BENITA: prey for him is the true story of bright, vivacious Benita Kane and the Catholic priest who lured her from childhood into a disastrous, twenty-year entanglement that changed the course of her life. What happened to this fatherless girl in the hierarchical, patriarchal world of Dubuque, Iowa during the 40's, 50's and 60's is not simply one more tale of clerical sexual abuse, but rather an astounding, maddening, compelling account of what it was like to grow up in a family, community and culture so dominated by the Catholic church that no one could recognize the ominous events developing around them. As Benita's friend and classmate from second-grade through college, Virginia Tranel writes from the unique stance of both participant and observer.

Parentage of Peter-His father's double marriage-Death of his father-The princesses-Their places of seclusion-Theodore and John-Sophia uneasy in the convent-Her request-Her probable motives-Her success-Increase of her influence-Jealousies-Parties formed-The imperial guards-Their character and influence-Dangers-Sophia and the soldiers-Sophia's continued success-Death of Theodore-Peter proclaimed-Plots formed by Sophia-Revolution-Means of exciting the people-Poisoning-Effect of the stories that were circulating-Peter and his mother-The Monastery of the Trinity-Natalia's flight-Narrow escape of Peter-Commotion in the city-Sophia is unsuccessful-Couvansky's schemes-Sophia's attempt to appease the soldiers-No effect produced-Couvansky's views-His plan of a marriage for his son-Indignation of Sophia-A stratagem-Couvansky falls into the snare-Excitement produced by his death-Galitzin-Measures adopted by him-They are successful

Hurrah, Sam, it is settled at last that we are to go to boarding school! "Are you certain, Tom? Don't let me raise any false hopes." "Yes, I am certain, for I heard Uncle Randolph tell Aunt Martha that he wouldn't keep us in the house another week. He said he would rather put up with the Central Park menagerie-think of that!" and Tom Rover began to laugh. "That's rather rough on us, but I don't know but what we deserve it," answered Sam Rover, Tom's younger brother. "We have been giving it pretty strong lately, with playing tricks on Sarah the cook, Jack the hired man, and Uncle Randolph's pet dog Alexander. But then we, had to do something-or go into a dry rot. Life in the country is all well enough, but it's mighty slow for me."

He was a very sick white man. He rode pick-a-back on a woolly-headed, black-skinned savage, the lobes of whose ears had been pierced and stretched until one had torn out, while the other carried a circular block of carved wood three inches in diameter. The torn ear had been pierced again, but this time not so ambitiously, for the hole accommodated no more than a short clay pipe. The man-horse was greasy and dirty, and naked save for an exceedingly narrow and dirty loin-cloth; but the white man clung to him closely and desperately. At times, from weakness, his head drooped and rested on the woolly pate. At other times he lifted his head and stared with swimming eyes at the cocoanut palms that reeled and swung in the shimmering heat. He was clad in a thin undershirt and a strip of cotton cloth, that wrapped about his waist and descended to his knees. On his head was a battered Stetson, known to the trade as a Baden-Powell. About his middle was strapped a belt, which carried a large-calibred automatic pistol and several spare clips, loaded and ready for quick work.

A weary journey beyond the last scrub timber and straggling copses, into the heart of the Barrens where the niggard North is supposed to deny the Earth, are to be found great sweeps of forests and stretches of smiling land. But this the world is just beginning to know. The world's explorers have known it, from time to time, but hitherto they have never returned to tell the world. The Barrens-well, they are the Barrens, the bad lands of the Arctic, the deserts of the Circle, the bleak and bitter home of the musk-ox and the lean plains wolf. So Avery Van Brunt found them, treeless and cheerless, sparsely clothed with moss and lichens, and altogether uninviting. At least so he found them till he penetrated to the white blank spaces on the map, and came upon undreamed-of rich spruce forests and unrecorded Eskimo tribes. It had been his intention, (and his bid for fame), to break up these white blank spaces and diversify them with the black markings of mountain-chains, sinks and basins, and sinuous river courses; and it was with added delight that he came to speculate upon the possibilities of timber belts and native villages.

San Francisco Bay is so large that often its storms are more disastrous to ocean-going craft than is the ocean itself in its violent moments. The waters of the bay contain all manner of fish, wherefore its surface is ploughed by the keels of all manner of fishing boats manned by all manner of fishermen. To protect the fish from this motley floating population many wise laws have been passed, and there is a fish patrol to see that these laws are enforced. Exciting times are the lot of the fish patrol: in its history more than one dead patrolman has marked defeat, and more often dead fishermen across their illegal nets have marked success.

They ran across the shining sand, the Pacific thundering its long surge at their backs, and when they gained the roadway leaped upon bicycles and dived at faster pace into the green avenues of the park. There were three of them, three boys, in as many bright-colored sweaters, and they "scorched" along the cycle-path as dangerously near the speed-limit as is the custom of boys in bright-colored sweaters to go. They may have exceeded the speed-limit. A mounted park policeman thought so, but was not sure, and contented himself with cautioning them as they flashed by. They acknowledged the warning promptly, and on the next turn of the path as promptly forgot it, which is also a custom of boys in bright-colored sweaters.

Old Long-Beard paused in his narrative, licked his greasy fingers, and wiped them on his naked sides where his one piece of ragged bearskin failed to cover him. Crouched around him, on their hams, were three young men, his grandsons, Deer-Runner, Yellow-Head, and Afraid-of-the-Dark. In appearance they were much the same. Skins of wild animals partly covered them. They were lean and meagre of build, narrow-hipped and crooked-legged, and at the same time deep-chested, with heavy arms and enormous hands. There was much hair on their chests and shoulders, and on the outsides of their arms and legs. Their heads were matted with uncut hair, long locks of which often strayed before their eyes, beady and black and glittering like the eyes of birds. They were narrow between the eyes and broad between the cheeks, while their lower jaws were projecting and massive. It was a night of clear starlight, and below them, stretching away remotely, lay range on range of forest-covered hills. In the distance the heavens were red from the glow of a volcano. At their backs yawned the black mouth of a cave, out of which, from time to time, blew draughty gusts of wind.

John Claverhouse was a moon-faced man. You know the kind, cheek-bones wide apart, chin and forehead melting into the cheeks to complete the perfect round, and the nose, broad and pudgy, equidistant from the circumference, flattened against the very centre of the face like a dough-ball upon the ceiling. Perhaps that is why I hated him, for truly he had become an offense to my eyes, and I believed the earth to be cumbered with his presence. Perhaps my mother may have been superstitious of the moon and looked upon it over the wrong shoulder at the wrong time. Be that as it may, I hated John Claverhouse. Not that he had done me what society would consider a wrong or an ill turn. Far from it. The evil was of a deeper, subtler sort; so elusive, so intangible, as to defy clear, definite analysis in words. We all experience such things at some period in our lives. For the first time we see a certain individual, one who the very instant before we did not dream existed; and yet, at the first moment of meeting, we say: "I do not like that man." Why do we not like him? Ah, we do not know why; we know only that we do not. We have taken a dislike, that is all. And so I with John Claverhouse.

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - Pictures! Pictures! Pictures! Often, before I learned, did I wonder whence came the multitudes of pictures that thronged my dreams; for they were pictures the like of which I had never seen in real wake-a-day life. They tormented my childhood, making of my dreams a procession of nightmares and a little later convincing me that I was different from my kind, a creature unnatural and accursed. In my days only did I attain any measure of happiness. My nights marked the reign of fear - and such fear! I make bold to state that no man of all the men who walk the earth with me ever suffer fear of like kind and degree. For my fear is the fear of long ago, the fear that was rampant in the Younger World, and in the youth of the Younger World. In short, the fear that reigned supreme in that period known as the Mid-Pleistocene.

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - Oh Tom, is it really safe? A young lady - an exceedingly pretty young lady, she could be called - stood with one small, gloved hand on the outstretched wing of an aeroplane, and looked up at a young man, attired in a leather, fur-lined suit, who sat in the cockpit of the machine just above her. "Safe, Mary?" repeated the pilot, as he reached in under the hood of the craft to make sure about one of the controls. "Why, you ought to know by this time that I wouldn't go up if it wasn't safe " "Oh, yes, I know, Tom. It may be all right for you, but I've never been up in this kind of airship before, and I want to know if it's safe for me."

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find, thousands of men were rushing into the Northland. These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost. Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. Judge Miller's place, it was called. It stood back from the road, half hidden among the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the wide cool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house was approached by gravelled driveways which wound about through wide-spreading lawns and under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. At the rear things were on even a more spacious scale than at the front. There were great stables, where a dozen grooms and boys held forth, rows of vine-clad servants' cottages, an endless and orderly array of outhouses, long grape arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumping plant for the artesian well, and the big cement tank where Judge Miller's boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in the hot afternoon.

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - WOLF, meeting with a Lamb astray from the fold, resolved not to lay violent hands on him, but to find some plea to justify to the Lamb the Wolf's right to eat him. He thus addressed him: "Sirrah, last year you grossly insulted me." "Indeed," bleated the Lamb in a mournful tone of voice, "I was not then born." Then said the Wolf, "You feed in my pasture." "No, good sir," replied the Lamb, "I have not yet tasted grass." Again said the Wolf, "You drink of my well." "No," exclaimed the Lamb, "I never yet drank water, for as yet my mother's milk is both food and drink to me." Upon which the Wolf seized him and ate him up, saying, "Well I won't remain supperless, even though you refute every one of my imputations." The tyrant will always find a pretext for his tyranny.

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - The entire affair is shrouded in mystery, said D'Arnot. "I have it on the best of authority that neither the police nor the special agents of the general staff have the faintest conception of how it was accomplished. All they know, all that anyone knows, is that Nikolas Rokoff has escaped." John Clayton, Lord Greystoke - he who had been "Tarzan of the Apes" - sat in silence in the apartments of his friend, Lieutenant Paul D'Arnot, in Paris, gazing meditatively at the toe of his immaculate boot. His mind revolved many memories, recalled by the escape of his arch-enemy from the French military prison to which he had been sentenced for life upon the testimony of the ape-man.

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. 1st World Library-Literary Society is a non-profit educational organization. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - The entire affair is shrouded in mystery, said D'Arnot. "I have it on the best of authority that neither the police nor the special agents of the general staff have the faintest conception of how it was accomplished. All they know, all that anyone knows, is that Nikolas Rokoff has escaped." John Clayton, Lord Greystoke - he who had been "Tarzan of the Apes" - sat in silence in the apartments of his friend, Lieutenant Paul D'Arnot, in Paris, gazing meditatively at the toe of his immaculate boot. His mind revolved many memories, recalled by the escape of his arch-enemy from the French military prison to which he had been sentenced for life upon the testimony of the ape-man.

Daniel J. Langton was born in Paterson, New Jersey and raised in East Harlem with his brothers and sister. He is married to Eve and they have a son, Mark. They live in San Francisco, where he teaches English and Creative Writing at San Francisco State University. His poetry has appeared in such journals as the Nation, the Paris Review, the Atlantic Monthly, the TLS, the Harvard Advocate and the Iowa Review, and has been awarded the London Prize, the Devins Award, the Edgar Allan Poe Award and others. This is his seventh collection. Daniel J. Langton was launched into a life of writing poetry by William Carlos Williams. As he tells the story, "When I was just starting out, I went to a reading by William Carlos Williams. Afterward I showed him a poem of mine, and he told me, I don't care what you're doing, quit your job, and write nothing but poetry. And that's what happened." SOME COMMENTS ON EARLIER BOOKS BY DANIEL J. LANGTON "These poems have a lovely pacing and interior radiance." -Tess Gallagher . . ."superbly written, beautifully controlled, and yet continually freshened by a kind and fresh imagination." -Robert Bly . . ."such beauty, so moving, so beautifully made that I have to tell you it is one of the finest lyrics in the language." -William Carlos Williams "The poems I have known before are as fresh as ever. The new ones shimmer."-Pamela Skewes-Cox "Dan Langton may be America's greatest living poet." -Richard Martin

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - ALL that I have written so far about Doctor Dolittle I heard long after it happened from those who had known him - indeed a great deal of it took place before I was born. But I now come to set down that part of the great man's life which I myself saw and took part in. Many years ago the Doctor gave me permission to do this. But we were both of us so busy then voyaging around the world, having adventures and filling note-books full of natural history that I never seemed to get time to sit down and write of our doings.

Living artfully, with integrity, guides my life. I seek to express Truth in personal vision, to communicate honestly with consideration, committed to excellence in all endeavor. I choose to be authentic. -Melanie Gendron Born in Boston, MA, Melanie attended The School of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston in affiliation with Tufts University. She has developed a unique style rich in symbolism inspired by many cultures. Proficient in a variety of media, Melanie enjoys a renaissance attitude, creating with inspiration her authentic expression of Spirit. Melanie's prize winning artwork is widely exhibited and represented in numerous collections, both public and private. Among her publications are the internationally acclaimed Gendron Tarot, A Journal for Cat Lovers and The Goddess Remembered, a Spiritual Journal. Melanie is a multimedia, multi-tasking, professional artist who has served a variety of clients as: animator, art director, author, book designer, fashion designer, graphic artist, illustrator, poet, painter, portraitist, teacher-metaphysician, intuitive counselor-whatever skill applies to give her best effort. She currently manages Gendron Studios in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California, offering fine and commercial art and tarot products and services, on the web at www.melaniegendron.com, Email [email protected]. ENDORSEMENTS: The personified tarot cards in This Fool's Journey talk about themselves, making the archetypes accessible to the reader. The line drawings of the Gendron Tarot major arcana make this book a visual as well as consciously expansive treat. -John Gray, Author of Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus Melanie Gendron infuses the 22 major arcana with her own spiritual journey. Her insights make the archetypes come alive. The result is delightful-a book of reflections, poetry, and artwork that reflect her skills as an innovative multimedia artist. -Stewart Florsheim, Author of A Short Fall from Grace and A Split Second of Light The "fool" according to Ms. Gendron, is a manifestation of child-like innocence. Melanie's work is a magical compilation of art, poetry, and everyday experience inspired by Tarot's major arcana. It is an invitation for all of us to awaken to the innocence, fullness, and beauty of life as it is. -Don Lofland, Ph.D., Author of Powerlearning and Thought Viruses Melanie Gendron takes you on a personal voyage of self discovery, This book is a beautiful example of self actualization. Very entertaining. Her latest book This Fool's Journey, will inspire you and stir your imagination, inviting you on the journey as a divine Fool to gain mastery of the Universe. This is a trip worth taking. This is a book well worth having in your collection. -Peggy Black, Author of Morning Messages "We Are Here" Transmissions and Morning Messages Invitations Contained by a cohesive vision, Melanie Gendron partitions her poetically painted rooms, housed in This Fool's Journey. Cleverly calling upon the elemental spirits, she spins cycles in duality's direction, the four corners of life: North and South, East and West, instilled inside our Center. As she shares each Arcana from her personally insightful journey, she weaves hidden names and messages within the patterns of our lives, moving emotions overflowing our empty cup. Melanie Gendron 'geminizes' words with dual meanings, unfolding archetypal visions released to channel the enlightenment of self-actualization and free will through her penetrating poetry. So, "Breathe" in "Shadows" of Pandora's Box while "Dancing with the Demon," "Reaching . . ." "Though Miles Apart," the senses from the "Love" of "My Goddess." -Justin R. Hart, Poetic Author of Harmonic Hart Visions of Goddesses, Angel, Mermaids, and Fairy Tales and The Crystal Kaleidoscope of a Searching Silhouette www.harmonic-hart-visions.com

Abstract arts aims to make unseen ideas visible and inspiring. MARKS ON A PAGE is a spontaneous exercise in understanding the common ground of images. From purely conceptual compositions to emblematic interpretations, the artist, Wade Kernohan, offers concrete insights into how simple marks on a page invoke head-scratching interest. Each new project moves from an assemblage of ink strokes into an expressive idea that demonstrates the relevance of abstract art in various esoteric alphabets showing projects that range from atmospheric, textured and nuanced to raw, powerful, and vibrant. Looking to expand your expressive repertoire? Explore MARKS ON A PAGE.

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - On November 6, 1817, died the Princess Charlotte, only child of the Prince Regent, and heir to the crown of England. Her short life had hardly been a happy one. By nature impulsive, capricious, and vehement, she had always longed for liberty; and she had

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - An October night on the Syrian border of Egypt towards the end of the XXXIII Dynasty, in the year 706 by Roman computation, afterwards reckoned by Christian computation as 48 B.C. A great radiance of silver fire, the dawn of a moonlit night, is rising in the east. The stars and the cloudless sky are our own contemporaries, nineteen and a half centuries younger than we know them; but you would not guess that from their appearance. Below them are two notable drawbacks of civilization: a palace, and soldiers. The palace, an old, low, Syrian building of whitened mud, is not so ugly as Buckingham Palace; and the officers in the courtyard are more highly civilized than modern English officers: for example, they do not dig up the corpses of their dead enemies and mutilate them, as we dug up Cromwell and the Mahdi. They are in two groups: one intent on the gambling of their captain Belzanor, a warrior of fifty, who, with his spear on the ground beside his knee, is stooping to throw dice with a sly-looking young Persian recruit; the other gathered about a guardsman who has just finished telling a naughty story (still current in English barracks) at which they are laughing uproariously. They are about a dozen in number, all highly aristocratic young Egyptian guardsmen, handsomely equipped with weapons and armor, very unEnglish in point of not being ashamed of and uncomfortable in their profess-sional dress; on the contrary, rather ostentatiously and arrogantly warlike, as valuing themselves on their military caste.

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - One day early in the eighteen hundred and sixties, I, being then a small boy, was with my nurse, buying something in the shop of a petty newsagent, bookseller, and stationer in Camden Street, Dublin, when there entered an elderly man, weighty and solemn,

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - BERNARDO. Who's there.? FRANCISCO. Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself. BERNARDO. Long live the King FRANCISCO. Bernardo? BERNARDO. He. FRANCISCO. You come most carefully upon your hour. BERNARDO. 'Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco.

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, - Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre. Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest; List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.