Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Buon Natale! Merry Christmas!

Some images chosen for IL MIO AMORE.
Grazie per essere con me quando c'è sole e quando piove, grazie per abbracciarmi e farmi sentire che sei sempre con me.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Rest in Peace.

In memory of Polly`s father.

Polly, please know you have friends who love you and are with you both in rain and sun.


Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Photo.net`s Photo of the Week - December 10, 2007

Photographer foureyes .
Caption Yulong river
Views 8668 times
64 ratings, Aesthetics: 6.56/7 Originality: 6.50/7
Location: China
Equipment Unknown
Technical Details canon 40D w 10-22mm lens
Manipulated? Unknown or Yes

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Photo.net`s Photo of the Week - December 3, 2007

Photographer Geir Kalvatn
Views 161399 times
102 ratings, Aesthetics: 6.74/7 Originality: 6.65/7
Exposure Date 2006-01-08
Location Country: Norway
Equipment Unknown
Manipulated? Unknown or Yes

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Photo.net`s Photo of the Week - November 26, 2007

Photographer charles jones
Caption deathvalleydune
Views 1536 times
34 ratings, Aesthetics: 6.18/7 Originality: 5.91/7
Exposure Date 2006-03-03
Location California, usa
Equipment Camera Pentax 67 II, Filter or Filters Red filter Red #25 Lens Pentax Fisheye
Manipulated? Unknown or Yes

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Claude Monet By Himself

1886 Self-portrait

1860 - photo Carjat

In honor to my favorite artist of all time.

In 1900, Monet has become famous. On the occasion of an exhibition in Paris a journalist, Thiébault-Sisson, made him tell his life. On November 26, 1900 the newspaper "Le Temps" published this autobiography in which Monet builds himself his legend. The text is spicy but doesn't always reflect reality faithfully ...

My History

I am a Parisian of Paris. I was born there in 1840, under the reign of the good king Louis-Philippe which was an epoch centred on business interests and in which the Arts were regarded with real derision. As it was, my childhood was spent at the Havre where my father had settled in 1845 in order to better pursue his own business interests and as it happened, this childhood of mine, was essentially one of freedom. I was born undisciplineable. No one was ever able to make me stick to the rules, not even in my youngest days. It was at home that I learned most of what I do know. I equated my college life with that of a prison and I could never resolve to spend my time there, even for four hours a day when the sun was shinning bright, the sea was so beautiful and it was so good to run along the cliff-tops in the fresh air or frolic in the sea.

Up until the age of fourteen or fifteen, much to my father's great disappointment, I continued this very irregular but healthy way of life. Somehow, in between, I did acquire the rudiments of a basic education including some proficiency at spelling. My studies went no further and did not cause me too much trouble, as I was able to interweave them with a number of distractions. I ornamented the margins of my text books, I decorated the blue paper of my exercise books with ultra fantastic designs and represented in the most irreverant manner possible, the features of my masters - either drawingtheir faces in front view or in profile.

I became very quickly adept at this game. At fifteen, I was known by the whole of Le Havre as a caricaturist. My reputation was so well established that I was commissioned by everyone for these types of portraits. It was in effect, in consideration of the sheer number of commissions that I received as well as the insufficiency of the allowance that I received from my mother, that prompted the audacious decision that I made to charge a fee for my portraits. This of course, scandalised my family. I would charge ten to twenty francs depending on whether I liked the look of my clients or not and this method worked extremely well. In a month, the number of clients had doubled and I was able to charge a fixed rate of twenty francs without reducing in any way the demand. Had I continued this way, I would today be a millionaire!

Thus, by this means, I became someone of importance in the town. There, along the shop front of the only framers in business at Le Havre, were my caricatures, insolently sprawled-out in groups of five or six, to be seen in full in little gold frames, under glass like real works of art. Moreover, when I saw strollers gathering to gap at them with admiration and cry "It is so and so!", I was bursting with pride.

I should say, however, that there was a flaw to this otherwise perfect situation. There was often, in this same shop window, hanging just above my own works, a number of maritime scenes that I found, along with most of the inhabitants of the Havre, revolting. I was so vexed at having to endure this enforced contact, that I did not tary to slander this idiot who, thinking himself an artist had dared to sign his works "Boudin". For me, who had been used to Gudin's seascapes - with their arbitrary colourations, false touches and invented perspectives so much in use by fashionable artists at the time - Boudin's sincere little compositions with his correctly deliniated little figures, his pleasant boats, his ever so perfect skies and water, drawn and painted only from nature, held no artistic value for me. His fidelity seemed suspect. Hence, his paintings inspired me with a terrible aversion and without even having met the man, I disliked him intensely. Often, the framer would say: "You should meet Mister Boudin. Despite what is said about him, he is a professional who knows his work. He studied in Paris at the Academy Beaux-Arts. He could give you some useful advice."

But I resisted, dug my heals in . What could I possibly learn from such a ridiculous fellow?
Despite myself, however, the day did arrive when fate thrust me into Boudin's presence. He was at the back of the shop and I had not noticed him as I entered. The framer immediately took the opportunity to introduce me saying: "See here, Mister Boudin, this is the young man with so much talent for caricature!" Boudin immediately coming towards me, complimented me with his gentle voice and said: "I always look at your sketches with pleasure; they are amusing, animated, they seem to have been done with ease. You have talent, one can see that straight away. But you are not, I hope, going to keep doing the same thing. It is very good for starting off, but you will get bored with just doing caricatures. Study, learn to look, paint and draw. Do some landscapes. It is so beautiful the sea and sky, animals, people and trees just as nature made them, with their characters, their true essence of being, in the light, within the atmosphere, just as things are."

But Boudin's exhortations left no impression on me even if, after all, the man himself was agreable to me. He was convinced, sincere. I could feel it, but I could not appreciate his paintings and when he offered to take me with him to paint outdoors in the open countryside, I always found a pretext and refused politely. But when summer came, I was more or less free to dispose of my time as I wished and I had no feasible excuse left to give him and gave in. Thus it was, that Boudin - with his inexhaustable kindness - took it upon himself to educate me. With time, my eyes began to open and I really started to understand nature. I also leaned to love it. I would analyse its forms with my pencil. I would study its colourations. Six months later - not withstandings my mother's objections who was seriously becoming worried about my frequentations of a man like Boudin, I squarely announced to my father, that I intended to become a painter and was moving to Paris to learn.

"You will not get a penny!"
"I shall do without."

In effect, I was able to do without. I had already, long ago, managed to 'line my purse'. The sales from my caricatures had taken care of that. I had often been able to execute in one day , seven or eight commissioned portraits. At a "Louis" for each, my income had flourished and I had taken the habit from the start, to deposit the revenue with one one of my aunts, keeping for my pocket money only insignificant amounts. At sixteen, with two thousand francs, one believes onself to be rich! Armed with references acquired through admirers of Boudin who had connections with Monginot, Troyon and Amand Gautier, I promptly left for Paris without a care in the world.

To begin with, it took a while for me to find my feet. I went to visit the artists to whom I had been introduced. I received some excellent advice but also some appalling suggestions. Was it not the case that Troyon had tried to make me attend Couture's workshop? Needless to say, how vehemently I had refused that idea. It even had the effect of cooling my estimation of Troyon, at least for a short while. I stopped seeing him and associated instead only with artists who were looking for something. At that time, I met Pissarro who had not yet thought of being a rebel and was simply working in Corot's style. I felt this to be a good model to emulate and I followed suit. Having said this, for the whole duration of my four years in Paris - which was interdispersed with frequent visits to Le Havre anyhow - it was mainly Boudin's advice that I adhered to, even given my inclination to enlarge upon nature.

I reached my twentieth year and the time when I should be conscripted into the army was drawing near. This did not provoke fear in me nor did it worry my family. My escape had not been forgiven and if they had let me live my life as I wished for those four years, it was only because they hoped to bring me back to the fold once faced with military service. They assumed, that having had the opportunity to try and make my own way in the world, I would soon tire of it and return home, sensibly, getting-down to my family's business interests. If I refused, they would cut-off my allowance or should I turn-out badly, they would simply let me go.

They were wrong. The seven years which to many others seemed so difficult, appeared to me to be full of charm. A friend - who was a "chass d'Af" and who loved military life, had communicated to me his enthusiasm and suffused me with his sense of adventure. Nothing seemed more attractive than the endless trekking under the sun, the raids, the crackle of the gun-powder, the sabre-rattling, the nights spent under canvass in the desert and I imperiously waved aside all my father's objections. I was 'bad news' and I obtained, on demand, that I should be sent to a regiment in Africa and left.

I spent two really charming years in Algeria. There was always something new to see and in my spare time, I tried to capture what I saw. You cannot imagine the extent of what I learned and how much my ability to see improved. I was not immediately aware of this. The impressions of light and colour that I gained there were, to some extent, put aside later, but the kernal of my future researches came from them.

At the end of the two years, I became seriously ill. I was sent back home. My six months of convalescence were spent drawing and painting with renewed fervour. Seeing me thus, so determined despite the fact that I was very weak with fever, my father became convinced that nothing would sway me from my resolve and that no obstacle could stand in the way of my chosen vocation, so that as a result of both lassitude as well as fear of losing me should I go back to Africa (as the doctor had warned), he relented and decided towards the end of my leave, to buy me out.

"But, it must be well understood that you are to work seriously this time. I want to see you in a workshop, under the discipline of a well-known master. If you return to your previous independence, I will cut off your allowance without any concessions. Is that understood?" His plan only half satisfied me, but I was well aware that since my father was for once, prepared to consider things from my point of view, it was necessary not to refuse.
I accepted and it was settled that I should, in Paris, be under the artistic tutelage of the painter Toulmouche, who had just married one of my cousins. He would guide me and would provide regular reports on my work.

One sunny morning, I arrived at Toulmouche's with a pile of my sketches which he greatly appreciated. "You have promise but you will have to channel your impetus. You will be sent to Mister Gleyre. He is the kind of sedate and wise master you need." So I set up my easel, grumbling, in the studio that this famous artist ran for students. The first week, I worked there conscientiously and produced with as much application as dash, a life-drawing that Mister Gleyre corrected on the Monday.

The following week, when he passed in front of me, he sat down and squarely positioned on my chair, looked at my piece. I could then see him turn around, inclining his serious face with a satisfied air and I heard him say to me while smiling: "Not bad, not at all bad this, but it is too much like the real model. You have a stocky man and you depict him as stocky. He has enormous feet and you reproduce them. It is very ugly. Remember, young man, that when one executes a face, one should always think back to the Classical. Nature, my friend, serves well as a means to study but offers no real interest. Style is the only thing that matters."

I was flabbergasted. The truth, life, nature - all that provoked emotions in me - all that constituted for me the real essence and the unique "raison d'être" of art, did not exist for this man! I would not stay with him. I did not believe myself to have been born to follow his pursuit of lost illusions and other nonsenses. What was the use of persisting?

I did however, wait a few weeks so as not to exasperate my family. I did continue to attend but just stayed long enough to execute a rough sketch copied from the model and to be there for the correction. I then cleared out. I had in any case, found some companions that I liked at the studio. They had nothing superficial about their natures. These were Renoir and Sisley whom I would not from then on, loose sight of. There was also Bazille, who immediately became an intimate friend and would have made a name for himself, had he lived. Neither of them manifested any more than I did, any enthusiasm for an education, which both contravened their sense of logic as well as their temperaments.
I immediately preached revolt to them. Our exodus resolved upon, we left and took a studio which we shared, Bazille and I.

I forgot to tell you that I had recently made the aquaintance of Jongkind. It was during my convalescence-leave, one beautiful afternoon when I was working near Le Havre at a farm. A cow was grazing in a field and the idea came to me to draw the animal. But this animal was capricious and kept moving with every second that went by. With my easel held in one hand and my stool in the other, I would follow her in order to regain as best as was possible, my point of view. My antics must have been very funny to be sure, as I heard behind me, a great roar of laughter. I turned around and saw a giant bursting out with laughter. But this giant was a good sort. "Wait for me to help you", he said. The giant then, with enormous strides came up to the cow and got hold of its horns in order to contraint it to 'pose'. The cow, naturally, not being used to this sort of thing, resisted. This time, it was my turn to explode with meriment and the giant, crestfallen, let go of the beast and came over to me for a little chat.

He was an English man, just passing through, greatly in love with painting and very informed about what was going on in our country.

"So, you paint landscapes", he said.
"Well, yes."
"Do you know Jongkind?"
"No, but I have seen some of his paintings"
"What do you think about it?"
"It is very good"
"Too right, do you know that he is here?"
"Are you sure?"
"He lives at Honfleur. Would you like to meet him?"
"Certainly, I would. Are you one of his friends ?"
"I have never seen him, but as soon as I learned he was here, I sent him my calling card. It is a good opportunity and I am going to invite him and yourself, for lunch."

To my great surprise, the English man kept to his word and the following Sunday, the three of us had lunch together. Never was a meal so gay. It took place outdoors in a little country garden under some trees and the food was wholesome country fare. But, with a full glass of wine in his hand, sitting between two obviously sincere admirers, Jongkind did not quite feel at ease. The unexpected aspect of this meeting amused him but he was not accustomed to this sort of thing. His painting was too new and far too artistic to be appreciated in 1862 at his prices. Moreover, no one was as bad at making himself valued, as he was.

He was a straight-forward and simple kind of man, who could hardly speak bad French and was very shy. But he was very outgoing that day. He asked to see my sketches, invited me to come and work with him, explained the whys and wherefores underlining his work and thereby, completed the training that I had already received from Boudin. He became from this moment, my true master and it to him, that I owe the definitive training of my eyes.

I saw him again often in Paris. No need to say how much my painting improved. The progress that I made was rapid and three years later, I was exhibiting. The two seascapes that I had sent were received and given pride of place, hung high-up in good view. It was a great success. The same unanimous praise was given in 1866 for a large portrait that you saw at Durand-Ruel and which was there for a long time "The Woman in Green". The newspapers carried my name right to Le Havre and my family, at last, granted me some estimation. With this estimation came a renewed allowance. I was swimming in opulence, at least, for a while as we were to fall out again later. I was ready to recklessly hurl myself into the open.

It was a rather dangerous novelty. No one had attempted it, not even Manet, who innovated only later, after me. His painting was still very conventional and I still remember the contemptuous way in which he spoke of my beginnings. It was in 1867, my style had began to stand out, but for all that, it was far from revolutionary. I was still a long way off from my adoption of the principle of the division of colours - which turned so many people against me, but I was partially trying it out and would practice different effects of light and colour which contravened received ideas. The selection committee, which was all in my favour in the beginning, turned against me and when I presented my new painting to the 'Salon', I was shamefully rejected.

I did however, find a means of exhibiting, but elswhere. Touched by my entreaties, a dealer who had his shop at the 'rue Auber', did consent to show a seascape of mine which had been refused by the 'Palais de L'Industrie'. There were cries of indignation. One evening as I stopped in the road, joining a group of strollers to hear what was being said of me, I saw Manet arriving with two or three of his friends. The party stopped, looked and Manet shrugging his shoulders, cried-out contempteously: "Look at this young man who wants to paint from nature; as though the ancients had never thought about it!"

Manet held an old grudge against me. At the 'Salon' of 1866, the day of the opening, he had been met from the start, with acclamations. "Excellent, my friend, your picture!" Hand-shakes, 'bravos' and felicitations ensued. Manet - as you can imagine - was exultant. You can also imagine his surprise when he discovered that the canvas which was getting so much praise, was one of mine. It was "The Woman in Green". As fate would have it, just as he was trying to slip away, he stumbled on a group of people made up of Bazille and myself. "Ah, my friend, it is disgusting, I am furious! One is only complimenting me on a painting that is not even by me. One would think it is a hoax."

When, the next day, Astruc informed him that he had voiced his disatisfaction in front of the author of the painting and proposed to introduce him to me, Manet with a shrug, flatly refused. He retained the grudge for the bad turn I had played on him, entirely unwittingly. For once he had been praised for a masterly touch and this touch was not his. This was a bitter blow for someone which such sensitivity.

It was not until 1869 that I met him again, but this time, we became friends immediately. From the first meeting, he invited me to join him every evening in a café of the 'Batignolles' where he and his friends would gather to talk at the end of a day spent at their studios. I would meet there, Fantin-Latour and Cézanne, Degas - who arrived shortly afterwards from Italy, the art critic Duranty, Emile Zola who was just starting-off in the literary world and a number of others. I would take Sisley, Bazille and Renoir. There was nothing more interesting than these discussions with their perpetual differences of opinion. Our mind and souls were stimulated. We would encourage each other to make unbiased and sincere researches. We would nourish each other with enthusiasm which had the power to sustain us for weeks on end, until we were able to give definite form to the idea. One would always leave, all the better immersed, the will stronger, our thinking more defined and clear.

The war came. I had just got married. I went to England and found, in London, Bonvin and Pissarro. I also experienced poverty there. England did not want our paintings and things were hard. But as fate would have it, I met Daubigny who, in the past had shown some interest in me. At the time, he was doing views of the Thames which were very well liked by the English. My situation stirred his compassion. "I can see what you need. I will find a dealer for you", he said. The next day, I made the acquaintance of Durand-Ruel.

Durand-Ruel, became for us, our saviour. For more than fifteen years, my painting as well as that of Renoir, Sisley and Pissarro had no other market than through him. One day came when he was forced to restrain himself and buy from us less regularly. We thought ruin was facing us but it was success that was just about to come. Offered to Petit and the Boussod, our works found through them some buyers. They were judged not to be quite as bad as previously thought. At Durand-Ruel, they were not wanted, but once placed with others, confidence increased and people bought. The 'pendulum was in motion'. Today, everyone wants to know us.

Claude Monet
Presented by Thiébault-SissonPublished on November 26th 1900 in "Le Temps" newspaperTranslation by Louise McGlone

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Photo.net`s Photo of the Week - November 12, 2007

Photographer Yuliya Shevchenko
Caption Untitled
Views 63329 times
88 ratings, Aesthetics: 6.56/7 Originality: 6.61/7
Equipment Unknown
Manipulated? Unknown or Yes

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Photo.net`s Photo of the Week - November 5, 2007

Photographer Vadim Onishchenko
Caption The Life Thirst
Views 13125 times
60 ratings, Aesthetics: 6.38/7 Originality: 6.63/7
Location City: Africa Country: Africa
Equipment Camera Canon 1D MK3, Lens Canon EF 600mm F4 IS
Technical Details This shot i have take in lake Nakuru - Kenya. This very early in the morning, fog have be on all area of lake Nakuru, this hunting be very fast and unexpectedly. My Photo Safari Workshop Kenya 2007
Real Wildlife photography - African photo safari 2008 Join
Manipulated? No

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Photo.net`s Photo of the Week - October 29, 2007

Photographer Tom Grubbe
Caption Salton Sea II
Views 1824 times
37 ratings, Aesthetics: 6.30/7 Originality: 6.03/7
Exposure Date 2007-02-03
Location: California Country: USA
Camera Pentax 67 II
Film / Media Fuji Velvia ISO 50
Filter or Filters hoya 81B, hoya Cir-Polarizer
Lens Pentax SMC Pentax 55mm (6x7)
Technical Details I don't remember if I used an ND grad here or not. I think the sun was low enough so it wasn't necessary. This was shot from Bombay Beach on the eastern shore of the Salton Sea looking south.
Manipulated? Unknown or Yes

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Photo.net`s Photo of the Week - October 8, 2007

Photographer Marc Adamus
Caption Rainbow Falls
Views 28583 times
Ratings Critique Only
Equipment Camera Canon EOS 5D, Lens Canon 70-200 4L USM
Manipulated? No

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Photo.net`s Photo of the Week - August 27, 2007

Source: www.photo.net

Photographer Haleh Bryan
Caption Trevasia-2
Views 93419 times
Ratings Critique Only
Exposure Date 2005-12-19
Location City: SF State: California
Equipment Camera Canon EOS 10D
Technical Details best seen larger.
Manipulated? Unknown or Yes

Friday, August 17, 2007


GOOD NEWS! Things are under control!
Thank you all!
* * * * *
От моята добра приятелка Поли /Павлина/, която е в Щатите и дори не може да пътува до България, в момента!

Моля, помогнете.
Благодаря ви от сърце!


* * * * *

Здравей, приятелю,

Пиша ти за нещо много спешно - татко е в болница в Пловдив, за последната година той премина през няколко операции, които засега не му помагат. Оказа се, че има рак на дебелото черво и нещата се влошават. Днес говорих с него, звучи много отчаян. Трябва да му се прелее кръв, но не могат да намерят в лабораторията. Той е кръвна група АB +.

Те питат за хора от семейството и приятели, които имат тази кръвна група, ако могат да дарят кръв за него. Моля те ако намериш някой, който може да помогне!!! Мобилния му телефон е 0886850196, а на Николина е 0888785503 /бел. Биляна: предполагам, че Николина е приятелката на Полиния татко/.

Ако намериш някой, моля те обади им се и ги питай какво да правиш. Убива ме мисълта че не мога да си отида да го видя или да направя нещо повече за него. Моята кръвна група е B+ и не му помага изобщо.

Благодаря ти предварително


Wednesday, August 15, 2007

**QUOTES**: Aristotle

Category: Philosopher
Year of Birth: 384 BC
Year of Death: 322 BC
Nationality: Greek
  • A friend to all is a friend to none.
  • A true friend is one soul in two bodies.
  • All human actions have one or more of these seven causes: chance, nature, compulsions, habit, reason, passion, desire.
  • Anybody can become angry - that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.
  • He who is to be a good ruler must have first been ruled.
  • He who is unable to live in society, or who has no need because he is sufficient for himself, must be either a beast or a god.
  • I count him braver who overcomes his desires than him who conquers his enemies; for the hardest victory is over self.
  • Misfortune shows those who are not really friends.
  • Moral excellence comes about as a result of habit. We become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts.
  • Personal beauty is a greater recommendation than any letter of reference.
  • Probable impossibilities are to be preferred to improbable possibilities.
  • Quality is not an act, it is a habit.
  • Suffering becomes beautiful when anyone bears great calamities with cheerfulness, not through insensibility but through greatness of mind.
  • The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.
  • The greatest virtues are those which are most useful to other persons.
  • The ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and grace, making the best of circumstances.
  • There was never a genius without a tincture of madness.
  • This is the reason why mothers are more devoted to their children than fathers: it is that they suffer more in giving them birth and are more certain that they are their own.
  • We must no more ask whether the soul and body are one than ask whether the wax and the figure impressed on it are one.

Photo.net`s Photo of the Week - August 13, 2007

Photographer saul santos diaz
Views 5013 times
84 ratings, Aesthetics: 6.54/7 Originality: 6.40/7
Exposure Date 2007-08-04
Location City: Torres del Paine Country: Chile
Equipment Unknown
Manipulated? Unknown or Yes

Saturday, August 11, 2007

**QUOTES**: Woody Allen

Category: Movie Director
Date of Birth: December 1, 1935
Nationality: American

  • And my parents finally realize that I'm kidnapped and they snap into action immediately: They rent out my room.
  • Harvard makes mistakes too, you know. Kissinger taught there.
  • How can I believe in God when just last week I got my tongue caught in the roller of an electric typewriter?
  • I am thankful for laughter, except when milk comes out of my nose.
  • I believe there is something out there watching us. Unfortunately, it's the government.
  • I failed to make the chess team because of my height.
  • I took a speed-reading course and read War and Peace in twenty minutes. It involves Russia.
  • I want to tell you a terrific story about oral contraception. I asked this girl to sleep with me and she said 'No.'
  • I'd never join a club that would allow a person like me to become a member.
  • I'm astounded by people who want to 'know' the universe when it's hard enough to find your way around Chinatown.
  • I'm not afraid to die, I just don't want to be there when it happens.
  • I'm very proud of my gold pocket watch. My grandfather, on his deathbed, sold me this watch.
  • If my films don't show a profit, I know I'm doing something right.
  • If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.
  • If you're not failing every now and again, it's a sign you're not doing anything very innovative.
  • In my house I'm the boss, my wife is just the decision maker.
  • Is sex dirty? Only if it's done right.
  • It seemed the world was divided into good and bad people. The good ones slept better while the bad ones seemed to enjoy the waking hours much more.
  • Love is the answer, but while you're waiting for the answer, sex raises some pretty interesting questions.
  • Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons.
  • Some guy hit my fender, and I told him, 'Be fruitful and multiply,' but not in those words.
  • The lion and the calf shall lie down together but the calf won't get much sleep.
  • The talent for being happy is appreciating and liking what you have, instead of what you don't have.

**QUOTES**: Isabelle Adjani

Category: Actress
Date of Birth: June 27, 1955
Nationality: French

  • I believe in angels, so it's simple.
  • I believe that when you work on yourself, you are attracted by different, more positive beings.
  • I want to work beyond external aggressions, forget that one has something to do for others if it's not for oneself.
  • I've suffered too much to hide my feelings.
  • In love, one should simplify, choose persons worthy of their promises and leave them if they don't keep them.
  • One cannot love without opening oneself, and opening oneself, that's taking the risk of suffering.
  • One is never ready for success. It consecrates and looses you at the same time.
  • There are people who never experience that, who remain closed until death, from fear of change.
  • You must take the risk to disclose yourself in order to become more real, more human. And even if the price is high.

Team led by a Bulgarian, finds largest exoplanet yet

The planet has a large radius but a low density.

An international team of astronomers has discovered the largest known planet orbiting another star.
The "transiting" planet - meaning one that passes in front of its parent star as seen from Earth - is about 70% larger than Jupiter.
But the gas giant has a much lower mass than Jupiter - the biggest planet in our Solar System - making it of extremely low density.
The new exoplanet, called TrES-4, is located in the constellation of Hercules and was discovered by a team working on the Transatlantic Exoplanet Survey (TrES). It is mostly made up of hydrogen.
TrES-4 circles the star GSC02620-00648, which lies about 1,435 light-years away from Earth. Being only about seven million km (4.5 million miles) from its parent star, the planet is also very hot, about 1,327C (1,600 K; 2,300F).
"TrES-4 is the largest known exoplanet," said lead author Georgi Mandushev, from the Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff, US.
Surprising size

It is so big, in fact, that its size is difficult to explain using current theories about superheated giant planets.

"We continue to be surprised by how relatively large these giant planets can be," says Francis O'Donovan, a graduate student in astronomy at the California Institute of Technology (Caltech) which operates one of the TrES telescopes.

"But if we can explain the sizes of these bloated planets in their harsh environments, it may help us better understand our own Solar System planets and their formation."

Its density of 0.2 grams per cubic centimetre is so low that the planet would, in theory, float on water.

By definition, a transiting planet passes directly between the Earth and the star, blocking some of the star's light and causing a slight drop in its brightness.
"TrES-4 blocks off about 1% of the light of the star as it passes in front of it," said Dr Mandushev.

"With our telescopes and observing techniques, we can measure this tiny drop in the star's brightness and deduce the presence of a planet there."

Planet TrES-4 makes a complete revolution around its parent star every 3.55 days, so a year on this planet is shorter than a week on Earth.

The TrES is a network of three 10cm telescopes in Arizona, California and the Canary Islands.
In order to accurately measure the size of the TrES-4 planet, astronomers used the 0.8m telescope at the Lowell Observatory in Arizona, the 1.2m telescope at the Whipple Observatory, also in Arizona, and the 10m Keck telescope in Hawaii.

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Safest Cars 2007

If you’re going to get creamed in a car, might as well make it an Audi A4.
That’s because it’s one of the safest cars on the road, according to data we consulted in forming this year’s list of most sound autos.
Joining it at the top? Acura's
RL and Saab's 9-3. All three get the highest-possible marks for safety from three of the four most respected sources of such data: Consumer Reports, the Department of Transportation, the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety (IIHS) and the Highway Loss Data Institute (HLDI).
What's more, all three vehicles carry CR's highest-possible rating for accident-avoidance capabilities. The Acura RL also has perfect crash-test scores from both the Department of Transportation's National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) and from the IIHS. The A4 and 9-3 have perfect IIHS crash-test scores, as well as substantially better-than-average (in this case, lower-than-average) frequencies of insurance injury-claim filings, according to HLDI.

Behind The Data
To earn a spot on our list, a vehicle had to have at least two of the following:
--CR's highest-possible rating for accident-avoidance capabilities. --Perfect NHTSA crash-test scores across the board. --Perfect IIHS crash-test scores across the board. --A substantially better-than-average (i.e. lower-than-average) frequency of insurance injury-claim filings, according to the HLDI.

We only looked at cars that the NHTSA and the IIHS have tested in all of their available categories: for NHTSA, two frontal-impact tests, two side-impact tests and a rollover-resistance test; for the IIHS, front, side and rear tests.
The difference between a good crash-test rating and a poor one is significant: A five-star NHTSA frontal-crash rating means a chance of serious injury of 10% or less in a head-on collision in which each vehicle is going 35 mph. A one-star rating means a chance of 46% or higher. NHTSA defines a "serious injury" as one that requires immediate hospitalization and may be life-threatening.
Safe Sex
Wondering if it’s possible to achieve safety and sex appeal?
Answer, please: Yes. Oh Yes.
Take the sporty BMW
Z4 coupe. A two-seater, it accelerates from zero to 60 in 4.9 seconds and boasts a 6-cylinder, 3.2-liter engine. Rounded fenders and flat rear glass add a touch of class.
Or the Lexus
SC convertible. It reaches a top speed of 149 mph thanks to a 4.3-liter V-8 engine.
Both also received Consumer Reports' highest-possible rating for accident-avoidance capabilities and a substantially better-than-average frequency of insurance injury-claim filings, according to the HLDI.
Think about that the next time you’re leaning more toward daring than dependability.

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

**QUOTES**: Douglas Adams

Category: Writer
Date of Birth:
March 11, 1952
Date of Death: May 11, 2001
Nationality: English
  • A common mistake that people make when trying to design something completely foolproof is to underestimate the ingenuity of complete fools.
  • Anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job.
  • He was a dreamer, a thinker, a speculative philosopher... or, as his wife would have it, an idiot.
  • I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.
  • I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be.
  • I'm spending a year dead for tax reasons.
  • In order to fly, all one must do is simply miss the ground.
  • Life... is like a grapefruit. It's orange and squishy, and has a few pips in it, and some folks have half a one for breakfast.
  • Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.

Photo.net`s Photo of the Week - August 6, 2007

Photographer Bengt Ekelberg
Views 1284 times
Ratings 0 ratings, Aesthetics: None Originality: None
Equipment Unknown
Technical Details Rolleiflex SL66, Sonnar 4/150.
Manipulated? Unknown or Yes

Time`s Quote of Monday - "The truth is, I`m not human..."

Source: www.time.com
"The truth is, I am not human — I am a man-god, son of Zeus, born to mortal woman."
- An entry on the blog THE SECRET LIFE OF STEVE JOBS
Daniel Lyons, a senior editor at Forbes magazine, was this weekend revealed to be the author of the blog, which has enthralled tech watchers with its lampooning of the Apple CEO

Sunday, July 29, 2007

That Genius... O.Henry - The Last Leaf

and my favorite short story of all time.

The Last Leaf
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!

So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony."

At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hфte of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.

That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places."

Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.

One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.

"She has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. " And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?"

"She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day." said Sue.

"Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - a man for instance?"

"A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."

"Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten."

After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.

She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.

As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.

Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward.

"Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost together.

Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.

"What is it, dear?" asked Sue.

"Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now."

"Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie."

"Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"

"Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self."

"You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too."

"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down."

"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.

"I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves."

"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."

"Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back."

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.

Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.

Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.

"Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy."

"She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet."

"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes."

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.

When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.

"Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.
Wearily Sue obeyed.

But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground.

"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time."

"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?"

But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.

The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.
When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.

The ivy leaf was still there.

Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.

"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook."

And hour later she said:
"Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples."

The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.
"Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win." And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable."

The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's all."

And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.

"I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."

Thursday, July 26, 2007

That Genius... O.Henry - Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen

Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen

There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eatsaleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the oldpump looks than it used to. Bless the day. President Roosevelt gives it to us. We hear some talk of the Puritans, but don't just remember who they were. Bet we can lick 'em, anyhow, if they try to landagain. Plymouth Rocks? Well, that sounds more familiar. Lots of ushave had to come down to hens since the Turkey Trust got its workin. But somebody in Washington is leaking out advance informationto 'em about these Thanksgiving proclamations.

The big city east of the cranberry bogs has made Thanksgiving Day aninstitution. The last Thursday in November is the only day in theyear on which it recognizes the part of America lying across theferries. It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day ofcelebration, exclusively American.

And now for the story which is to prove to you that we havetraditions on this side of the ocean that are becoming older at a much rapider rate than those of England are--thanks to our gitupand enterprise.

Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right as you enter Union Square from the east, at the walk opposite the fountain. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had taken his seat there promptly at 1 o'clock. For every time he had done so things had happened to him--Charles Dickensy things that swelled his waistcoat above his heart, and equally on the other side.
But today Stuffy Pete's appearance at the annual trysting place seemed to have been rather the result of habit than of the yearly hunger which, as the philanthropists seem to think, afflicts the poor at such extended intervals.

Certainly Pete was not hungry. He had just come from a feast that had left him of his powers barely those of respiration and locomotion. His eyes were like two pale gooseberries firmly imbedded in a swollen and gravy-smeared mask of putty. His breath came in short wheezes; a senatorial roll of adipose tissue denied afashionable set to his upturned coat collar. Buttons that had been sewed upon his clothes by kind Salvation fingers a week before flew like popcorn, strewing the earth around him. Ragged he was, with a split shirt front open to the wishbone; but the November breeze, carrying fine snowflakes, brought him only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Pete was overcharged with the caloric produced by asuper-bountiful dinner, beginning with oysters and ending with plumpudding, and including (it seemed to him) all the roast turkey and baked potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and ice cream in the world. Wherefore he sat, gorged, and gazed upon the world with after-dinner contempt.

The meal had been an unexpected one. He was passing a red brick mansion near the beginning of Fifth avenue, in which lived two old ladies of ancient family and a reverence for traditions. They even denied the existence of New York, and believed that Thanksgiving Day was declared solely for Washington Square. One of their traditional habits was to station a servant at the postern gate with orders to admit the first hungry way farer that came along after the hour ofnoon had struck, and banquet him to a finish. Stuffy Pete happened to pass by on his way to the park, and the seneschals gathered him in and upheld the custom of the castle.

After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes he was conscious of a desire for a more varied field of vision. With atremendous effort he moved his head slowly to the left. And then his eyes bulged out fearfully, and his breath ceased, and the rough-shodends of his short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel. For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth avenue toward his bench.

Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the Old Gentleman had come there and found Stuffy Pete on his bench. That was a thing that the Old Gentleman was trying to make a tradition of. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had found Stuffy there, and had led him to a restaurant and watched him eat a big dinner. They do those things in England unconsciously. But this is a young country, and nine years is not so bad. The Old Gentleman was a staunch American patriot, and considered himself a pioneer in American tradition. In order to become picturesque we must keep on doing one thing for a long time without ever letting it get away from us. Something like collecting the weekly dimes in industrial insurance. Or cleaning the streets. The Old Gentleman moved, straight and stately, toward the Institution that he was rearing. Truly, the annual feeding of Stuffy Pete was nothing national in its character, such as the Magna Chartaor jam for breakfast was in England. But it was a step. It was almost feudal. It showed, at least, that a Custom was not impossible to New Y--ahem!--America.

The Old Gentleman was thin and tall and sixty. He was dressed all in black, and wore the old-fashioned kind of glasses that won't stay on your nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been last year, and he seemed to make more use of his big, knobby cane with the crooked handle.

As his established benefactor came up Stuffy wheezed and shuddered like some woman's over-fat pug when a street dog bristles up at him. He would have flown, but all the skill of Santos-Dumont could not have separated him from his bench. Well had the myrmidons of the two old ladies done their work.

"Good morning," said the Old Gentleman. "I am glad to perceive that the vicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in health about the beautiful world. For that blessing alone this day of thanksgiving is well proclaimed to each of us. If you will come with me, my man, I will provide you with a dinner that should make your physical being accord with the mental."

That is what the old Gentleman said every time. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years. The words themselves almost formed an Institution. Nothing could be compared with them except the Declaration of Independence. Always before they had been music in Stuffy's ears. But now he looked up at the Old Gentleman's face with tearful agony in his own. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fellupon his perspiring brow. But the Old Gentleman shivered a little and turned his back to the wind.

Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke his speech rather sadly. He did not know that it was because he was wishing every time that he had a son to succeed him. A son who would come there after he was gone--a son who would stand proud and strong before some subsequent Stuffy, and say: "In memory of my father." Then it would be an Institution.

But the Old Gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented rooms in one of the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet streets east of the park. In the winter he raised fuchsias in a little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring he walked in the Easter parade. In the summer he lived at a farm house in the New Jersey hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking of a butterfly, the ornithoptera amphrisius, that he hoped to find someday. In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the Old Gentleman's occupations.

Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helpless in his own self-pity. The Old Gentleman's eyes were bright with the giving-pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year, but his little black necktie was in as jaunty a bow as ever, and the linen was beautiful and white, and his gray mustache was curled carefully at the ends. And then Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peas bubbling in a pot. Speech was intended; and as the Old Gentleman had heard the sounds nine times before, he rightly construed them into Stuffy's old formula of acceptance."Thankee, sir. I'll go with ye, and much obliged. I'm very hungry, sir."

The coma of repletion had not prevented from entering Stuffy's mind the conviction that he was the basis of an Institution. His Thanksgiving appetite was not his own; it belonged by all the sacred rights of established custom, if not, by the actual Statute of Limitations, to this kind old gentleman who bad preempted it. True, America is free; but in order to establish tradition someone must be a repetend--a repeating decimal. The heroes are not all heroes of steel and gold. See one here that wielded only weapons of iron, badly silvered, and tin.

The Old Gentleman led his annual protege southward to the restaurant, and to the table where the feast had always occurred. They were recognized. "Here comes de old guy," said a waiter, "dat blows dat same bum to a meal every Thanksgiving."

The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his corner-stone of future ancient Tradition. The waiters heaped the table with holiday food--and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken for hunger's expression, raised knife and fork and carved for himself a crown of imperishable bay.

No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast as they could be served. Gorged nearly to the uttermost when he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman, but he rallied like a true knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman's face--a happier look than even the fuchsias and theornithoptera amphrisius had ever brought to it--and he had not the heart to see it wane.

In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won. "Thankee kindly, sir," he puffed like a leaky steam pipe; "thankee kindly for a hearty meal." Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top, and pointed him toward the door. The Old Gentleman carefully counted out $1.30 in silver change, leaving three nickels for the waiter.They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north.

Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute. Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers, and fell to the sidewalk like a sun stricken horse. When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursedsoftly at his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify atransfer to the patrol wagon, so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases, with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the bare steel.

And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman. And they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked good for the bill.

But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases. "That nice old gentleman over there, now," he said, "you wouldn't think that was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family, I guess. He told me he hadn't eaten a thing for three days."