation, how words are pronounced. The third is the grammar part. If you want to know what part of speech a word belongs to, the dictionary is the book that you must consult. Then a dictionary will tell you the origin of a word, the history of the word. Then it will tell you the meanings, the explanations, the definitions and it will also tell you how the word is used by the speakers of that language. You will also find synonyms, words with similar meanings, words with which have opposite meanings. All these you will find in the dictionary. You will also find foreign words and expressions. And if you want some general information it will also be in your dictionary. The first thing that I will tell you about in detail are spellings. Now many students of English find English spelling very confusing. So what do we do about it? The simplest thing is consult your dictionary. But it will only help you if you know how to consult your dictionary. You will find that most dictionaries carry either at the beginning of the dictionary or at the end a page where the rules of spelling are given. All you have to do is at least once in a lifetime. You can open that page and look at the rules. There are not very many rules, not more than six or seven rules. And if you go through those rules you will find that you may not require consulting the dictionary again and again if you go through the rules. Now you will find that there are different spellings. Americans spell certain words in a different way. British spelling is different. Well let me tell you both spellings are correct. You as a student should stick to one spelling. If you prefer the American spelling then be consistent. Whenever you use that word use that spelling. If you prefer the British spelling then you use the British spelling. All you have to do is be consistent.  On the screen you will find these words given. And just see how they are spelled. Your dictionary will clarify for you. It will have the word AAM for American, BR for British. It will tell you which is the British spelling and which is the American spelling. Now that is the first use of your dictionary. Second use of a dictionary is that it will tell you, help you in pronouncing the words of English. English pronunciations are very confusing. But if you know how to use the dictionary you will find that it will no longer be a problem for you. Now that is only if you know how to use the dictionary. All dictionaries, language dictionaries carry a table of pronunciation either at the beginning or at the end. You must go through this. I shall not talk about it in detail today. But in our next lesson we will be talking about pronunciation. So you just wait for the next lesson. The third use of the dictionary is that it clarifies for learners what part of speech the word you are looking up belongs to. Whether the word is commonly used as a noun or a pronoun or a verb, the dictionary will even tell you if it is a transitive verb or an intransitive verb. Whether it is an adjective, an adverb, conjunction or preposition. Now the third thing that a dictionary will tell you is the part of speech. The word that you are looking up, what part of speech it belongs to. All dictionaries indicate what part of speech a word belongs to. Whether the word is a noun or a verb, it will even tell you whether it is a transitive verb or an intransitive verb. Whether it is an adjective or an adverb, conjunction, article or preposition.  Your dictionary, when you consult a dictionary you must look at there is a page where it mentions all the abbreviations that are used in that dictionary. So if you go through that page where the abbreviations are listed you will have no problem looking at looking up the part of speech. You will find they are always in italics. Now the fourth thing that you will find your dictionary tells you is the origin of words. Now this is a very interesting area. Fascinating those of you who want to know how words have developed. Now there is a very large body of words in English that have come from other languages. Well not all dictionaries list the origin of words. The technical word for this is etymology. Modern dictionaries, language dictionaries usually do not. But if you have got an old dictionary in the house you will notice that it will give you the origin of the word. Whether it is from French or German, Latin, Hebrew, Greek, it is all given over there. It is only for those who are interested in finding out the origin and development of words.


Firey horse for the speed of light, a cloud of dust, and a party hyal silver, The Lone Ranger! Before this exciting adventure, a word from our sponsor, General Mills, makers of Cheerios, the old Cheerio that's ready to eat, Benny Crocker mixes, and Wheaties, the breakfast of champions, present by special recording, The Lone Ranger! Say, kids, did you know that Betty Crocker made up her new peanut-delight cake mix just for you? That's right, Betty Crocker knows how you go for the flavor at peanuts, the real fresh roasted peanuts you get at the circus. So she put that same exciting real peanut flavor in her new Betty Crocker peanut-delight cake mix. It's the first cake mix ever made with butter from fresh roasted peanuts, and is it ever wonderful? A big, golden, more fun than a circus kind of cake, with a delicate flavor of fresh roasted peanuts in every bite. Everybody's happy that Betty Crocker's new peanut-delight cake mix came to town, especially mom, because it's so easy to bake. All the good things are right in the mix. You just add water and two fresh eggs for a perfect cake every time you bake, cake after cake after cake. It's guaranteed perfect by Betty Crocker of General Mills Minneapolis.  With his faithful Indian companion title, the Dalyan resourceful masquerader of the plains led the fight for law and order. In the early western United States, nowhere in the pages of history can one find a greater champion of justice. Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. From out of the past, come a thundering hoof-beats of the great horse, Silver. The long-awaited ride again, come on, Silver, come on, Silver, come on, Silver, come on. Cale Haywood, who operated a one-man bank in Sage City, Montana, had the reputation of being honest, which he was. Nevertheless, the banker kept two kinds of books. In a big ledger which we posed on his desk, he entered accurate records of some depotative and withdrawn. Another bulky account book, which always lay on his exchange counter, appeared to be equally innocent, but it held Haywood's protection against holdup men. The centers of its leaves had been cut out, making it a box in which he kept the Coles 44. It was there when Toto entered the bank. He would died the Indians suspiciously. He said, can you straight into the wrong place? This is a bank, savvy. Me, savvy. Got something to tell you. Your hand? It can wait. I see Mr. and Mrs. Nation coming in for me to wait outside. Well, howdy, Jed. Howdy, my friend. Let the engine out, will you? Sure. I haven't seen much of you young folks recently. I haven't been working hard on our hands. Time earned money enough to pay all the mortgage. Well, I think we've made it. Well, good for you. With interest to now, how much are we owe? Well, $5,600. Martha, that's just what we've saved. We have it all in gold. Well, I like to be in gold. Or could we have some coin wrappers and a bag to put the money in before we bring it in here? Of course. I have some right here into the county that I give to customers. Here you are. Thank you, Mr. Haywood. Don't mention it. We'll have the money here on time, too. Say, engine, come back in. I'll be coming. Well, we're alone now. What do you want to say? Well, me want to warn you. Two outlaws try and hold up here. How do you know? Me and friend come from town in Wyoming. We meet Indian boy. Him working, livery stable. Him tell about outlaw. Yes, go on. Outlaws keep horses and stable. Boy, sweet and hay. Then not know him there. Him wake up. Hear him talk about robbing you. I see. All right, engine. Thanks for telling me. Me look for sheriff, not find him. So come here. Well, the town folks see much of the sheriff these days. It's the election time. He's doing a lot of campaigning out in the county. Well, thanks for coming here. You're welcome. You're welcome. Me go now. When Tahoe rejoined the lone ranger who had been waking outside the town and reported his conversation with Cale Haywood, then added, may not think banker, believe me, him ready to shoot while me talk. You mean that he carried a hosted gun and kept the hand on it? No. Him not carry gun. Him keep it inside big book on counter. Inside a book? No. Him lift up cover book from the way. Put fingers under it. Hand open. From back. Same as fellow fixed to draw gun from holster. Did you actually see a gun in the book? Him try not let me see it, but way him act. Make me watch close. Me see 45 muzzle. He must have cut this hand out of the pages to make a place for it. He's fortunate against bandits. Like there's your warning. We'll put him further on his garden. What we do now? We ride hard on way here. Maybe then close now. Bad lands are also close. Outlaws wouldn't want a better place to hide. Wedding a favorable chance to rob the sage city bank. Plenty hard. Harder or not, the job must be done. Only one stream of water flows out of the bad lands in this area. That's all. Outlaws need water for themselves and their horses. We'll start by searching along the river. Here's the river. Here's the river. On the following day, the lone ranger reached the headwaters of the bear river which had its source in a series of springs. There they halted. Put down. How though we haven't found a single hoop in along the river? Maybe outlaws give a slip again. Fires are required. How though? There are other horses. Let's take it over there. Get down. The lone ranger and tato moved in for a close inspection of the animal. How though we found two of the horses, this table boy. This one has a scarred fat lock he told about. The other has a color formation he described. We see tracks, two other horses here. Two fellers ride them away. How long ago? Tracks look three, four hours old. The outlaws may be in Sage City right now. What we do? You ride into town. I'll wait here. Meanwhile, an election has been in progress in Sage City. Taking advantage of excitement, Busty Jackson and Flim Trent, the Texas Outlaws, have ridden into town without attracting attention. Who reigned in an alley beside the bank, dismounted leisurely and stretched? I see the bank at the side window. He's moving there. He's going to his death. Here we go.    Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go. He's still at his death. I'll go in first. Reach fella, reach. Yes, yes. You heard the other fella move. Yes, yes, yes. Give me time. We'll give you one minute. No, you don't. If he did, you're right. Why'd you do it? I don't see any. What's in the safe? Open second, wrap gold money. Let's get out of here. Great is worth the election day hubbub in Sage City. The shop in the bank had been heard by several businessmen. Doc Lewis, the coffee coroner, looked out of the window of his office on the second floor of a nearby building, saw the masked man and snatched up a sharp rifle, which he had kept handy for just such an occasion. The fleeing outlaws rounded the corner into the alley. The doctor fired. The shop staggered slim. Give me the sack. I'll cover you. Firing into the window from which the doctor had shot. Rusty followed Slim into the alley. There they found momentary security. Rusty helped his partner into the saddle, shoved a sack of money into one of his own saddle bags and mounted. At the same moment, the bell on the town hall began to ring. Slim, head your horse away from the street to lead him, Rusty. The outlaws fled down the alley. Sheriff Marlon, who had previously been engaged in safeguarding his own interest at the voting place, led a sortie of citizens to the alley's mouth. Head your horse away. The lead won't stop from that far away. Bill, round up a party while I see what happened in the bank.  Several hours after the bank robbery, Judge Mason sat at a table in his ranch house on Bear River. Listen, Doc, right outside the door. Quick. I had the money bag under the car. Well, I'll get my gun and see who it is. All right. I'll have it out of sight in no time. There. It can't be seen. Oh, yes. What do you want? Let me bring in a wounded man. He was a tough agent. Adjust the moment. I'll put your gun away, mister. See if I caught him in the saddle. Oh, yes. Judge put it away and helped him inside with the poor son. Sure, sure. Here, I'll give you a hand. No, I can't kill him. Just tell me where to put him. Over there on the couch, but let him down gently. All right, all right. Let's go. Hey, I'd better lock the door again. What do you think about him, ma'am? What? I'm afraid he's dying. But I'll do all I can, boy. Where did the Indians attack you, stranger? Down by the Bear River Bridge. There were five or six of them and they looked like renegades, too. My horses took it or I'd ride on the force late and tell the soldiers. Turn both your horses into my corral and take my own mare. Tell the colonel to send the post surgeon here to the Judd Mason range. Oh, thanks, Mr. Mason. You'll never regret what you're doing. So long, pardon me. We'll continue our lone ranger adventure in just a moment. When boys line up to run a race, Galloping Gordon sets the pace. He comes in first because he knows. He's got gold power from Cheerios. Yes, he's got gold power. There he goes. You, once you're eating Cheerios, every breakfast. You'll say the Cheerios taste simply wonderful, too.  Pour out a big bowl full. Add fresh milk and pitch in. You can almost feel the gold power. For a Cheerios breakfast is one of the finest ways you can get the vitamins, proteins and minerals your body needs. A bowl of Cheerios and milk really starts your day right. Helps give you the good red blood, strong bones and muscles. Gold power, you'll get it from Cheerios. Try it and folks will say... He's feeling his Cheerios. Now to continue. The murderous bank robber Rusty Jackson had left his wounded partner at Judd Mason's ranch house. Then he continued his flight with a bag of money using a horse furnished by the unsuspecting rancher. A half hour later, a furious storm broke over the Bear River Valley, hastening the fall of night. As thunder shook the house and wind-driven rain lashed the windows, the wounded outlaw drew a last labored breath.  Exciting. I forgot to ask the other fellow who they were and where they came from. More horses than maybe the Thorne. No, no, they couldn't get here so soon. Maybe the engines are coming. Stand back and lower doors. They're white and they have landings. Now they're done. One man is going towards the Grand. The others are coming this way. A few moments later, a fist trotted on the door. Who's out there? Come in, then. With a sheriff on the lead, a dozen men hurried in out of the storm, stamping muddy boots on the threshold and shaking water from Sutton. And I don't suppose you heard of the bank robbery. Bank robbery? Where? This afternoon, two banders killed Hayward and carried off a sack of gold pieces. Doc Lewis here plugged one of the farmers before they got away. Judd and Truton, my dear. We were close on to them when the storm broke and washed out their trail. At that time, they were headed straight for this place. I figured maybe you'd seen them. Maybe. Maybe. Judd, who's that on the couch? That dead man, Doc. He was dying when another fellow brought him here. He said they'd been bushwanked by Redskins. I'm uncurring him. Well, I'll be couched. You know him, Doc? I'll swear he survived when I plugged it to bank, even if he did have a mask on then. Then? Search this house. A few minutes later, the possemen who had been searching the house reported that they had found no one hiding in it. I didn't think you would, fellas. There wasn't any other outlaw except Judd Mason himself. Why, you... You're clear, Sheriff? I was going through the dead folk hats' clothes and happened to look under the couch. This is what I found. A money sack with Cale Hayward's name on it. I'm arresting you for bank robbery and murder. No, no! I'll have to take you to the crew, Mrs. Nation.  And I may charge you with being an accessory. I'll hold an inquest tonight right in Cale Hayward's bank. Rusty Jackson, riding furiously through the storm, had reached the source of the Bear River. He possessed the cunning of a wild animal which always circled its den before entering. He dismounted some distance from the camp and scalded through the thicket. With the noise of the storm dealing in his ears, the lone ranger who was crouched under the overhanging rock failed to hear the outlaw's approach.  Only a few feet separated the two when a lurid flash of lightning revealed each to the other. A fraction of a second later told them darkness and gulfed them again. The lone ranger sprang out and the outlaw collided with him. Then they were locked in a struggle in fear so the wall of elements would rage around them. I have you now. Yes, again? No, I take this! I took it! Another bolt of lightning landed to the nearby hills, giving the lone ranger just time enough to place the position of his adversary's head. Jerking his white arm free, the mask man put all the 40-git summons into a piston-like punch to the jaw. The outlaw went limp with a groan. After disarming the stunned man and making sure that he was incapable of moving temporarily, the lone ranger with a ladder in him he had found among the camp supplies. Its light enabled him to search and study the crook, as well as the saddlebag he had dropped at the start of the fight. The storm was beginning to subside when the outlaw stirred and sat up. They're just where you are, Rusty Jackson. You know me. I read your description off and up in Texas. I think my friend Tonneau is coming. Tonneau? The name means something to you. Yes, buddy. The name of an ancient alright that the mayor spent all the lone ranger. Oh, now I know who you are. Hold on. Hold on. Hold on. You need help, Kimusabi? No, Tauto. Tell me what happened in Sage City.  One gets shot. Other one leave him at Judd Mason Ranch.  Now Sheriff Nick Mason is other outlaw. Him rest Mason and his wife. We have the other outlaw here. No chance, perfect. Corner holds meeting in bank tonight. Then we'll go there. Take this saddlebag and guard the prison before I call Silver and round up the other horses. Later that night, the coroner's inquest was in session at the scene of the crime. You gents on the jury have seen all the evidence and heard all the testimony. What's your verdict? Hey, look. I'm Ashman. Any hall of you. Deeper hands than they are. What do you want here? Justice. Tauto, bring in the other outlaw. Uh, him coming. Sheriff. Doc. There's a fellow who's at our house. He's a dead cook's partner. He's true. He's true. I never saw that man and woman before. I've never been in State City knowing this bank. I'm just a prospect of this man's man and engine caught and robbed of his money. Here in man's saddlebag is money, Sheriff. It's the loot from the bank robbery. The prisoner had it in his possession when captured. He's Rusty Jackson, a notorious Texas bad man. I believe that he's parking the whole up with slim trench. Never heard of him. Anyhow, the money in this saddlebag is loose. There's not a thing to show that it came from this bank. We've got the real loot here all wrapped up in Haywood's paper and in his bag. Jackson had plenty of time to dispose of coin wrappers in a sack. Bosh. Sheriff, do you refuse to take Rusty Jackson into custody? I don't aim to arrest him on your say so. That's final. City Sheriff, don't force us to use violence. But Jackson is going to hang here or in Texas. That instant Rusty Jackson sprang toward the ledger, flung back the cover and snaked out Kale Haywood's secret six gun. The Sheriff saw him and yelled a warning. Watch out, Masked Man! But the lone ranger had been prepared for just such an eventuality. As the outlaw whirled and cocked the weapon, the Masked Man swung his right hand gun across his extended left arm and fired. The silver slug smashed into the killer's shoulder, spinning him back against the counter as Haywood's gun dropped to the floor. Mr. Corner, there's your case. Thanks. I see it. That vermin knew that there was a gun inside the ledger. That's something that Kale Haywood kept seeking. So he's the other outlaw. Mr. I apologize. I suggest that you offer your apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Mason. Folks, I'm mighty sorry about all this. I made a mighty bad mistake. But it was an honest mistake. We understand, Sheriff. You're free to go home. Of course, you'll get your money back. Isn't that wonderful? Sheriff, I can put you in touch with a stable boy who heard Jackson and his partner plan the robbery. He can identify them and their horses. With his testimony and that of Mr. and Mrs. Mason, we should be able to convict the coyote. There should be some record here in the bank showing the amount of cash which Haywood had on hand the morning of the robbery. It may tell him with the amount in the saddle bag. I doubt that Jackson disposed of any. That's all. We'll make a strong case against him. Sheriff, the vote's been counted. You're free to go home. Congratulations, Sheriff. Adios, friend. Adios! Rusty Jackson, I wonder how the Mass Man managed to catch you. Yeah, you can stop wondering. He's a Lone Ranger. I'm still got it! Out! I'm still got it! The feature of the Lone Ranger Incorporated is produced by Kendall Campbell Muir Incorporated. A part of the Lone Ranger is played by Brace Beamer. Your announcer, Fred Boy. Listen to the Lone Ranger brought to you by Special Recording Mondays through Fridays at this same time.