We sat together at one summer's end, that beautiful, mild woman, your close friend, and you and I, and talked of poetry. I said, a line will take us hours, maybe, yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been not. Here go down upon your marrow bones and scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones like an old popper in all kinds of weather. For to articulate sweet sounds together is to work harder than all these, and yet be thought an idler by the noisy set of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen, the mortars called the world. That woman then murmured with her young voice, for whose mild sake there's many a one shall find out all heartache in finding that it is young and mild and low. There is one thing that all we women know, although we never heard of it at school, that we must labor to be beautiful. I said, it is certain there is no fine thing since Adam's fall but needs much laboring. There have been lovers who thought love should be so much compounded of high courtesy that they would sigh, and quote with learned looks, precedence, out of beautiful old books, yet now it seems an idle trade enough. We sat, grown quiet at the name of love. We saw the last embers of daylight die, and in the trembling blue-green of the sky, a moon, worn as if it had been a shell, washed by time's waters as they rose and fell about the stars, and broke in days and years. I had a thought, for no ones but your ears, that you were beautiful, and that I strove to love you in the old highway of love, that it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown as weary-hearted as that hollow moon. This recording is in the public domain. THE AIM WAS SONG by Robert Frost Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp Before man came to blow it right, the wind once blew itself untaught, and it is loudest day and night in any rough place where it caught. Man came to tell it what was wrong. It hadn't found the place to blow, it blew too hard. The aim was song, and listen, how it ought to go. He took a little in his mouth, and held it, long enough for north to be converted into south, and then by measure blew it forth. By measure. It was word and note. The wind the wind had meant to be. A little through the lips and throat. The aim was song. The wind could see. And of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE ANDALUSION SERENON by Francis S. Saltus Read for LibriVox.org by Leknorf THE ANDALUSION SERENON with Oaken Staff and Swinging Lantern Bright. He strolls at midnight when the world is still through dismal lanes and plazas plumbed with light, guarding the drowsy thousands in Seville. Gazing upon his ever-star-thronged sky with careless step he wanders to and fro. The gloomy streets re-echo with his cry, his slow, low, sad, and dreary, Sereno. He sees the blonde moon fleck with rosy towers of old Heralda with its opal sheen, and in broad Alameda's warm with flowers he sees the moorish cypress bend and lean. Then vaguely dreaming he recalls the nights his father passed beneath those very stars. The tales of escalated walls, the fights, the mirth, the songs, the babble of guitars. And all his sire had told him years ago how, often, in the gardens dim and dark, he met full many a mantled Romeo and stumbled over corpses cold and stark. But he, alas, had heard no serenade, no latter hangs from Don Yalinda's bars, and the one glint of an assassin's blade he ne'er has seen beneath these quiet stars. So weary in the dead calm of the town, his soul regrets the past's romantic glow, while mute, despondent, pacing up and down, he sadly moans his dreary, Sereno. But sometimes in the grayish light of dawn he stops and trembles in his clinging cape, for he can see a lady's curtain drawn and, in the street below, a phantom shape. Grit in quaint antique garb with sword and glove, sombrero vast and mandolin on arm, which seems to play a weird, wild lay of love, and at his coming shows no quick alarm. But turns and their a skeleton, all lean and haggard, leers within the lightless lane, and the Sereno knows that he has seen the specter of the past, the ghost of Spain. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Argument of His Book by Robert Herrick, read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon. I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers, of April, May, of June, and July flowers. I sing of maples, hot carts, wasels, wakes, of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes. I write of youth, of love, and have access by these to sing of cleanly wantonness. I sing of dews, of reins, and piece by piece, of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris. I sing of time's trend shifting, and I write how roses first came red and lilies white. I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing the court of map, and of the fairy king. I write of hell, I sing an ever shall of heaven, and hope to have it, after all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. August 1918, in a French village, from poems 1914 to 1919 by Maurice Bering. August 1918. I hear the tinkling of the cattle bell, in the broad stillness of the afternoon. High in the cloudless haze, the harvest moon is pallid as the phantom of a shell. A girl is drawing water from a well. I hear the clatter of her wooden shun.  Sleep, child, the angel of death his wings has spread. His engines scour the land, the sea, the sky. And all the weapons of hell's armory are ready for the blood that is their bread. And many a thousand men to-night must die. So many, that they will not count the dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Autumn Migration by James Thompson, 1700 to 1700 and 48, from Autumn, read for LibriVox.org. Autumn Migration. When Autumn scatters his departing gleams, warned of approaching winter, gathered, play the swallow-people, and tossed wide around, or the calm sky, in convolution swift, the feathered eddy floats, rejoicing once, ere to their wintry slumbers they retire, in clusters clung beneath the moldering bank, and where, unpierced by frost, the cavern sweats. Or rather, into warmer climes conveyed, with other kindred birds of season, there they twitter cheerful, till the vernal months invite them welcome back, for thronging now enumerous wings are in commotion all. Where the Rhine loses his majestic force in Belgian plains, one from the raging deep by diligence amazing, and the strong, unconquerable hand of liberty, the stark assembly meets for many a day, consulting deep and various, ere they take their arduous voyage through the liquid sky, and now their route designed, their leaders chose, their tribes adjusted, cleaned their vigorous wings, and many a circle, many a short essay, wheel round and round, in congregation full, the figured flight ascends, and riding high the aerial billows mixes with the clouds. Or where the northern ocean, in vast whirls, boils round the naked melancholy aisles of farthest thule, and the Atlantic surge pours in among the stormy hebrides. Who can recount what transmigrations there are annual made, what nations come and go, and how the living clouds on clouds arise, infinite wings, till all the plain dark air and rude resounding shore are one wild cry. Red for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachok. Killing the light, blurring the stars, marring the breeze, nature's many-stringed harp, it comes silently, sinisterly, over the land, over the sea, spreading its bigger raiment of brown, without stop, without sound, over the valley like a great serpent of silence, coiling around the heart of sound, a damp insidiousness creeps into the night, a drab numbness sets in, dripping in lugubrious drops from the haggard fingers of the autumn trees. It strangles the last sound, it devours the last light, trembles in fear to see its own visage. Night moves on, on and around, ceaselessly, untiringly, till the black night is drowned in an abyss of brown. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Committee on Public Morals from Black Beetles in Amber by Ambrose Beers. Red for LibriVox.com by Dale Grossman. The Senate met in Sacramento City. On public morals it had no committee, though greatly these abounded. Soon the quiet was broken by the senators in riot. Now, at the end of their contagious quarrels, there's a committee, but no public morals. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Divorce by Thomas Stanley. Red for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. Dear, back my wounded heart restore, and turn away thy powerful eyes, flatter my willing soul no more. Love must not hope what fate denies. Take, take away thy smiles and kisses, thy love wounds deeper than disdain, for he that sees the heaven he misses sustains two hells of loss and pain. Shouldst thou some others suit prefer, I might return thy scorn to thee, and learn apostasy of her who taught me first idolatry. Or in thy unrelenting breast should I disdain or coiness move. Be by thy hate might be released, who now is prisoner to thy love. Since then unkind fate will divorce those whom affection long united. Be thou as cruel as this force, and I in death shall be delighted. Thus while so many suppliants woe, and beg they may thy pity prove, I only for thy scorn do sue, to his charity here not to love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE DRAGONFLY by Edna St. Vincent Millay Red for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. I wound myself in a white cocoon of singing, all day long in the brook's uneven bed, measuring out my soul in a mucus thread. Dimly now the brook's green bottom clinging, men behold me, a worm spun out and dead, walled in an iron house of silky singing. Nevertheless at length, O reedy shallows, not as a plotting nose to the slimy stem, but as brazen wing with spangled hymn, over the jewel-weed and the pink marshmallows, free of these in making a song of them, I shall rise and a song of the reedy shallows. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE EVENING STAR by Edgar Allen Poe Red for LibriVox.org by Elaine Conway, England. Twas noon tide of summer and mid-time of night, and stars in their orbits shone pale through the light of the brighter cold moon, mid-planets her slaves, herself in the heavens, her beam on the waves, I gazed a while on her cold smile, too cold, too cold for me. There passed as a shroud, a fleecy cloud, and I turned away to thee, proud evening star, in thy glory afar, and dearer thy beam shall be, for joy to my heart is a proud part, there barest in heaven at night, and more I admire thy distant fire than that colder, lowly light. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE FLAY by John Donne Red for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon Mark but this flee, and mark in this, how little that which thou deniced me is.  Thou knowest that this cannot be said a sin, nor shame, nor loss of maiden-head. Yet this enjoys before it will, and pampered swells with one blood made of two. And this, alas, is more than we would do. O stay three lives in one flee spare, where we almost, yea, more than married are. This flee is you and I, and this our marriage-bed, and marriage-temple is, though parents grudge, and you, were met and cloistered in these living walls of jet.  People in sudden hast thou since purpled thy nail in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flee guilty be, except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumphst, and sayest that thou finds not thyself nor me the weaker now. Tis true, then learn how false fears be, just so much honor, when thou yilts to me, will waste as this flee's death took life from thee. A girl of Pompeii, by Edward Sanford Martin, read for LibriVox.org by Sonja. A girl of Pompeii. A public haunt they found her in, she lay asleep, a lovely child, the only thing left undefiled, where all things else bore taint of sin. Her supple outlines fixed in clay the universal law suspend, and turned times chariot back and blend a thousand years with yesterday. A sinless touch, austere yet warm, around her girlish figure pressed, caught the sweet imprint of her breast, and held her, surely clasped, from harm. Trueer than work of sculptor's art comes this dear maid of long ago, sheltered from woeful chance to show a spirit's lovely counterpart, and bid mistrustful men be sure that form shall fate of flesh escape, and quit of earth's corruptions shape itself imperishably pure. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. When grasses ever so fragile provide strings stout enough for insect moods to glide up and down in glissandos of toes along wires or fingertips on zithers, though the mere sounds be theirs, not ours, theirs not ours the first inspiration, discord without resolution. Who would decry being loved, when even such tinkling comes of the loving? End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Happiest Day by Edgar Allan Poe, read for Libberfox.org by Elaine Conway, England The Happiest Day, the happiest hour, my seared and blighted heart hath known, the highest hope of pride, and power, I feel, hath flown, of power, said I, yes, such I wean, but they have vanished long, alas, the visions of my youth have been, but let them pass, and pride, what have I now with thee? Another brow may even inherit, the venom thou hast poured on me, be still, my spirit, the happiest day, the happiest hour, mine I shall see, have ever seen, the brightest glance and power I feel have been, but were that hope of pride and power, now offered with the pain, even then I felt that brightest hour I would not live again, for on its wing was dark alloy, and as it fluttered, fell an essence, powerful to destroy, a soul that knew it well. And of poem, this recording is in the public domain. In As Much by Josephine Kermode, read for Libberfox.org by Larry Wilson A stranger passes this way at night when the earth is laid to rest. He pauses before each cottage-door like a long-expected guest. Is it only a ray of white moonlight that falls on the dewy ground? Or is it the gleam of a kingly road that sheds such radiance round? He pauses before each cottage-door when the silence is still and deep. There are souls that work and souls that rest, and souls that must watch and weep. Is it only the track of the children's feet that has furrowed the roadway there? Or is it the print of a pierced foot that was heavy with human care? And to those who weep, and to those who sleep, and to those who watch and wake? There comes the touch of a tender hand for a suffering stranger's sake. Is it only the breath of the balsam pine that is filling the midnight veil? Or is it the balm of a healing calm that sweetens the perfume gale? For a stranger came to these gentle souls and a sick heart craved for rest. They gave her their love and they gave her their care, and they gave her of all their best. Is it only the wind in the waving pines or the sound of the distant sea? Or is it the voice of the stranger-guest, ye did it unto me? End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Incognita of Raphael by William Allen Butler Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter Long has the summer sunlight shone on the fair form, the quaint costume. Yet, nameless still, she sits unknown, a lady in her youthful bloom. Fairer for this, no shadows cast their blight upon her perfect lot. What ere her future or her past, in this bright moment matters not. No record of her high descent their needs, nor memory of her name. Enough that Raphael's colours blend to give her features deathless fame. Twas his anointing hand that set the crown of beauty on her brow. Still lives its early radiance yet, is that the earliest even now. It is not the ecstasy that glows and all the wraps the celious grace, nor yet the holy, calm repose he painted on the virgin's face. Less of the heavens and more of earth there lurk within these earnest eyes, the passions that have had their birth and grown beneath Italian skies. What mortal thoughts and cares and dreams, what hopes and fears and longings rest, where falls the folded veil, or gleams the golden necklace on her breast. What mockery of painted glow may shade the secret soul within. What griefs from passions overflow, what shame that follows after sin. Yet calm as heaven's serenest deeps are those pure eyes, those glances pure, and queenly is the stage she keeps, in beauty's lofty trust secure. And who are strayed by happy chants through all those grand and pictured halls, nor felt the magic of her glance is when a voice of music calls. Not soon shall I forget the day, sweet day, in spring's unclouded time, while on the glowing canvas lay the light of that delicious climb. I marked the matchless colours wreathed on the fair brow, the peerless cheek, the lips I fancied almost breezed, the blessings that they could not speak. Fair were the eyes with mine that bent upon the picture their mild gaze, and dear the voice that gave consent to all the utterance of my praise. O fit companionship of thought, O happy memories shrived apart, the rapture that the painter wrought, the kindred rapture of the heart. Influence by Ava Gorbooth Recording by Mike Overby, Midland, Washington. Ye who would mould men's souls under your tyrannous will, and soften the tiger's heart and make the wild deer brave, can ye then lower the crest of one most gentle wave, or shift the flowing lines of the dim, absolute hill? The soul stands like a mountain strong against the cloud and storm, on the face of wave-built waters is the spirit shed, and none are formless save the indifferent lost dead, for the immortal carven spirit itself is form. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. An Interlude by Algernon Charles Swinburne Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk In the greenest growth of the may-time I rode where the woods were wet, between the dawn and the daytime. The spring was glad that we met, there was something the season wanted, though the ways and the woods smelled sweet.  You came and the sun came after, and the green grew golden above, and the flag-flowers lightened with laughter, and the meadow sweet shook with love. Your feet in the full-grown grasses moved soft as a weak wind blows. You passed me as April passes, with face made out of a rose, by the stream where the stems were slender. Your bright foot paused at the sedge. It might be to watch the tender, light leaves in the spring-time hedge. One bows at the sweet month blanches, with flowery frost of May. It might be a bird in the branches. It might be a thorn in the way. I waited to watch you linger, with foot drawn back from the dew, till a sunbeam straight like a finger, struck sharp through the leaves at you. And a bird overhead sang follow, and a bird to the right sang hear. And the arch of the leaves was hollow, and the meaning of May was clear. I saw where the sun's hand pointed. I knew what the bird's note said. By the dawn and the dewfall anointed.  As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember recalls a regret of the sun. I remember, forget, and remember what love saw done and undone. I remember the way we parted, the day and the way we met. You hoped we were both broken-hearted, and knew we should both forget. And May, with her world in flower, seemed still to murmur and smile. As you murmured and smiled for an hour, I saw you turn at the style. A hand like a white wood blossom you lifted and waved and passed, with head hung down to the bosom, and pale as it seemed at last. And the best and the worst of this is, that neither is most to blame. If you've forgotten my kisses, and I've forgotten your name. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll, read for LibriVox.org by Flamboyant Otter. Twas Brillig and the Slythie Toves did gyre and jimble in the wabe. All mimsy were the borgoves, and the momeraths outgrabe. Beware the jabberwock, my son, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch. Beware the jub-jub bird and shun, the fruminous bandersnatch. He took his vorpal sword in hand, long time the manksam foe he sought, so rested he by the tum-tum tree, and stood a while in thought. And as in Uffish thought he stood, the jabberwock, with eyes of flame, came whiffling through the tallgy wood, and burbled as it came. One-two, one-two, and through and through, the vorpal blade went snick-or-snack, he left it dead, and with its head he went, galumphing back. And hest thou slain the jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy. O frabjust day, kaloo, kalay, he chortled in his joy. Twas Brillig and the Slythie Toves did gyre and jimble in the wabe. All mimsy were the borgoves, and the momeraths outgrabe. The lightning, by Elisabeth Kuhlman, read for Librevox.org by a new gate novelist. Who vies with me in power? I said the king of forests, the oak so proudly waving. The dark clouds rent asunder, and from their womb the lightning rushed, like a fiery serpent enraged asunder, snapping the oak, e'en as the stripling thoughtlessly aflower. Who vies with me in power? I said the tower, whose golden and lofty summit oft times the wandering clouds of heaven as in a veil envelop. The lightning, like a dragon, huge and fearful, roaring, bursts through the clouds and swallows, time and space deriding the hotty tower's summit. Broad streaks, like flaming torrents of black and gold, terrific rush down its walls resistless. With me none vying power, it cried, and, like a diver, swift as an arrow rushing, plunged into ocean's bosom, whereon a warship proudly rode with her sails outspreading. She burns but for a moment, then in a thousand pieces, with fearful crash exploding, she flies aloft, the fragments fall back into the ocean, and in its chasm vanish. No trace behind remaineth of all the mighty fabric. Such art thou in thine anger, attended by thy brother, the dread invisible, beneath whose steps terrific the very earth-ball trembles. Yet not, O lightning, art thou air of fearful and destroying. In glowing nights of summer we see thee oft-illuming, the distant sphere in silence.  Whenever thus thou glowest, me seems as if the heavens unto mine eye were opened. Me thinks I stand beholding the throne of God before me. Yes, more than once, O lightning, my mind the thought encompassed, that what mine eyes delighted might be the eye of Godhead, unveiled but for a moment. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. She, what I do to the grass, does to my thoughts in me. But these, while I with sorrow pine, grew more luxuriant still than fine, that not one blade of grass you spied, but had a flower on either side. When Juliana came, and she, what I do to the grass, does to my thoughts in me. But what you in compassion ought shall now by my revenge be wrought, and flowers and grass and eye and all, will in one common ruin fall. When Juliana came, and she, what I do to the grass, does to my thoughts in me. But what you in compassion ought shall now by my revenge be wrought, and flowers and grass and eye and all, will in one common ruin fall. For Juliana comes, and she, what I do to the grass, does to my thoughts in me. And thus ye meadows, which have been companions of my thoughts more green, shall now the heraldry become with which I shall adorn my tomb. When Juliana came, and she, what I do to the grass, does to my thoughts in me. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. To my physician, by Elisabeth Kuhlman, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Physician, cease thy striving. I speak without alarm. No longer canst thou save me from death's all-grasping arm. What bloomed in spring so sweetly, oft fades, air-autums gloom. There's one time for the blossom, another for the tomb. While life with strength endows me, I'm like the nightingale, who wakes with thrilling echo, the forest mead and dale. While I, then, like a coward, complain that death his dot hath hurled, perchance, too early, and pierced my youthful heart, well do we know the marksman in garb of steel arrayed. From him will not protect us, when ere his choice be made. Physician, strive no more, then. I grieve not with alarm. Thou canst not my existence save from the tyrant's arm. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Already blushes in thy cheek the bosom thought which thou must speak, the bird how far it happily roam by cloud or aisle is flying home. The maiden fears and fearing runs into the charm it snare she shuns, and every man in love or pride of his fate is never wide. Will a woman's fan the ocean smooth, or prayers the stony parquet soothe, or coax the thunder from its mark, or tape a slight the chaos dark? In spite of virtue and the muse, nemesis will have her dews, and all our struggles and our toils tighter wind the giant coils. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Not Old, Not New, by John T. McFarland, read for LibriVox.org by Sonya. Not Old, Not New. I like it not, this common view, that calls the passing season old. I like it not, and will not hold the year that lies before us new. No year is old, no year is new. Time passes not on faltering feet. The days that come are not more fleet than those which pass beyond our view. Our past nor future is remote. Time is the chord upon the lyre. The present is the point of fire, at which we strike the vibrant note. Into the past run back the chords. They bear the tones of all the years. They throb with all the hopes and fears the future holds in speechless words. Life lies not in the passing hour. The silent seasons are not dead. The fountains of the soul are fed by springs which pulse with vital power. The future comes not with blank page, an empty book where may be writ the fool's mistakes and wisdom's wit, it bears the hieroglyphs of age. Which we translate as best we can, the speech divine to human tongue, the wisdom neither old nor young, the secret of the life of man. Time is the atmosphere of God. Our morrows and our yesterdays are but the wind that sports and plays upon the surface of the flood. Life adds another to its rings, loves calyx with its heart of gold, will slowly in the light unfold, for God is in the soul of things. On the train by Harriet Monroe, read for LibriVox.org, by Anita Sloma Martinez, on June 16, 2019, from Notes of Travel, Section 1. The lady in front of me in the car, with little red coils close over her ears, is talking with her friend.  What is she saying, I wonder, that her feathers should tremble, that the soft burr of her coat should slip down over her shoulders? Has her string of pearls been stolen? Or maybe her husband? He is drunk, that man. Drunk as a lord, a lord of the Bibles past. He shouts wittily from his end of the car to the man in the corner. He bows to me with chivalrous apologies. He philosophizes, plays with the wisdom of the ages, flings off his rags, displays his naked soul, athletic, beautiful, grotesque. In the good time coming when men drink no more, shall we never see a nude soul dancing stripped and free in the temple of his god? Section 3. She comes smiling into the car with iridescent bubbles of children. She blooms in the close, plush seats like a narcissist in a bowl of stones. She croons to a baby in her lap. The trees come swinging by to listen, and the electric lights in the ceiling are stars. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Pentecost by Horatius Bonar, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. The master heth his word fulfilled, and though we are still far from home, the days of orphanage are past, the comforter has come. The promise of the Father now descends, our lips no more are done, the rushing mighty wind is heard, the comforter has come. The true enlightener of the dark of heavenly gifts, the soul and some, the mighty quickener of the dead, the comforter has come. The breath from the four winds of heaven that breathes into the awful tomb, the resurrection breath of God, the comforter has come. Night has blossomed into morn, for gladness we exchange our gloom. The joy unspeakable is ours, the comforter has come. Our fetters break, our burdens fall, fresh rays from heaven our souls elune, our prison bars lie broken round, the comforter has come. Now we are strong for service high, for toil or pain or martyrdom. Now we can face the sword or fire, the comforter has come. Now we are nerved for holy fight, for longer life or earlier doom. Our helmet, shield and sword are on, the comforter has come. The fire from heaven descends in power, our dross forever to consume. In holy liberty we walk, the comforter has come. The south wind blows, the kindly sun ripens our garden's summer bloom, and hangs the fruit upon our boughs. The comforter has come. In the porn, this recording is in the public domain. Petty Larsonie by Ava Gore Booth, recording by Mike Overby, Midland, Washington. Lived a man who was want to steal oysters for his daily meal, he broke them open with a stone and ate them on the shore alone. One day he had not strength enough, or else the shell was very tough. He struggled till he sprained his wrist. He and then the nave did not desist, but forced the oyster open wide and found a glorious pearl inside. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Portrait by a neighbor by Ennis St. Vincent Malay, read for LibreVox.org by Eva Davis. Before she has her floor swept, or her dishes done, any day you'll find her a sunning in the sun. It's long after midnight, her keys in the lock, and you never see her chimney smoke till past ten o'clock. She digs in her garden with a shovel and a spoon. She weeds her lazy lettuce by the light of the moon.  She forgets she borrowed butter and pays you back cream. Her lawn looks like a meadow, and if she mows the place, she leaves the clover standing and the queen Anne's lace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Primrose by Robert Herrick, read for LibreVox.org by Thomas Peter. Ask me why I send you here, the sweet and fanta of the year. Ask me why I send to you, this primrose, thus be purled with dew. I will whisper to your ears, the sweets of love are mixed with tears. Ask me why this flower does show so yellow-green and sickly too. Ask me why the stalk is weak and bending, yet it doth not break. I will answer. These discover what fainting hopes are in a lover. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Rule Britannia by James Thompson, 1700-1748, read for LibreVox.org. When Britain first, at Heaven's command, arose from out the Azur main, this was the charter of the land, and guardian angels sang this strain, Rule Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves. The nations not so blessed as they must in their turn to tyrants fall, while thou shalt flourish great and free, the dread and envy of them all. Rule Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves. Still more majestic shall thou rise, more dreadful from each foreign stroke, as the loud blast that tears the skies serves but to root thy native oak. Rule Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves. The haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame, all their attempts to bend thee down will but arouse thy generous flame, but work their woe, and thy renown. Rule Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves. To thee belongs the rural rain, thy cities shall with commerce shine, all thine shall be the subject main, and every shore it circles thine. Rule Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves. The muses, still with freedom found, shall to thy happy coast repair, plus dial with matchless beauty crowned, and manly hearts to guard the fair. Rule Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Twasard to bear, for years to wander thus in wait, amid pale shadows of half-realist spare in the dull road outside the ivory gate, all round my feet the pansies grew, nodding their wise heads to and fro, mocking faces, gold and blue, seemed to whisper, no, no, no, no thoroughfare. How strange it seems, now round me poppies blossom red, low at my feet the river gleams. Great beach boughs rustle overhead, pansies you mocked me all in vain, light flowers who did not understand, fade on outside I live again, and labor in the magic land of light and dreams. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 129 by William Shakespeare. Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp. The expensive spirit and a waste of shame is lust and action. Until action, lust is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust. Enjoyed no sooner, but despised it straight. Past reason hunted, and no sooner had, past reason hated. As a swallowed bait on purpose laid to make the taker mad, mad in pursuit, and in possession saw. Had, having, and in quest to have extreme, a bliss in proof, and proved a very woe. For a joy proposed, behind a dream. All this the world well knows, yet none knows well to shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 29 by William Shakespeare. Read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon. Then in disgrace, with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, and look upon myself and curse my fate. Wishing me like to want more rich in hope, featured like him, like him with friends possessed, desiring this man's art and that man's scope, with what I most enjoy contented least. Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising. Only I think on thee, and then my state, like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate. For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, that then I scorn to change my state with kings. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Spring Rain by James Thompson 1700 to 1700 and 48. From the Seasons, Spring. Read for LibriVox.org. Spring Rain. The northeast spans his rage. He now shot up within his iron cave. The effluent south warms the wide air, and over the void of heaven breeze the big clouds with vernal showers distant. At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, scarce staining ether, but by swift degrees and heaps on heaps the doubling vapor sails along the loaded sky, and mingling deep sits on the horizon-brown acettled gloom. Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, oppressing life, but lovely, gentle, kind, and full of every hope and every joy, the wish of nature. Gradual sinks the breeze into a perfect calm, that not a breath is heard to quiver through the closing woods, or wrestling turn the many twinkling leaves of aspen tall. The uncurling floods, diffused in glassy breath, seen through delusive laps, forgetful of their course, till silence all and pleasing expectation. Herbs and flocks drop their dry sprig, and mute imploring eye the falling verdure. Washed in short suspense, the plumey people streak their wings with oil to throw the lucid moisture trickling off, and wait the approaching sign to strike at once into the general choir. Even mountains veils and forests seem impatient to demand the promised sweetness. Man's superior walks amid the glad creation, musing praise and looking lively gratitude. At last the clouds consign their treasures to the fields, and, softly shaking on the dimpled pool tree-loose of drops, let all their moisture flow, enlarge a fusion, or the freshened world. The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard by such as wander through the forest works, beneath the umbridges multitude of leaves. But who can hold the shade while heaven descends in universal bounty, shedding herbs and fruits and flowers on nature's ample lap? Swift fancy-fired anticipates their growth, and, while the milky-nutriment distels beholds the kindling country-color round. Thus all day long the full-distaned clouds indulge their genial stores, and well-showered earth is deep enriched with vegetable life. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Storm in the Mountains by Charles Harper, read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf. A lonely boy, far venturing from home, out on the half-wild herds faint tracks I roam, amid rock-brown mountains, which with stony frown glare into haggard chasms deep adown.  Now at some clear pool, scooped out by the shocks of rain floods plunging from the upper rocks, whose liquid disc, in its un-dimpled rest, glows like a mighty gem, broaching the mountain's breast. I drink, and must, or mark the widespread herd, or list the thinking of the Dinglebird, and now toward some wild-hanging shade I stray, to shun the bright oppression of the day. For round each crag, and or each bosky swell, the fierce refracted heat flares visible, lambantly restless, like the dazzling hem of some else, viewless veil, held trembling over them. Why congregate the swallows in the air, and northward, then, in rapid flight repair. With sudden swelling din, remote yet harsh, why roar the bullfrogs in the tea tree marsh, why seize the locust to throng up in flight, and clap their gay wings in the fervent light. Why climb they, boatingly demure, instead the tallest spear-grass to the bending head. Instinctively, along the sultry sky, I turn a listless, yet inquiring eye, and mark that now with slow gradual pace, a solemn trance creams northward o'er its face. Yon clouds that late were laboring past the sun, reach to buy its sure arrest, one after one. Come to a heavy halt. The airs that played about the rugged mountains all are laid, while drawing nearer, far off heights appear, as in a dream's wild prospect, strangely near. Till into wood resolves their robe of blue, and the gray crags rise bluffly on the view. Such are the signs and tokens that presage, a summer hurricane's forthcoming rage. At length the south sends out her cloudy heaps, and up the glans at noontime dimness creeps. The birds, late warbling in the hanging green, off steep set breaks seek now some safer screen. The herd, in doubt, no longer wanders wide, but fast, in gathering throngs, yon mountains side, whose echoes, surging to its tramp, might seem the muttered troubles of some titans dream. Fast the dim legions of the muttering storm, throng denser or protruding columns form, while splashing forward from their cloudy lair, convolving flames like scouting dragons glare. Low thunders follow, laboring up the sky, and as four running blasts go blaring by, at once the forest, with a mighty stir, bows, as in homage to the thunderer. Hark from the dingo's blood-polluted dens in the gloom-hidden chasms of the glans, long fitful howls wail up, and in the blast strange hissing whispers seem to huddle past, as if the dread stir had aroused from sleep weird spirits, cloistered in yon-cavy steep, on which, in the grim past, some canes of fence hath happily outraged heaven, who rising vents wrapped in the boating vapours, laughed again to wanton in the wild-willed hurricane, sea in the storm's front, sailing dark and dread, a wide-winged eagle like a black flag spread. The clouds aloft flash doom, short stops his flight. He seems to shrivel in the blasting light. The air is shattered with a crashing sound, and he falls stone-like, lifeless to the ground. Now like a shadow at great nature's heart, the turmoil grows. Now wonder, with a start, marks where right overhead the storm careers, girt with black horrors and wide flaming fears. Arriving thunders, mustering on his path, swell more and more the roaring of his wrath, as out in widening circles they extend, and then, at once, in utter silence end. Time keeps breathing past, yet it continues, may this marvel last? This wild, weird silence in the midst of gloom, so manifestly big with coming doom, tingles the boating ear, and up the glens, instinctive dread comes howling from the wild dog's dens. Great vision, heaven's great ceilings splits, and a vast globe of writhing fire emits, which pouring down in one continuous stream spans the black concave like a burning beam. A moment, then from end to end, it shakes with a quick motion, and in thunder breaks. Still rolled on peal, while heralding the sound at each concussion thrills the solid ground. Fierce glares coil, snake-like, round the rocky winds of the red hills, or hiss into the glens, or thick through heaven like flaming falchions swarm, cleaving the teeming cisterns of the storm, from which rain torrents, searching every gash, split by the blast, comes sheeting with a dash. On yang gray peak, from rock and crusted roots, the mighty patriarch of the wood up shoots, in whose proud spreading tops imperial height, the mountain eagle loveth most to light. Now dimly seen through the tempestuous air, his forms seemed harrowed by a mad despair. As with his ponderous arms uplifted high, he wrestles with the storm and threshes at the sky. A swift bolt hurtles through the lurid air. Another thundering crash, the peak is bare. Huge hurrying fragments all around are cast, the wild-winged, mad-limbed monsters of the blast. The darkness thickens, with despairing cry from shattering boughs, the rain-drenched parrots fly. Loose rocks roll rumbling from the mountain's round, and half the forest strews the smoking ground. To the bared crags the blast now wilder moan, and the caves labor with a ghostlier groan. Wide-ranging torrents down the gorgeous flow, swift bearing with them to the veil below, those silven wrecks that littered late the path of the loud hurricanes all trampling wrath. The storm has passed, yet booming on afar is heard the rattling of the thundercar, and that low muffled moaning, as of grief, which follows with the wood-sye, wide in brief. The clouds break up, the sun's forth bursting rays clothe the wet landscape with a dazzling blaze. The birds begin to sing a lively strain, and merry echoes ring at ore again. The clustered herd is spreading out to graze, through lessening torrents still a hundred ways flash downward, and from many a rock ledge a mantling gush comes quick and shining o'er the edge. Tis evening, and the torrent's furious flow runs gentlier now into the lake below. O'er all the freshened scene no sound is heard save the short twitter of some busy bird, o'er a faint rustle made amongst the trees by wasting fragments of a broken breeze. Along the wild and wreck-strewed paths I wind, watching earth's happiness with quiet mind, and see a beauty all unmarked till now, flushing each flowery nook and sunny brow. Wished peace returning like a bird of calm brings to the wounded world its blessed healing warm. Unnervelous, toonless lines how sadly ringing rhymes may waste it be, while blank versed oft is mere prose madly striving to be poetry, while prose that's craggy as a mountain may Apollo's sun robe dawn, or hold the wellspring of a fountain right as that in Helicon.  The crow is on the oak, a building of her nest, and love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast.   The clock of clay is creeping on the open bloom of May, a merry bee is trampling at the pinky threads all day, and the chaff inch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest in the white thorn bush where I will lean upon my lover's breast. I'll lean upon her breast and I'll whisper in her ear that I cannot get a wink of sleep for thinking of my dear. I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away like the hedge-rose that is broken in the heat of the day. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Talent and Art by Elizabeth Kuhlman Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist Innate in man is talent, though not enough for art. Be fame the goal thou choosest, so play an earnest part. Thou must with warm endeavour air watch for beauty's trace, that truth and nature daily may lend thee newer grace. The difficult as much is on earth it may be done. I will, reigns-or, I cannot, when courage spurs us on. The sunbeams grave and cradle, the isle enameled main, its distance, who shall measure from heaven's starry plain? Yet at one point before us, upon the ocean's breast, we see with inward rapture the Azure Heaven's rest. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. To the River by Edgar Allan Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Elaine Conway In thy bright, clear flow of crystal, Wandering water, thou art an emblem of the glow of beauty, The unhidden heart, the playful masiness of art, In old Alberto's daughter, but when within thy way she looks, Which glistens, then, and trembles, Why, then, the prettiest of brooks, Her worshipper resembles, for in his heart, as in thy stream, Her image deeply lies, his heart which trembles at the beam Of her soul-searching eyes. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain.  When old corruption first begun, adorned in yellow vest He committed on flesh a whoredom, oh what a wicked beast From there a callow babe did spring And old corruption smiled to think his race Should never end, for now he had a child He called him surgery and fed the babe with his own milk For flesh and he could never agree She would not let him suck In this he always kept on mind and formed a crooked knife And ran about with bloody hands to seek his mother's life And as he ran to seek his mother, he met with a dead woman He fell in love and married her, a deed that is not common She soon grew pregnant and brought forth scurvy And spotted fever, the father Grendan skipped about And said, I'm made forever For now I have procured those imps, I'll try experiments With that he tied poor scurvy down And stopped up all its fence And when the child began to swell, he shouted out aloud I found the drops he out and soon shall do the world more good He took up fever by the neck and cut out all its spots And threw the holes which he had made He first discovered guts End of poem, this recording is in the public domain That props the mountain wall Old farms with must stone fences Old grassy roads that wind Forever on and upward to higher fields behind By ancient bush-grown pastures Bestrune with boulders gray And lonely meadow slopes that bear thin crops Of upland hay As terrace over terrace we climb the mountain stair More solitary grow the ways More wild the farms and rare And slenderer in their rocky beds The singing brooks that go Down slipping to the valley stream A thousand feet below Above us and above us still The grim escarpments rise Till homeward we must turn at last Or ere the daylight dies And leave unscaled the summit height The even ridge or head Where smolder through the cedar screen The sunset embers red What should we see If once we won on that top step to stand A wondrous valley world beyond a far-stretched table-land Almost it seems as though there lay The threshold of the sky And that the foot which crossed that sail Would enter heaven thereby And when, dear heart, the years have left us Once again alone And from our empty nest The broods have scattered forth and flown Shall we not have the old horse-round And take the well-known track Into the high hill country And never more come back And a poem This recording is in the public domain The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll Read for leverbox.org by Montana Bob The sun was shining on the sea, shining with all his might He did his very best to make the billow smooth and bright And this was odd because it was the middle of the night The moon was shining sulkily because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there after the day was done It's very rude of him, she said, to come and spoil the fun The sea was wet as wet could be The sands were dry as dry You could not see a cloud because no cloud was in the sky No birds were flying overhead. There were no birds to fly The walrus and the carpenter were walking close at hand They wept like anything to see such quantities of sand If this were only cleared away, they said it would be grand If seven maids with seven mops swept it for half a year Do you suppose, the walrus said, that they could get it clear? I doubt it, said the carpenter, and shed a bitter tear Well, oysters come and walk with us, the walrus did beseech A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk along the briny beach We cannot do more with four to give a hand to each The eldest oyster looked at him, but never a word he said The eldest oyster winked his eye and shook his heavy head Meaning to say he did not choose to leave the oyster bed But four young oysters hurried up, all eager for the treat Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, their shoes were clean and neat And this was odd because, you know, they hadn't any feet Four other oysters followed them and yet another four And thick and fast they came at last and more and more and more All hopping through the frothy waves and scrambling to the shore The walrus and the carpenter walked on a mile or so And then they rested on a rock, conveniently low And all the little oysters stood and waited in a row The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things Of shoes and ships and ceiling wax, of cabbages and kings And why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings But wait a bit, the oysters cried before we have our chat For some of us are out of breath and all of us are fat No hurry, said the carpenter, they thanked him much for that And loaf of bread, the walrus said, is what we chiefly need Pepper and vinegar besides are very good indeed Now, if you're ready, oysters dear, we can't begin to feed But not on us, the oysters cried, turning a little blue After such kindness that would be a dismal thing to do The night is fine, the walrus said, do you admire the view? It was so kind of you to come, and you are very nice, the carpenter said nothing But cut us another slice, I wish you were not quite so deaf, I've had to ask you twice It seems a shame, the walrus said, to play them such a trick After we brought them out so far and made them trot so quick The carpenter said nothing, but the butter spread too thick I weep for you, the walrus said, I deeply sympathize With sobs and tears he sorted out those of the largest size Holding his pocket handkerchief before his streaming eyes Oh oysters, said the carpenter, you've had a pleasant run Shall we be trotting home again? But answer came there none, and this was scarcely odd Because they'd eaten every one End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Wild Swans by Anna St Vincent Millay Read for Librevox.org by Eva Davis I looked into my heart while the wild swans went over And what did I see I had not seen before Only a question less or a question more Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying Tire some heart, forever living and dying House without air, I'll leave you and lock your door Wild Swans, come over the town Come over the town again, trailing your legs and crying End of poem, this recording is in the public domain The Wounded From Poems 1914-1919 By Maurice Barrick Read for Librevox.com by Dale Grothman The Wounded The wounded lie and groan upon the plain And one there is, for whom it is vain to lift So give him water, it is the last gift And very soon he shall not thirst again All white and gold the chief with a troop of horse trots by The soldier opens smiling eyes And at the last gasp of life he cries Long live, with all his feeble flickering force Before he said his say, he died content And we, the wounded on life's battlefield Enrolled and sent to war to fight and die When conquered by our mortal wound we cry Long live, obedient to our sacrament When God, with all his universe rides by Manchuria, 1904 End of poem, this recording is in the public domain


It's another sunny summer surfin' day out here in St. Augustine Beach. See all the kids coming out again there, but beyond. Griffin Guard, local surfer, comes to check out the Pealers. Oh, and look at them, they're coming in. Professional bodybuilder Mike Stewart comes out here. Get some shoes, your nose-crippin' on a little zipper, and pop up, and it's gonna close out on it. So, he's just gonna ride it on it. He's getting splashed away. Some fishies come into this. Here goes Griffin, another best step. Ooh, hoppity hoppah. Mike Stewart getting his tubes. Here goes Griffin on another double up zipper. Oh gosh, what's happening? Oh, and he goes down extremely high. Oh, kids are having fun in this summer surfin'. One surfer out there just having all the great peeps to himself. All by himself out there just enjoying the view and the scenery in the summer. Oh, it looks like he sees a wave. Oh, look at that zipper there. Ooh, and that's a face plant. Great house. The kids are all having fun out here. After a long day of surf, Griffin comes in. Two, enjoy a nice coffee at Cafe 11 or something. Thanks for tuning in to your daily surfer board. Welcome to your viral surf station.


Microalgae can be used to treat wastewater, converting nutrients into biomass and bioproducts. This process is more efficient when performed at higher temperatures, with optimal temperatures being between 15 and 25 degrees Celsius. At these temperatures, up to 83% of the total nitrogen present in the wastewater can be removed, while up to 50% of the total nitrogen can be assimilated by the microorganisms. This article was authored by Liliana Delgadillo-Mercas, Felipe Lopez, Behnum Tidy, and others.


Personal notice. Danger is my stock and trade. If the job's too tough for you to handle, you've got a job for me. George Valentine. Rightful details. Yes, it's Let George Do It, brought to you by PRIM, P-R-E-A-M. The new miracle way to cream your coffee. In a moment, we'll begin tonight's transcribed adventure of George Valentine. But first... All the new way to cream it is to P-R-E-A-M and get PRIM. That's PRIM. With a capital P. Whatever you use to cream your coffee now, you'll prefer PRIM, P-R-E-A-M. For PRIM in instant powdered form, cream's coffee deliciously, conveniently, and saves money at the same time. You'll love the rich, creamy flavor of PRIM. That's because this new dairy miracle is made from fresh, sweet cream and milk products only. And count on wonderful new convenience. For PRIM, never sours, never turns. Keeps indefinitely while sealed. Open for every day use. PRIM stays fresh tasting to the last spoonful, whether you keep it on your kitchen shelf or in your refrigerator. And then PRIM is thrifty. Saves over one-third on coffee cream costs. What's more, PRIM is less fattening. Use PRIM in your coffee instead of coffee cream as you get up to 50% fewer calories. Buy PRIM today. P-R-E-A-M. PRIM's get PRIM with a capital P. And now, tonight's adventure of George Valentine, the coward. Dear Mr. Valentine, my name is Douglas French. I'm staying in a roaming house 317 River Street. Mr. Valentine, we can't lose a second in correcting the most fearful, the most horrible mistake ever made by a madman. I knew the man, but very briefly, a number of years ago, some way, somehow, in these years between, the pain of his own suffering must have twisted all his remembrance of fact. Because I hadn't been in this city more than 24 hours from the telegraph office call to read me a wire. It had my name on it. My brand new address. It was from him. Message follows. It says, I have got some new facts. It is never too late for you to suffer as you should.  Signed, Aimele Martinez. Aime... Aimele Martinez. I'd say we won't attempt to remove it until the X-rays have developed, Lieutenant. You see, in this quarter of a man's chest. Yeah, yeah, Doc, I know. Anyway, maybe the pictures will help us until you do get the bullet.  With the juncture of this rib, you see? Exactly. No, I'd say the difficult part just now is keeping the poor man alive. All right, Doc. Why so anxious about the bullet, Lieutenant? Do you have a gun to match it with or something? Not yet, but when I do find one. Well, I want to know what I'm looking for. There's nothing concrete to grab onto in this case. Except the telegram, Johnson? Yeah, that's Aimele Martinez. We'll round up every Aimele Martinez that ever lived. Only I don't know what... Only it was a little wild, wasn't it? 37 people. Almost a little crazy. Except that we do have a straight-out attempted murder on our hands. Couldn't you find out anything about Mr. French? He comes from the East, they're investigating. They'll let us know. Doesn't look like anything. No past record, no enemies. If that's what you mean? No, no, I meant friends. They're here in town, at least wise you didn't see anybody we know of. And you found him with the river, huh? Walk away on the bridge. Landlady said he'd had supper, was pretty nervous, went for a walk to kill time at the late o'clock. You got it out there in the dark, noise of traffic on the bridge to cover the shot. Perfect place, lonesome, motorist can't see. I guess he'd still be there if one of them hadn't stopped to inspect a flat tire. Lieutenant, I have the X-ray. Yeah, let's see. Careful, Lieutenant. Johnson, speaking of flat tires... I'm not going to measure any caliber of anything off that picture. For the... what is it, a picket fence? Yes, yes, beautifully clay, you see. I'd say a bullet is this little shadow here under the edge of the rib. Yeah, I always get a seat behind a pole. Help us know when we operate later on. Later on, and I got to sit around waiting to see if he regains consciousness or dies. Sure, Johnson, in the meantime the game goes on, doesn't it? What? While you're waiting for that pole to be moved, there's somebody running around who's nutty and elder-crazy. Oh, really, Mr. Validate, I should be in bed today. You know, the telegraph company keeps quite adequate recklessness worse than the Army. But I've already told them. Excuse me. Bless you. Look, I know there's a file copy of Wires to it. Oh, yeah, yes, and we sent him a confirming copy after we phoned it naturally. George, they didn't find one on Mr. French or in his room. Yeah, probably threw it away or burned it, Bruxy. No, I'm interested in the file copy at the sending point. Oh, by handwriting? Oh, but it was telephoned in by Mr. Martinez to one of the stations here at the... The city! Bless you. But when you do that, you do have to give your phone number and address for charges, don't you? Oh, oh, I see what you mean. Well, yes, yes, we've already investigated. Now, wait a minute. I have it. I have it right. Right here. It was a pay station. Oh, bless you. I know it's discouraging, but we handle so much traffic every day. It's very seldom, you know, anyone would notice the text. Our girls never react to the millions of words they read. Good heavens, Miss Johnson. What is it? Mr. Anzlo, your message continues. I hereby accuse you of cold, bloodedly murdering 37 people signed Amio Martinez. Do you have that, Mr. Anzlo? I'll repeat for confirmation 37. She's fainted. I tell you, I haven't received any wires. I don't know anything about the wires. We were in the telegraph office just now when they phoned it to you, Mr. Anzlo. I don't know anything about it. I don't know the... All right. I did get it. I'm just a botanist. You understand, Mr. Valentine? A student. Playing Mr. Botany B. I'm not concerned with the world of men. Mr. Anzlo, you were going to say that it was a mistake, weren't you? Yes. Yes, it was a horrible mistake. I thought Mr. French said about his wire. I'm just a botanist. In the world of botany... I guess you've seen about Mr. French in the newspapers, haven't you? At least from the looks of your study here, all these newspapers? Yes, Mr. Valentine. I know what happened. But that doesn't mean... Okay, then why did it happen? Why the wires? Who is Amio Martinez? As long as I live. Oh, yes, you will bust it. George, wait a minute. Mr. Anzlo, do you always tear up your magazines like that? Huh? They're in the wastebasket. It's a current copy, too. I never heard of anyone tearing up a... Get away from there! Look out, Bruxy! Put it down! Don't touch it! Don't! Sorry, Professor. No... You'll be okay, Anzlo. Now just sit there. Now then, what do we have to do? Go through the magazine page by page, or are you going to tell us what it is? Barton here's my world. George. My world is Barton here. Okay, where it's folded. Thirty-seven. The number, it's here in the article. Freelance writer J. J. Ferrell. He's Ferrell. Never mind. What is it? He's talking about the war, about being in Japan. It says, in reference to the above, it is of interest to note that Colonel Siyamoto's dying remarks to me concerned the wiping out of a party of thirty-seven. Who, with the assistance of native guerrillas, were trying to escape the holocaust of Singapore? George. Yeah, go ahead, Angel. In this case, the efficiency of fifth column informants was belied. Colonel Siyamoto stated that the party which included soldiers as well as civilians never would have been located, had it not been that four members of the party itself were foraging for food at night, and that the application of threats finally made one of the four confess secretly the exact location of the other thirty-seven who regrettably had to be destroyed. Other examples of fifth column, so on and so forth. Hmm. So, I guess the words in that telegram aren't so crazy after all, are they? No. No, Mr. Valentine. Were you one of the four, Mr. Ronson? Yes. Was Amal Martini's? Oh, sir. I wouldn't read it. Oh, sir. I wouldn't remember any names. Was Douglas French? Oh, yes, yes. His pictures in the newspapers. It was the same man, I'm sure. All right, who else? I wouldn't remember any names. We were all strangers until then. It was just a random group with us in the big party with a few British Army men and guerrilla leaders. The others I went foraging with were businessmen, perhaps Americans. I know that. I was teaching high school botany in Singapore, Mr. Valentine. Botany, I... But afterward, you went through so much together you were threatened. Maybe tortured, weren't you? We were separated later on sent to different prison camps. The four of us... I never knew just why they stopped torturing us, Mr. Valentine. Why they didn't go ahead and kill us. But somehow I just can't believe that you wouldn't remember. A thing so simply told in that article. A thing so unimportant to the rest of the world. To whom the numbers 37 and 4 don't have such awful meaning. And who would guess that we were still alive, any of us? Perhaps many such events took place before. It's not a thing simply remembered Mr. Valentine. At least, not with sanity. Among that 37 were friends were our families. Well, I have another family now. My work. I'm a Bartonist. I don't remember anything. I'm a Bartonist. I... Okay, Mr. Anzo. I'll talk to you later. I'm just a Bartonist. A peaceful man. An angel is a guy giving a lecture tomorrow at the downtown club on the Orient. What? Just ordinary stuff, but the speaker's name is J. J. Ferrell. Oh, the writer? That's why... Yeah, everybody seems to be in town at once. I wonder why. And if this whole case has turned out to be a chase after a betrayer, an informer, a coward, then I wonder if the writer wrote all he knew. Everything the dying jab told him about exactly who, which one of the four was the coward.  Look, that's a suitcase. That's his, isn't it? You see the stickers? Well, what if it is? I ain't noticed him come in, clean up and dust and bring in the linen once a week. That's all I do. I'm not a snooper like some people a body has to put up with. Oh, please, take it easy. Won't you? We told you how important it was... Rosie, here's his notebook, too. And guess what's on the back page? Scribbled in pencil. I have some new facts hereby accuse you of murder of a total of... What's this? What's this? Andy, suppose you go into that bedroom and get rid of the laundry or whatever it is you're doing there once a week. I told you a body had to put up with things. George, those words... Yeah, the words from the telegram. The same identical telegram signed Amel Martinez. Stay with it, Bertie. Is that your tenant, Andy? No. Is that the writer? JJ Farrell? Yes, but I didn't see him come in. I've been here all day. I ain't seen him all day. No, I guess you haven't. He looks like he's been dead since yesterday. You know there's a wonderful new way to cream coffee. It's preem, P-R-E-A-M. A 100% dairy product in instant powdered form. Once you try preem, you'll find for delicious flavor, convenience and economy, you'll prefer it to all other products for creaming your coffee. And say, that's not all. Preem has many other wonderful uses. In cream sauces, for instance, dressing, soups, souffles and delectable new desserts. Yes, it's a fact. Preem can help you serve your family more delicious meals every day of the year and save money at the same time. There's proof of that but preem recipes, we're offering you absolutely free. I'm sure you'll be delighted with the wide variety of delicious, quick and easy to prepare preem recipes in this new booklet. Now, all you have to do to get your copy is drop a card or letter with your name and address to Preem Test Kitchen, Box 959G, Columbus 16, Ohio. That's Preem Test Kitchen, Box 959G, Columbus 16, Ohio. What's the advantage of this valuable offer now? Send for your free preem booklet right away. And now, back to George Valentine. You learn the tragic wartime story of one man out of four who betrayed the location of 37 refugees fleeing from fallen Singapore. Well, if you're anything like George Valentine, you'd like to meet the writer who wrote about that story. Particularly when you see that his notebook contains the words of a certain fateful, hate-filled telegram. The only trouble is the writer is dead. What did the medical examiner say, Johnson? Same as you. Dead 24 hours, maybe. Uh-huh, and his head bashed in. Crime of passion. It was a fight. Struggle. That's a mouthful of understatement, brother. But what about Farrell? What kind of a guy was he? I checked with a couple of editors. His reputation's good. Not a chance of his being mixed up with anybody from the Singapore business.  Let sleeping dogs lie. Maybe he didn't write all he didn't know. He couldn't have, or this doesn't make any sense. Ah, sense, Shad. A guy gets a bullet from home. A guy gets bashed in by home. It's a killer I won. I was reading Farrell's notebook, Lieutenant. He has notes and things for stories. And it seems to me you're both counting wrong. What's that, Angel? Well, I mean, look, here it says Amel Martinez, question mark. What? Give me that. And then there's the name Douglas French, his address back east, and Mr. Onslow. Well, that's only three, isn't it? But if I turn the page, I can count to four. Nick Atkins, with a street number here in town. This is the number. Yeah, and this is one time I'm going to do the talking. One time I'm... Down the alley there. Come on, you take it around the left. Yeah. There's a policeman. Guy around, and I see him now. Brooks, wait. Those shots were in the alley here. But there's nobody here. There's a cop beside window. Yeah, broken. Guy was standing out here shooting in it. Side door, Brooks. Nick Atkins. Missed me, didn't he? You Atkins. Couldn't hit fish in a rain barrel that way the way you shot at me. Who couldn't? Don't mind if we get out of this light of doorway, though, do you? Yeah, yeah, but who? How should I know? Look, Buster, my name's Valentine, and this is... Sure, I read the papers, Valentine. All right, cutie. Miss Brooks, isn't it? You read the papers, Mr. Atkins. I also get around. I watch what's going on. Did you get a telegram? Don't think I'd be left out, do you? Sure, sure. Same stuff, same words I checked with Frenchy yesterday. You saw Douglas Frenchy yesterday? Well, he gave me a ring to say he was in town from back east, that's all. Uh-huh. You seen Anzlo, likely? Nope. Martini's? Nope. What else did French say? That's all. He was sure in a lather about that wire, though. Poor guy. Yeah, it all strikes you pretty funny, doesn't it? You got a better suggestion? How else are you going to take this world unless you laugh at it? Okay, Atkins. Now, look, get something straight, Mr. There was 37 people there. I was a boss, Steve Ador at the American Docks in Singapore. I was so smart, I thought my wife would be safer with them 37. Oh, I see. Nick, you're, uh... You're not going to help us very much, are you? I don't know. Well, there's one thing I would like to know.  What do you think? No. None of you even guessed how that tragedy came about until you read Ferrell's article in a magazine. Otherwise, a certain one of you would never have lasted as long as this. All right, stand still, both of you. All right, take it easy, take it easy, I know who it is. Come in, Johnson. There's three cops I'm going to demote, and then I'm going to demote my shell. Well, what happened? Did he get away? Ah, don't even ask me. What's the matter with you? Relax, Johnson, this is Atkins. Has he told you where Martini lives yet? Has he told you what he looks like? He's telling us nothing. Everybody's being so cooperative in this case. Well, you can't blame them, Johnson. Of course the coward isn't going to talk. He'll see, we'll see. I'm expecting a call from headquarters. Oh, did they operate on Mr. French for the bullet? You could compare it with the ones that were fired at Nick Atkins? No, no, not that. It's Amo Martinez, the right Amo Martinez. What are you talking about? You see, people won't tell us. We find out. Hello, Johnson. No. No, Sergeant, you're wrong. You can't be... Yeah? Amo Martinez, who was in Singapore, who was captured and sent along to a Jap prison camp a couple of years later in that same camp. He died of sickness. Well, but... Telegram? So that's why the question mark after his name. So that's why... A dead man sends telegrams today, yesterday. A dead man phones a telegraph officer. Listen to me, Johnson. Somebody signed his name, that's all. Somebody who wanted to make everybody else sweat. Somebody who'd found out in the article there'd been a coward, but didn't know who it was, was trying to smoke him out. But that's not important, you get me? What I want to do is stop another murder. Another? Well, who's left out of the four? Who fired those shots at Atkins? Who could it be? Get away from me, both of you. Came right back to your house, didn't you, Mr. Onslow? You can't have my gun, you can't have it. But you've already shot at Nick Atkins, Mr. Onslow. I missed him, I know I missed him. But you won't get another chance, we're here now, and you're not going to shoot us? Stop talking to me as though I were crazy, I'm not crazy.  I'm going to kill him, that's what I'm trying to do.  That's better, Professor. I don't care what it does, no matter what it does to anybody. All right, we know Mr. Onslow, but still... I talk about Botany. I try to think about Botany, because I know what a terrible thing killing is, but I can't close my mind.  Please, Mr. Onslow, please be quiet, will you? Why? Let him spell it out. You too, Johnson, we're making too much noise. I told you I wanted to stop a murder, didn't I? Yeah, but... George, yeah, Bruxy. He's here. I just heard the front door open and... Shh, wait a minute. Here he comes. All right, get him! Okay, okay, get off me, I'm not going any place, now get off! Chris, come Johnson, I haven't got a gun. I don't need a gun. He's clean. All right, I'm sorry we had to be so rough, but sit still, don't move. Why? You know why. Hello, Onslow. Hello, Mr. Atkins. I guess we can do without the formalities. Just taking both 90 headquarters. We can check that gun of yours against the bullet in Douglas French, Mr. Onslow. No! And you don't have to laugh, Atkins. We'll find a gun of yours someplace. Take it easy, Johnson. I think I'll find the other gun for you. Where? French got his bullet on the walkway of a bridge, right by the railing. Okay, get some boys dragging that river fast. Killer tossed it over, huh? All right, it's worth a chance. It's worth a lot more than that. I'll say it is, because one of these two guys did it. They're the only ones left. One of those two bashed in that writer then later on went out and took a pot shot at French. I guess because French and Feral and everybody else knew he was the coward. That's why. Yeah. Yeah, it is funny, isn't it, Atkins?  He's the coward. I don't need a gun. You got no idea what it feels like to know what he did, Valentine.  No, kill him. No, you don't. I'll cut it out. I want to talk about telegrams. Martinis didn't send them. That's a cinch. And Mr. Onslow, you didn't even receive your wire until long after Feral was dead and French had been shot. What difference does that... Therefore, the wires must have been sent by one of you two and whichever one it was, you sent one to yourself to cover up. So what if I did? Now, what does that make me? Thanks, Atkins. But I don't even care if it was you. The point is, the guy who sent those wires did it because he didn't know who the coward was. Look, Mr. So he couldn't have been the coward himself, could he? Now, wait a minute, Valentine. This case is all upside down, Johnson, because for once the innocent have a tragic motive for wanting to kill. You two guys are at each other's throats because you're the last ones left. Because you jumped to the same conclusions the lieutenant did. But Mr. Valentine, I don't know... Oh, it's pretty easy, Mr. Onslow. I guess there were two men who knew about the coward. Mr. Feral and the coward himself, who must have found that Feral knew the truth and killed him. The man who walked out on the bridge by the railing tried to commit suicide. Douglas French. Where is Valentine, anyway? He'll be right back, Lieutenant. The doctor said the bullet was right next to his heart. Yeah, I guess it'll match up with the gun from the river, alright? The gun we already traced to French. He must have stood by the railing concentrated on making his die-in movement to heave the gun overboard. Pull the trigger. Douglas French, only why? Why'd he go to all that trouble? Why'd he call Valentine in good? Think how close to his heart it's always been, Lieutenant. Ever since 1942. Something even more deadly than a bullet. The guilt of knowing what he did. Of being the only one who knew. I guess so. And then when the article came out, when he killed Mr. Feral, he must have known it was hopeless that the others would get to him sooner or later. But why call Valentine in good? I don't understand. He wanted to make everyone think accusing him would be a mistake. It was like the way he tried to commit suicide. Trying to make it someone else's fault. Making everything seem someone else's fault. Sure, sure. I get it. Douglas French was a coward all the way to the bitter end. If you'd like to make coffee time at your house more enjoyable than ever, along with your coffee, serve cream. P-R-E-A-M. That's the delicious new dairy miracle in powdered form that creams coffee instantly, and so conveniently you'll prefer it to all other coffee-creaming products. Cream never sours, never turns. Keeps indefinitely while sealed. Open for daily use. Cream stays fresh tasting to the last spoonful. Whether you keep it on your kitchen shelf or in your refrigerator. You'll like the new economy cream brings you to. You'll find cream actually saves more than one-third the cost of coffee cream. And because cream is made from fresh sweet cream and milk products only, you'll love its rich, delicious flavor. And then remember this, cream is less fattening. Use cream in your coffee, and every cup contains only about half as many calories as if you use coffee cream. So try cream. P-R-E-A-M. Discover for yourself. The new way to cream it is to cream it. George. George, what are you thinking about? I don't know, Angel. The things people do to forget things, laugh at the world like Nick Atkins, or concentrate on work. Like botany maybe. We're pretty lucky, Bruxy and I. I know it. Not having anything big to... Well, when we want to forget, all we have to do is... Yes, George. All right. We go out and get something to eat. Tonight's adventure of George Valentine has been brought to you transcribed by Prime, the new dairy miracle in instant powdered form. Try it. You'll prefer it to all other products for creaming your coffee. For Prime is the most delicious, convenient, thrifty way to cream your coffee ever discovered. Let George do it stars Olin Suley as George, and tonight Lillian Bayef appeared as Bruxy. Ken Christie appears as Lieutenant Johnson. Let George do it is written by David Victor and Jackson Gillis, and directed by JC Lewis. Also heard in tonight's cast, where Jack Edwards is French, Jane Avello is Anzlo, Jack Krushen is Atkins, Noreen Gamil as the landlady, and Doris Singleton as the telegraph girl. The music was composed and presented by George Wright, your announcer, George Crowell. Join us again next Monday night. Same time, same station, what amazing new Prime, P-R-E-A-M. Invite you to... Let George do it.


Hi everyone, Joe for Jaspie's casebreaks.com with our last filler box to unlock eminence basketball random hit number 15 coming up in a separate video Now as always we're gonna do the break itself first We're gonna make you sweat out this break and see wait till the very end to see who on this list is gonna win that final spot Good luck. Let's do the break first Give away a different dice roll for the names and teams we're gonna go nine four and a five nine times one Two got Matthew down to Danny four and a five nine times for The teams two and ninth and final time after nine. We got the Lakers down to the Grizzlies Lakers are now only up by five looks like Minnesota is making some sort of comeback Come on guys The two two thirty left. Where's it? Where's the defense? What's going on here? All right, so so there's Matthew down to Danny There's nine times right there. Sorry Lakers down to Grizzly. He's got distracted by the game All right, here's the first half of the list right here Robert Wolfe with the Pelicans Who has the grill? There's the Grizzly down there for Danny. I Think tonight it looks like the Yeah, it looks like the Pelicans and Zion Williamson are winning the Zion versus John Morant battle Alright, so let's print no trade windows on these of course. Let's print this out See what we got Marcus all draining threes. There you go. Lakers back up by ten on the 16th. There it is And here we go. Good luck. I'm reddish and oh I kind of saw Pelicans. I thought that was gonna be a silver Zion popping out of here But it's his teammate to kill Alexander Walker Robert Wolfe with the Pelicans Sorry about that Robert false alarm Reddish goes to Robert in the Hawks as well And the relic here is bowl bowl for Sean and the nuggets Zach Levine green de Marcus Cousins Zach Levine silver Kyle Anderson right behind him There you go ladies and gentlemen. Let's flip back to this screen now the moment you've been waiting for deep breath Fingers crossed get get all of your lucky charms is out Whatever they may be New dice roll for the giveaway name on top after Seven lucky seven will get into the eminence break 36 over a thirty six hundred our spot name on top will get one happy person 29 sad people after seven. Good luck one two three four five six and Seventh and final time after seven There's all the sad people. Sorry sad people. I appreciate you trying though and Congrats to sorry Danny.  I'll see you for that one. Jasper's case breaks.com. Bye. Bye