| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Child of Storm by H. Rider Haggard: "There, that will do. These oxen I must have to replace those in my
teams which died on the trek, but I want no more."
"Wow!" said Saduko, and all those who stood with him, while one of them
added--I think it was old Tshoza:
"He refuses six hundred cattle which are fairly his! He must be mad!"
"No friends," I answered, "I am not mad, but neither am I bad. I
accompanied Saduko on this raid because he is dear to me and stood by me
once in the hour of danger. But I do not love killing men with whom I
have no quarrel, and I will not take the price of blood."
"Wow!" said old Tshoza again, for Saduko seemed too astonished to speak,
"he is a spirit, not a man. He is _holy!_"
Child of Storm |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Herland by Charlotte Gilman: impressions; but the first evening was a good sample of the
impression we made. Jeff had a following, if I may call it that,
of the more sentimental--though that's not the word I want.
The less practical, perhaps; the girls who were artists of some sort,
ethicists, teachers--that kind.
Terry was reduced to a rather combative group: keen, logical,
inquiring minds, not overly sensitive, the very kind he liked least;
while, as for me--I became quite cocky over my general popularity.
Terry was furious about it. We could hardly blame him.
"Girls!" he burst forth, when that evening was over and we
were by ourselves once more. "Call those GIRLS!"
Herland |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Madam How and Lady Why by Charles Kingsley: the tree-trunks hissing into the air. And (curiously enough) it
does this often without touching the trees themselves. It flows
round the trunks (it did so in a wood in the Sandwich Islands a
few years ago), and of course sets them on fire by its heat, till
nothing is left of them but blackened posts. But the moisture
which comes out of the poor tree in steam blows so hard against
the lava round that it can never touch the tree, and a round hole
is left in the middle of the lava where the tree was. Sometimes,
too, the lava will spit out liquid fire among the branches of the
trees, which hangs down afterwards from them in tassels of slag,
and yet, by the very same means, the steam in the branches will
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