StoryTitle("caps", "Belling the Cat") ?>
Long ago, the mice had a general council to consider what measures they could take to outwit their common enemy, the Cat. Some said this, and some said that; but at last a young mouse got up and said he had a proposal to make, which he thought would meet the case. "You will all agree," said he, "that our chief danger consists in the sly and treacherous manner in which the enemy approaches us. Now, if we could receive some signal of her approach, we could easily escape from her. I venture, therefore, to propose that a small bell be procured, and attached by a ribbon round the neck of the Cat. By this means we should always know when she was about, and could easily retire while she was in the neighbourhood."
This proposal met with general applause, until an old mouse got up and said: "That is all very well, but who is to bell the Cat?" The mice looked at one another and nobody spoke. Then the old mouse said:
PoemStart() ?> PoemLine("L0", "", "\"It is easy to propose impossible remedies.\"", "") ?> PoemEnd() ?> StoryTitle("mixed", "John 3:16-21") ?>16 For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.
17 For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.
18 He that believeth on him is not condemned: but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God.
19 And this is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.
20 For every one that doeth evil hateth the light, neither cometh to the light, lest his deeds should be reproved.
21 But he that doeth truth cometh to the light, that his deeds may be made manifest, that they are wrought in God.
StoryTitle("caps", "History") ?>A few months earlier nothing would have induced Napoleon to sell any part of Louisiana, for he dreamed of again founding a New France across the Atlantic. But now war threatened with Britain. He did not love the United States, but he hated Britain. He would rather, he thought, crush Britain than found a New France. To crush Britain, however, he must have money, and the great idea came to him that he could make money out of Louisiana by selling it to the Americans. So he offered it to them for twenty million dollars.
The Americans, however, would not pay so much, and at length after some bargaining the price of fifteen million dollars was agreed upon, and the whole of Louisiana passed to the American Government, and the territory of the United States was made larger by more than a million square miles.
StoryTitle("mixed", "Emily Dickinson") ?> PoemStart() ?> PoemLine("L0", "", "If I can stop one heart from breaking,", "") ?> PoemLine("L0", "", "I shall not live in vain;", "") ?> PoemLine("L0", "", "If I can ease one life the aching,", "") ?> PoemLine("L0", "", "Or cool one pain,", "") ?> PoemLine("L0", "", "Or help one fainting robin", "") ?> PoemLine("L0", "", "Unto his nest again,", "") ?> PoemLine("L0", "", "I shall not live in vain.", "") ?> PoemEnd() ?> StoryTitle("mixed", "William J. Long, Secrets Of The Woods") ?>Before dark I had taken a wide run over the hills and through the woods to the place of my summer camp. How wonderful it all was! The great woods were covered deep with their pure white mantle; not a fleck, not a track soiled its even whiteness; for the last soft flakes were lingering in the air, and fox and grouse and hare and lucivee were still keeping the storm truce, hidden deep in their coverts. Every fir and spruce and hemlock had gone to building fairy grottoes as the snow packed their lower branches, under which all sorts of wonders and beauties might be hidden, to say nothing of the wild things for whom Nature had been building innumerable tents of white and green as they slept. The silence was absolute, the forest's unconscious tribute to the Wonder Worker. Even the trout brook, running black as night among its white-capped boulders and delicate arches of frost and fern work, between massive banks of feathery white and green, had stopped its idle chatter and tinkled a low bell under the ice, as if only the Angelus could express the wonder of the world.
StoryTitle("caps", "Shakespeare") ?> PoemStart() ?> L1("Some are born great, some achieve greatness,") ?> L0("and some have greatness thrust upon them.") ?> Attribution(100, "Twelfth Night — II. 5.") ?> PoemEnd() ?>