Youngest Brother Quotes

My youngest brother had a wonderful schtick from some time in high school, through to graduating medicine. He had a card in his wallet that read, ‘If I am found with amnesia, please give me the following books to read …’ And it listed half a dozen books where he longed to recapture that first glorious sense of needing to find out ‘what happens next’ … the feeling that keeps you up half the night. The feeling that comes before the plot’s been learned.

I swear, I’ve never met any demon as annoying as you are.” “You haven’t met my youngest brother.

In the olden days, when wishing still worked, there lived a king whose daughters were all beautiful, but the youngest daughter was so lovely that even the sun... was struck with wonder.

One day, quite some time ago, I happened on a photograph of Napoleon’s youngest brother, Jerome, taken in 1852. And I realized then, with an amazement I have not been able to lessen since: ‘I am looking at eyes that looked at the Emperor.’ Sometimes I would mention this amazement, but since no one seemed to share it, nor even to understand it (life consists of these little touches of solitude), I forgot about it.

My youngest brother killed a lynx yesterday,” Rose said. “Apparently it came into his territory and left some spray marks. He skinned it, smeared himself in its blood, and put its pelt on his shoulders like a cape. And that’s how he came dressed for breakfast.” Cerise drank some beer. “My sister kills small animals and hangs their corpses on a tree, because she thinks she is a monster and she’s convinced we’ll eventually banish her from the house. They’re her rations. Just in case.” Rose blinked. “I see. I think we’re going to get along just fine, don’t you?” “I think so, yes.

As many conventionally unhappy parents did in the 1950s, my parents stayed together for the sake of the children—they divorced after my youngest brother left home for college. I only wish they had known that modeling their dysfunctional relationship was far more damaging to their children than their separation would have been.

Zombies are the middle children of the otherworldly family. Vampires are the oldest brother who gets to have a room in the attic, all tripped out with a disco ball and shag carpet. Werewolves are the youngest, the babies, always getting pinched and told they're cute. With all that attention stolen away from the middle child Zombie, no wonder she shuffles off grumbling, "Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.

Banish her husband’s youngest brother back to his realm.

I looked at my brothers, and Linnie, and Rodney, and felt something within me that had been clenched tight start to loosen a little. So maybe I wasn't just the youngest, the one who didn't get told things. I was also the one who came to help, who tried to make things work, who they called when they were in trouble.

The youngest Merriville, bursting into the room some time later, found them seated side by side on the sofa. 'Buddle said I wasn't to disturb you, but I knew that was fudge,' he said scornfully. 'Cousin Alverstoke, there is someting I particularly wanted to ask you!' He broke off, perceiving suddenly, and with disfavour, that his Cousin Alverstoke had an arm round Frederica. Revolted by such a betrayal of unmanliness, he bent a disapproving look upon his idol and demanded: 'Why are you cuddling Frederica, sir?' 'Because we are going to be married,' replied his lordship calmly. 'It's obligatory, you know. One is expected to -er - cuddle the lady one is going to marry.' 'Oh!' said Felix. 'Well, I won't ask anyone to marry me , if that's what you have to do! I just say I never thought that you sir would have-' Again he broke off, as a thought struck him. 'Will that make her a - a She-Marquis? Oh, Jessamy, did you hear that? Frederica is going to be a She-Marquis!' 'What you mean is a Marchioness, you ignorant little ape!' replied his austere brother.

Found naked with a few of his grandfather’s kitchen maids? His father’s claw right to the back of the head. Suggest that when his mother was in human form she may want to stay away from things that brought out the largeness of her ass? His father’s claw right to the back of the head. Set up a small eightieth birthday party for his youngest brother Éibhear that involved a few of the local brothel girls? His mother’s claw right to the back of the head.

The books were legends and tales, stories from all over the Realm. These she had devoured voraciously – so voraciously, in fact, that she started to become fatigued by them. It was possible to have too much of a good thing, she reflected. “They’re all the same,” she complained to Fleet one night. “The soldier rescues the maiden and they fall in love. The fool outwits the wicked king. There are always three brothers or sisters, and it’s always the youngest who succeeds after the first two fail. Always be kind to beggars, for they always have a secret; never trust a unicorn. If you answer somebody’s riddle they always either kill themselves or have to do what you say. They’re all the same, and they’re all ridiculous! That isn’t what life is like!” Fleet had nodded sagely and puffed on his hookah. “Well, of course that’s not what life is like. Except the bit about unicorns – they’ll eat your guts as soon as look at you. those things in there” – he tapped the book she was carrying – “they’re simple stories. Real life is a story, too, only much more complicated. It’s still got a beginning, a middle, and an end. Everyone follows the same rules, you know. . . It’s just that there are more of them. Everyone has chapters and cliffhangers. Everyone has their journey to make. Some go far and wide and come back empty-handed; some don’t go anywhere and their journey makes them richest of all. Some tales have a moral and some don’t make any sense. Some will make you laugh, others make you cry. The world is a library, young Poison, and you’ll never get to read the same book twice.

Grigorii spared a single glance in his brother’s direction. If looks were daggers, that one would’ve sliced straight through the volhv’s heart. “Here it comes. ‘My oldest son . . .’” “Is a doctor,” Evdokia finished in a singsong voice. “And my daughter is an attorney.” Vasiliy raised his chin. “Jealousy is bad for you. Poisons the heart.” “Aha!” Evdokia slapped the table. “How about your youngest, the musician? How is he doing?” “Yes, what is Vyacheslav doing lately?” Grigorii asked. “Didn’t I see him with a black eye yesterday? Did he whistle a tree onto himself?” Oh boy. Curran opened his mouth. Next to him Jim shook his head. His expression looked suspiciously like fear. “He is young,” Vasiliy said. “He is spoiled rotten,” Evdokia barked. “He spends all his time trying to kill my cat. One child is a doctor, the other is an attorney, the third is a serial killer in training.

I like how you call homosexuality an abomination." "I don't say homosexuality's an abomination, Mr. President, the bible does." "Yes it does. Leviticus-" "18:22" "Chapter in verse. I wanted to ask you a couple questions while I had you here. I'm interested in selling my youngest daughter into slavery as sanctioned in exodus 21:7. She's a Georgetown sophomore, speaks fluent Italian, always cleared the table when it was her turn. What would a good price for her be? While thinking about that can I ask another? My chief of staff, Leo Mcgary,insists on working on the sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly says he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself or is it ok to call the police? Here's one that's really important, cause we've got a lot of sports fans in this town. Touching the skin of a dead pig makes one unclean, Leviticus 11:7. If they promise to wear gloves, can the Washington Red Skins still play football? Can Notre Dame? Can West Point? does the whole town really have to be together to stone my brother John for planting different crops side by side? Can I burn my mother in a small family gathering for wearing garments made from two different threads?

Fairy tales are about trouble, about getting into and out of it, and trouble seems to be a necessary stage on the route to becoming. All the magic and glass mountains and pearls the size of houses and princesses beautiful as the day and talking birds and part-time serpents are distractions from the core of most of the stories, the struggle to survive against adversaries, to find your place in the world, and to come into your own. Fairy tales are almost always the stories of the powerless, of youngest sons, abandoned children, orphans, of humans transformed into birds and beasts or otherwise enchanted away from their own lives and selves. Even princesses are chattels to be disowned by fathers, punished by step-mothers, or claimed by princes, though they often assert themselves in between and are rarely as passive as the cartoon versions. Fairy tales are children's stories not in wh they were made for but in their focus on the early stages of life, when others have power over you and you have power over no one. In them, power is rarely the right tool for survival anyway. Rather the powerless thrive on alliances, often in the form of reciprocated acts of kindness -- from beehives that were not raided, birds that were not killed but set free or fed, old women who were saluted with respect. Kindness sewn among the meek is harvested in crisis... In Hans Christian Andersen's retelling of the old Nordic tale that begins with a stepmother, "The Wild Swans," the banished sister can only disenchant her eleven brothers -- who are swans all day look but turn human at night -- by gathering stinging nettles barehanded from churchyard graves, making them into flax, spinning them and knitting eleven long-sleeved shirts while remaining silent the whole time. If she speaks, they'll remain birds forever. In her silence, she cannot protest the crimes she accused of and nearly burned as a witch. Hauled off to a pyre as she knits the last of the shirts, she is rescued by the swans, who fly in at the last moment. As they swoop down, she throws the nettle shirts over them so that they turn into men again, all but the youngest brother, whose shirt is missing a sleeve so that he's left with one arm and one wing, eternally a swan-man. Why shirts made of graveyard nettles by bleeding fingers and silence should disenchant men turned into birds by their step-mother is a question the story doesn't need to answer. It just needs to give us compelling images of exile, loneliness, affection, and metamorphosis -- and of a heroine who nearly dies of being unable to tell her own story.

If I have become my father, then I shall have my father's blade. Thorn is my dragon, and a thorn he shall be to all enemies. It is only right, then, that I should wield the sword, misery. Misery and Thorn, a fit match. Besides, Zar'roc should have gone to Morzan's eldest son, not his youngest. It is mine by right of birth." A cold pit formed in Eragon's stomach. It can't be. A cruel smile appeared on Murtagh's face. "I never told you my mother's name, did I? And you never told my yours. I'll say it now: Selena.

He was Mo-Maw’s youngest son, but he was also her confidant, her lady’s maid, and errand boy. He was her one flattering mirror, and her teenage diary, her electric blanket, her doormat. He was her best pal, the dog she hardly walked, and her greatest romance. He was her cheer on a dreich morning, the only laughter in her audience. Jodie shunted him again but Mungo only grumbled and curled tighter around her. Her brother was her mother’s minor moon, her warmest sun, and at the exact same time, a tiny satellite that she had forgotten about. He would orbit her for an eternity, even as she, and then he, broke into bits.

Princess, princess, youngest daughter, Open up and let me in! Or else your promise by the water Isn’t worth a rusty pin. Keep your promise, royal daughter, Open up and let me in!

Hey, Uncle Archer,” I say. My mother’s youngest brother’s eyes widen in alarm as I add, “Are you the one who brought us here?

Shelly doesn’t have a cell phone?” Roscoe crossed his arms.“How does she survive?” “Air, food, and shelter, I suspect.” Billy sent our youngest brother a dry look, making Jethro laugh.

Walt, at about eleven, had a routine of looking at Seymour's wrists and telling him to take off his sweater. "Take off your sweater, hey, Seymour. Go ahead, hey. It's warm in here." S. would beam back at him, shine back at him. He loved that kind of horseplay from any of the kids. I did, too, but only off and on. He did invariably. He thrived, too, waxed strong, on all tactless or underconsidered remarks directed at him by family minors. In 1959, in fact, when on occasion I hear rather nettling news of the doings of my youngest brother and sister, I think on the quantities of joy they brought S. I remember Franny, at about four, sitting on his lap, facing him, and saying, with immense admiration, "Seymour, your teeth are so nice and yellow!" He literally staggered over to me to ask if I'd heard what she said.

Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day's shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favourite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it." Here the child's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. "Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back some day, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window -

Down a long road through the woods a little boy trudged to school, with his big brother Royal and his two sisters, Eliza Jane and Alice. Royal was thirteen years old, Eliza Jane was twelve, and Alice was ten. Almanzo was the youngest of all, and this was his first going-to-school, because he was not quite nine years old.

The ender dragon chortled. It sounded like thunder broken across the knee of the world. I am the infinite lightning night-lizard at the end of the universe. I am the master of time and death. The fire of creation is my youngest brother. In my stomach, galaxies churn in cosmic acid and are digested into meaninglessness. ED opened one vast violet eye. You can't fool me with a pumpkin, dummy.

In the book of Job, God says he made everything and he knows everything so no one has any right to question what he does with any of it. Okay. That works. That Old Testament God doesn’t violate the way things are now. But that God sounds a lot like Zeus—a super-powerful man, playing with his toys the way my youngest brothers play with toy soldiers. Bang, bang! Seven toys fall dead. If they’re yours, you make the rules. Who cares what the toys think. Wipe out a toy’s family, then give it a brand new family. Toy children, like Job’s children, are interchangeable.

Some people owe everything they have to the bank accounts of their parents. I owe the state. Put simply, the state educated me, fixed my leg when it was broken, and gave me a grant that enabled me to go to university. It fixed my teeth (a bit) and found housing for my veteran father in his dotage. When my youngest brother was run over by a truck it saved his life and in particular his crushed right hand, a procedure that took half a year, and which would, on the open market—so a doctor told me at the time—have cost a million pounds. Those were the big things, but there were also plenty of little ones: my subsidized sports centre and my doctor’s office, my school music lessons paid for with pennies, my university fees. My NHS glasses aged 9. My NHS baby aged 33. And my local library. To steal another writer’s title: England made me. It has never been hard for me to pay my taxes because I understand it to be the repaying of a large, in fact, an almost incalculable, debt. ....The charming tale of benign state intervention described above is now relegated to the land of fairy tales: not just naïve but actually fantastic. Having one’s own history so suddenly and abruptly made unreal is an experience of a whole generation of British people, who must now wander around like so many ancient mariners boring foreigners about how they went to university for free and could once find a National Health dentist on their high street.

I loved my youngest brother, but he was a hipster of the worst sort, having too many opinions about shit that didn’t matter.

I prefer men in their fifties or older with considerably more body hair than you. My middle brother only enjoys sex with inanimate objects and my youngest brother likes Medusa women in shifted form.

President Josiah Bartlet: Good. I like your show. I like how you call homosexuality an abomination. Dr. Jenna Jacobs: I don't say homosexuality is an abomination, Mr. President. The Bible does. President Josiah Bartlet: Yes, it does. Leviticus. Dr. Jenna Jacobs: 18:22. President Josiah Bartlet: Chapter and verse. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions while I had you here. I'm interested in selling my youngest daughter into slavery as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. She's a Georgetown sophomore, speaks fluent Italian, always cleared the table when it was her turn. What would a good price for her be? While thinking about that, can I ask another? My Chief of Staff Leo McGarry insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly says he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or is it okay to call the police? Here's one that's really important 'cause we've got a lot of sports fans in this town: Touching the skin of a dead pig makes one unclean. Leviticus 11:7. If they promise to wear gloves, can the Washington Redskins still play football? Can Notre Dame? Can West Point? Does the whole town really have to be together to stone my brother John for planting different crops side by side? Can I burn my mother in a small family gathering for wearing garments made from two different threads? Think about those questions, would you? One last thing: While you may be mistaking this for your monthly meeting of the Ignorant Tight-Ass Club, in this building, when the President stands, nobody sits.

The missing remained missing and the portraits couldn't change that. But when Akhmed slid the finished portrait across the desk and the family saw the shape of that beloved nose, the air would flee the room, replaced by the miracle of recognition as mother, father, sister, brother, aunt, and cousin found in that nose the son, brother, nephew, and cousin that had been, would have been, could have been, and they might race after the possibility like cartoon characters dashing off a cliff, held by the certainty of the road until they looked down -- and plummeted is the word used by the youngest brother who, at the age of sixteen, is tired of being the youngest and hopes his older brother will return for many reasons, not least so he will marry and have a child and the youngest brother will no longer be youngest; that youngest brother, the one who has nothing to say about the nose because he remembers his older brother's nose and doesn't need the nose to mean what his parents need it to mean, is the one who six months later would be disappeared in the back of a truck, as his older brother was, who would know the Landfill through his blindfold and gag by the rich scent of clay, as his older brother had known, whose fingers would be wound with the electrical wires that had welded to his older brother's bones, who would stand above a mass grave his brother had dug and would fall in it as his older brother had, though taking six more minutes and four more bullets to die, would be buried an arm's length of dirt above his brother and whose bones would find over time those of his older brother, and so, at that indeterminate point in the future, answer his mother's prayer that her boys find each other, wherever they go; that younger brother would have a smile on his face and the silliest thought in his skull a minute before the first bullet would break it, thinking of how that day six months earlier, when they all went to have his older brother's portrait made, he should have had his made, too, because now his parents would have to make another trip, and he hoped they would, hoped they would because even if he knew his older brother's nose, he hadn't been prepared to see it, and seeing that nose, there, on the page, the density of loss it engendered, the unbelievable ache of loving and not having surrounded him, strong enough to toss him, as his brother had, into the summer lake, but there was nothing but air, and he'd believed that plummet was as close as they would ever come again, and with the first gunshot one brother fell within arms' reach of the other, and with the fifth shot the blindfold dissolved and the light it blocked became forever, and on the kitchen wall of his parents' house his portrait hangs within arm's reach of his older brother's, and his mother spends whole afternoons staring at them, praying that they find each other, wherever they go.

Then he says, “I once read a story about three brothers who washed up on an island in Hawaii. A myth. An old one. I read it when I was a kid, so I probably don’t have the story exactly right, but it goes something like this. Three brothers went out fishing and got caught in a storm. They drifted on the ocean for a long time until they washed up on the shore of an uninhabited island. It was a beautiful island with coconuts growing there and tons of fruit on the trees, and a big, high mountain in the middle. The night they got there, a god appeared in their dreams and said, ‘A little farther down the shore, you will find three big, round boulders. I want each of you to push his boulder as far as he likes. The place you stop pushing your boulder is where you will live. The higher you go, the more of the world you will be able to see from your home. It’s entirely up to you how far you want to push your boulder.’” The young man takes a drink of water and pauses for a moment. Mari looks bored, but she is clearly listening. “Okay so far?” he asks. Mari nods. “Want to hear the rest? If you’re not interested, I can stop.” “If it’s not too long.” “No, it’s not too long. It’s a pretty simple story.” He takes another sip of water and continues with his story. “So the three brothers found three boulders on the shore just as the god had said they would. And they started pushing them along as the god told them to. Now these were huge, heavy boulders, so rolling them was hard, and pushing them up an incline took an enormous effort. The youngest brother quit first. He said, ‘Brothers, this place is good enough for me. It’s close to the shore, and I can catch fish. It has everything I need to go on living. I don’t mind if I can’t see that much of the world from here.’ His two elder brothers pressed on, but when they were midway up the mountain, the second brother quit. He said, ‘Brother, this place is good enough for me. There is plenty of fruit here. It has everything I need to go on living. I don’t mind if I can’t see that much of the world from here.’ The eldest brother continued walking up the mountain. The trail grew increasingly narrow and steep, but he did not quit. He had great powers of perseverance, and he wanted to see as much of the world as he possibly could, so he kept rolling the boulder with all his might. He went on for months, hardly eating or drinking, until he had rolled the boulder to the very peak of the high mountain. There he stopped and surveyed the world. Now he could see more of the world than anyone. This was the place he would live—where no grass grew, where no birds flew. For water, he could only lick the ice and frost. For food, he could only gnaw on moss. Be he had no regrets, because now he could look out over the whole world. And so, even today, his great, round boulder is perched on the peak of that mountain on an island in Hawaii. That’s how the story goes.

Much of [John Hanning] Speke's Journal of the Discovery of the Source of Nile is devoted to descriptions of the physical and moral ugliness of Africa's "primitive races," in whose condition he found "a strikingly existing proof of the Holy Scriptures." For his text, Speke took the story in Genesis 9, which tells how Noah, when he was just six hundred years old and had safely skippered his ark over the flood to dry land, got drunk and passed out naked in his tent. On emerging from his oblivion, Noah learned that his youngest son, Ham, had seen him naked; that Ham had told his brothers, Shem and Japheth, of the spectacle; and that Shem and Japheth had, with their backs chastely turned, covered the old man with a garment. Noah responded by cursing the progeny of Ham's son, Canaan, saying, "A slave of slaves shall he be to his brothers." Amid the perplexities of Genesis, this is one of the most enigmatic stories, and it has been subjected to many bewildering interpretations--most notably that Ham was the original black man. To the gentry of the American South, the weird tale of Noah's curse justified slavery, and to Spake and his colonial contemporaries it spelled the history of Africa's peoples. On "contemplating these sons of Noah," he marveled that "as they were then, so they appear to be now.

If the universe doesn't remember, why should you? Being the youngest of three siblings, you can bet I was the subject of some vile comments. Fat, stupid, you name it. However, just because my brother called me an idiot for 12 years doesn't make it my reality. Your past never equals your future unless you allow it. Think about a coin flip. No matter how many times it's flipped, the next flip is always random. Probability cannot be attached to a future flip based on the past. Your past is the same. Just because you failed at five relationships doesn't mean your next will fail, especially if you learn from them! Just because you flipped burgers three hours ago doesn't mean you can't be a millionaire next year. The universe forgets, just like the universe forgot I mopped floors and delivered pizza not long ago.

Back in 1943, Prince Mikasa Takahito, the youngest brother of Emperor Hirohito, spent a year as a staff officer at the Nanking headquarters of the Japanese Imperial Army’s expeditionary force in China, where he heard a young officer speak of using Chinese prisoners for live bayonet practice in order to train new recruits. “It helps them acquire guts,” the officer told the prince.

Tonight, no one will rage and cry: "My Kingdom for a horse!" No ghost will come to haunt the battlements of a castle in the kingdom of Denmark where, apparently something is rotten. Nor will anyone wring her hands and murmur: "Leave, I do not despise you." Three still young women will not retreat to a dacha whispering the name of Moscow, their beloved, their lost hope. No sister will await the return of her brother to avenge the death of their father, no son will be forced to avenge an affront to his father, no mother will kill her three children to take revenge on their father. And no husband will see his doll-like wife leave him out of contempt. No one will turn into a rhinoceros. Maids will not plot to assassinate their mistress, after denouncing her lover and having him jailed. No one will fret about "the rain in Spain!" No one will emerge from a garbage pail to tell an absurd story. Italian families will not leave for the seashore. No soldier will return from World War II and bang on his father's bedroom dor protesting the presence of a new wife in his mother's bed. No evanescent blode will drown. No Spanish nobleman will seduce a thousand and three women, nor will an entire family of Spanish women writhe beneath the heel of the fierce Bernarda Alba. You won't see a brute of a man rip his sweat-drenched T-shirt, shouting: "Stella! Stella!" and his sister-in-law will not be doomed the minute she steps off the streetcar named Desire. Nor will you see a stepmother pine away for her new husband's youngest son. The plague will not descend upon the city of Thebes, and the Trojan War will not take place. No king will be betrayed by his ungrateful daughters. There will be no duels, no poisonings, no wracking coughs. No one will die, or, if someone must die, it will become a comic scene. No, there will be none of the usual theatrics. What you will see tonight is a very simple woman, a woman who will simply talk...

My strongest memory is not a memory. It's something I imagined, then came to remember as if it had happened. The memory was formed when I was five, just before I turned six, from a story my father told in such detail that I and my brothers and sister had each conjured our own cinematic version, with gunfire and shouts. Mine had crickets. That's the sound I hear as my family huddles in the kitchen, lights off, hiding from the Feds who've surrounded the house. A woman reaches for a glass of water and her silhouette is lighted by the moon. A shot echoes like the lash of a whip and she falls. In my memory it's always Mother who falls, and she has a baby in her arms. The baby doesn't make sense - I'm the youngest of my mother's seven children - but like I said, none of this happened.

It is a good thing for a man to live in a family for the same reason that it is a good thing for a man to be besieged in a city. It is a good thing for a man to live in a family in the same sense that it is a beautiful and delightful thing for a man to be snowed up in a street. They all force him to realise that life is not a thing from outside, but a thing from inside. Above all, they all insist upon the fact that life, if it be a truly stimulating and fascinating life, is a thing which, of its nature, exists in spite of ourselves. The modern writers who have suggested, in a more or less open manner, that the family is a bad institution, have generally confined themselves to suggesting, with much sharpness, bitterness, or, pathos, that perhaps the family is not always very congenial. Of course the family is a good institution because it is uncongenial. It is wholesome precisely because it contains so many divergencies and varieties. It is, as the sentimentalists say, like a little kingdom, and, like most other little kingdoms, is generally in a state of something resembling anarchy. It is exactly because our brother George is not interested in our religious difficulties, but is interested in the Trocadero Restaurant, that the family has some of the bracing qualities of the commonwealth. It is precisely because our uncle Henry does not approve of the theatrical ambitions of our sister Sarah that the family is like humanity. The men and women who, for good reasons and bad, revolt against the family, are, for good reasons and bad, simply revolting against mankind. Aunt Elizabeth is unreasonable, like mankind. Papa is excitable, like mankind. Our youngest brother is mischievous, like mankind. Grandpapa is stupid, like the world; he is old, like the world.

Той обичаше тези грубовати шеги на хлапетата. И аз ги обичах, само че от време на време. А той – неизменно. Той цъфтеше и избуяваше под дъжда на всички нетактични и необмислени подмятания, отправени от по-малките. Сега, през 1959 г., когато се случи да чуя някоя огорчаваща ме новина за това, какви ги вършат по-малките ми братя и сестри, се сещам каква огромна радост доставяха те на Сиймор. Помня как четиригодишната Франи, седнала в скута му, се обърна към него и възкликна с безмерно възхищение: "Сиймор, зъбките ти са толкова хубави, толкова жълти!" Той направо падна от стола и веднага ме попита дали съм я чул какво казва. He loved that kind of horseplay from any of the kids. I did, too, but only off and on. He thrived, too, waxed strong, on all tactless or underconsidered remarks directed at him by family minors. In 1959, in fact, when on occasion I hear rather nettling news of the doings of my youngest brother and sister, I think on the quantities of joy they brought S. I remember Franny, at about four, sitting on his lap, facing him, and saying, with immense admiration, 'Seymour, your teeth arc so nice and yellow!' He literally staggered over to me to ask if I'd heard.

Charley looked over at him. "About how much you and Jesse have in common." Jesse said, "Why don't you tell it, Bob; if you remember." Bob inched forward in his chair. "Well, if you'll pardon my saying so, it is interesting, the many ways you and I overlap and whatnot. You begin with my daddy, J.T. Ford. J stands for James! And T is Thomas, meaning 'twin.' Your daddy was a pastor of the New Hope Baptist Church; my daddy was part-time pastor of a church at Excelsior Springs. You're the youngest of the three James boys; I'm the youngest of the five Ford boys. You had twins as sons, I had twins as sisters. Frank is four and a half years older than you, which incidentally is the difference between Charley and me, the two outlaws in the Ford clan. Between us is another brother, Wilbur here (with six letters in his name); between Frank and you was a brother, Robert, also with six letters. Robert died in infancy, as most everyone knows, and he was named after your father, Robert, who was remembered by your brother's first-born, another Robert. Robert, of course, is my Christian name. My uncle, Robert Austin Ford, has a son named Jesse James Ford. You have blue eyes; I have blue eyes. You're five feet eight inches tall; I'm five feet eight inches tall. We're both hot-tempered and impulsive and devil-may-care. Smith and Wesson is our preferred make of revolver. There's the same number of letters and syllables in our names; I mean, Jesse James and Robert Ford. Oh me, I must've had a list as long as your nightshirt when I was twelve, but I lost some curiosities over the years.

I've spent nearly three years managing a shipping firm," she pointed out. "After all the time I've spent around longshoremen, nothing could shock me now." "Maybe not," Luke conceded. "But Scotsmen have a special gift for cursing. I had a friend at Cambridge who knew at least a dozen different words for testicles." Merritt grinned. One of the things she enjoyed most about Luke, the youngest of her three brothers, was that he never shielded her from vulgarity or treated her like a delicate flower. That, among other reasons, was why she'd asked him to take over the management of her late husband's shipping company, once she'd taught him the ropes.

Travis raised his head from sighting down the rifle as shock radiated through him. Those eyes. Such a vivid blue. It was as if he’d seen them before. But that was impossible. Females didn’t exactly pay them calls on a regular basis. Clearing his throat, he readjusted his rifle. “We don’t cotton to trespassers around here, lady. You best skedaddle back the way you came.” “I will. But not until I say my piece.” She pivoted to face him fully, her lashes lowering for just a moment before she aimed her gaze directly at him again. Even knowing what was coming didn’t stop the jolt from ricocheting through his chest when those piercing eyes latched onto him. “I came to warn you, Travis.” Travis? She knew who he was? Most folks meeting the Archers all at once had no way of knowing him from Crockett or Jim. Yet she said his name with the confidence of recognition. He squinted at her. “Look, lady. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I want no part of it.” “This is no game. Please, Travis. Just listen.” “You know this gal, Trav?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his youngest brother start to lower his rifle. “Hush up, Neill, and hold your line.” The kid obeyed without question, firming up his grip. “The man who wants to buy your land is sending men out here tonight to persuade you to change your mind. They plan to set fire to the place while you sleep and force you to accept the next offer in order to recoup your losses.

Lacking older siblings, the oldest or only child identifies primarily with her parents, conforming to their ideals and demands, not the least reason being that she no one with whom to share those demands. Since firstborns try to live up to the expectations of adults- teachers' as well as parents'- rather than that of peers, they are likely to learn more and to bring home better report cards than younger siblings. Thus firstborns pave the way for younger siblings, setting the standards against which they are measured and measure themselves. Middle children tend to be more gregarious and more dependent on the approval of peers than that of adults. For one thing they have the example of the older sibling- who has the credibility of generational sameness- to guide them in their decisions and to teach them the rules of the family road. An older sister who was grounded for a month for coming home late from a date, for instance, is a lesson not lost on her younger sister or brother. At the same time younger children are buffered by birth order from their parents' sole concentration. Hence they are treated with more indulgence and are called upon less to take on responsibilities.

Where shall I put…?” A little maid stopped in the doorway, all but hidden behind a large bouquet of bright red carnations. Alas for my heart. Hazlit knew the sentiment associated with red carnations and had had them delivered anyway. He certainly wasn’t going to send the woman roses, for God’s sake. Carnations were durable, and they had a fresh, spicy scent that put Hazlit in mind of his hostess. She didn’t strike him as the type of lady to waste time decoding bouquets in any case. “On the sideboard, Millie.” Miss Windham’s lips turned up in a smile more sweet than any Hazlit had seen on her. “My youngest brother is temporarily returned to Town,” she said, taking the card from the bouquet. “Of all my siblings, Valentine is the one most likely to make the gallant gesture…” She fell silent while she read the card, her smile shifting to something heart-wrenchingly tentative. “This wasn’t necessary, Mr. Hazlit.” Regards, Hazlit. Not exactly poetry, but proof he’d upstaged at least her doting brother. “Perhaps not necessary, but a man can hope his small tokens are appreciated.” He glanced pointedly at the maid while he delivered that flummery, because the girl was lingering over the flowers unnecessarily. “That

As a kid I was the youngest member of my family, and the youngest child in any family is always a jokemaker, because a joke is the only way he can enter into an adult conversation. My sister was five years older than I was, my brother was nine years older than I was, and my parents were both talkers. So at the dinner table when I was very young, I was boring to all those other people. They did not want to hear about the dumb childish news of my days. They wanted to talk about really important stuff that happened in high school or maybe in college or at work. So the only way I could get into a conversation was to say something funny.

Especially not a commander like this one. Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife. Mounted on his huge black destrier, the knight towered above Will and Gared on their smaller garrons. He wore black leather boots, black woolen pants, black moleskin gloves, and a fine supple coat of gleaming black ringmail over layers of black wool and boiled leather. Ser Waymar had been a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch for less than half a year, but no one could say he had not prepared for his vocation. At least insofar as his wardrobe

Like Alan, Jep turned his life around after overcoming the struggles of alcohol and drugs. He came to work for Duck Commander and found his niche as a videographer. He films the footage for our Duckmen videos and works with Willie on the Buck Commander videos. Jep is with us on nearly every hunt, filming the action from a distance. He knows exactly what we’re looking for in the videos and films it, downloads it, edits it, and sends it to the duplicator, who produces and distributes our DVDs. Having worked with the crew of Duck Dynasty over the last few years, I’ve noticed that most people who work in the film industry are a little bit weird. And Jep, my youngest son, is a little strange. It’s his personality-he’s easygoing, likable, and a lot more reserved than his brothers. But he’s the only one who will come up to me and give me a bear hug. He’ll just walk up and say, “Daddy, I need a hug.” The good news for Jep is that as far as the Duck Commander crowd goes, one thing is for sure: weirdos are in! We covet weirdos; they can do things we can’t because they’re so strange. You have to have two or three weirdos in your company to make it work. It’s truly been a blessing to watch Jep grow and mature and become a loving husband and father. He and his wife, Jessica, have four beautiful children.

A man on his deathbed left instructions For dividing up his goods among his three sons. He had devoted his entire spirit to those sons. They stood like cypress trees around him, Quiet and strong. He told the town judge, 'Whichever of my sons is laziest, Give him all the inheritance.' Then he died, and the judge turned to the three, 'Each of you must give some account of your laziness, so I can understand just how you are lazy.' Mystics are experts in laziness. They rely on it, Because they continuously see God working all around them. The harvest keeps coming in, yet they Never even did the plowing! 'Come on. Say something about the ways you are lazy.' Every spoken word is a covering for the inner self. A little curtain-flick no wider than a slice Of roast meat can reveal hundreds of exploding suns. Even if what is being said is trivial and wrong, The listener hears the source. One breeze comes From across a garden. Another from across the ash-heap. Think how different the voices of the fox And the lion, and what they tell you! Hearing someone is lifting the lid off the cooking pot. You learn what's for supper. Though some people Can know just by the smell, a sweet stew From a sour soup cooked with vinegar. A man taps a clay pot before he buys it To know by the sound if it has a crack. The eldest of the three brothers told the judge, 'I can know a man by his voice, and if he won't speak, I wait three days, and then I know him intuitively.' The second brother, 'I know him when he speaks, And if he won't talk, I strike up a conversation.' 'But what if he knows that trick?' asked the judge. Which reminds me of the mother who tells her child 'When you're walking through the graveyard at night and you see a boogeyman, run at it, and it will go away.' 'But what,' replies the child, 'if the boogeyman's Mother has told it to do the same thing? Boogeymen have mothers too.' The second brother had no answer. 'I sit in front of him in silence, And set up a ladder made of patience, And if in his presence a language from beyond joy And beyond grief begins to pour from my chest, I know that his soul is as deep and bright As the star Canopus rising over Yemen. And so when I start speaking a powerful right arm Of words sweeping down, I know him from what I say, And how I say it, because there's a window open Between us, mixing the night air of our beings.' The youngest was, obviously, The laziest. He won.

Ywa was neither man nor woman, and was not in a human form. Ywa was the creator of the world and a force for good. To balance Ywa there was also a force for evil, called Mu Kaw Lee. Ywa created three sons in human form. The eldest was a Karen, the second a Burman, and the youngest was a white man. To the Karen son Ywa gave a golden book, to the Burman a silver book, and to the white man Ywa gave a book bound in normal paper. When the rains began and the Karen son went to plant his rice field, he placed the golden book nearby, on a tree stump. But his youngest brother, the white man, had grown jealous and coveted his beautiful golden book. When the Karen man wasn’t looking the white man came along and took it, replacing it with his own. Then the white man built a boat and escaped to a far-off country. He carried his prize with him–the golden book that contained the teachings Ywa had given to his eldest son. After a long day working under the heavy rain, the Karen man went to fetch his golden book. The book that the white man had left in its place had fallen apart in the rain, and there was nothing left. A chicken had been scratching around the stump searching for food, and all the Karen man found was chicken scratch marks. He concluded that the golden book had been replaced by the scratch marks, and that those must embody the message that Ywa had left him. And so the Karen man taught himself to read and write in chicken scratch. Over time, he learned the truth about the golden book being stolen, but by then it was too late–chicken scratch had become the official language of the Karen. The Karen man wrote down the story of how the golden book was stolen, and the word of Ywa lost, in a new book. He called this book Li Hsaw Weh–‘the book of chicken scratch teachings’. Centuries later the first white missionaries came to Burma. Many Karen believed that this was the younger brother returning, bringing the golden book in the form of the Bible, and so they welcomed them. Many Karen believe this story absolutely, and that one day the younger brother–a white man–will come again to help save our people.

Robert and Lucy were both finding it hard to adjust to new circumstances. Lucy now found herself in an uncertain situation in the middle of the family as neither the eldest nor the youngest child, and not until Robert went away to another scout camp later in the summer did she show any interest in the baby. Then she was suddenly called upon to fetch and carry bottles, nappies, pins and powder – chores that Robert had previously undertaken. At first she resisted defiantly, and then she burst into tears. At that moment I realized how badly she too had been affected by the trauma we had undergone since little Tim’s arrival. Lucy had been left to fend for herself when in fact she needed as much reassurance as anyone else. I hugged her and told her that I had not stopped loving her just because there was another person in the family to care for. She warmed to her little brother straight away, as if in all those miserable weeks she had been longing to show her true feelings but had not known how. She fetched and carried just as willingly as Robert had done, and thereafter no one could have been more devoted to Tim or more susceptible to his winning ways.

In a physician's office in Kearny Street three men sat about a table, drinking punch and smoking. It was late in the evening, almost midnight, indeed, and there had been no lack of punch. The gravest of the three, Dr. Helberson, was the host—it was in his rooms they sat. He was about thirty years of age; the others were even younger; all were physicians. "The superstitious awe with which the living regard the dead," said Dr. Helberson, "is hereditary and incurable. One needs no more be ashamed of it than of the fact that he inherits, for example, an incapacity for mathematics, or a tendency to lie." The others laughed. "Oughtn't a man to be ashamed to lie?" asked the youngest of the three, who was in fact a medical student not yet graduated. "My dear Harper, I said nothing about that. The tendency to lie is one thing; lying is another." "But do you think," said the third man, "that this superstitious feeling, this fear of the dead, reasonless as we know it to be, is universal? I am myself not conscious of it." "Oh, but it is 'in your system' for all that," replied Helberson; "it needs only the right conditions—what Shakespeare calls the 'confederate season'—to manifest itself in some very disagreeable way that will open your eyes. Physicians and soldiers are of course more nearly free from it than others." "Physicians and soldiers!—why don't you add hangmen and headsmen? Let us have in all the assassin classes." "No, my dear Mancher; the juries will not let the public executioners acquire sufficient familiarity with death to be altogether unmoved by it." Young Harper, who had been helping himself to a fresh cigar at the sideboard, resumed his seat. "What would you consider conditions under which any man of woman born would become insupportably conscious of his share of our common weakness in this regard?" he asked, rather verbosely. "Well, I should say that if a man were locked up all night with a corpse—alone—in a dark room—of a vacant house—with no bed covers to pull over his head—and lived through it without going altogether mad, he might justly boast himself not of woman born, nor yet, like Macduff, a product of Cæsarean section." "I thought you never would finish piling up conditions," said Harper, "but I know a man who is neither a physician nor a soldier who will accept them all, for any stake you like to name." "Who is he?" "His name is Jarette—a stranger here; comes from my town in New York. I have no money to back him, but he will back himself with loads of it." "How do you know that?" "He would rather bet than eat. As for fear—I dare say he thinks it some cutaneous disorder, or possibly a particular kind of religious heresy." "What does he look like?" Helberson was evidently becoming interested. "Like Mancher, here—might be his twin brother." "I accept the challenge," said Helberson, promptly. "Awfully obliged to you for the compliment, I'm sure," drawled Mancher, who was growing sleepy. "Can't I get into this?" "Not against me," Helberson said. "I don't want your money." "All right," said Mancher; "I'll be the corpse." The others laughed. The outcome of this crazy conversation we have seen.

Shall we play youngest to oldest?” Colin suggested, with a gallant bow in Edwina’s direction. She shook her head. “I should rather go last, so that I might have a chance to observe the play of those more experienced than I.” “A wise woman,” Colin murmured. “Then we shall play oldest to youngest. Anthony, I believe you’re the most ancient among us.” “Sorry, brother dear, but Hastings has a few months on me.” “Why,” Edwina whispered in Kate’s ear, “do I get the feeling I am intruding upon a family spat?” “I think the Bridgertons take Pall Mall very seriously,” Kate whispered back. The three Bridgerton siblings had assumed bulldog faces, and they all appeared rather single-mindedly determined to win. “Eh eh eh!” Colin scolded, waving a finger at them. “No collusion allowed.” “We wouldn’t even begin to know where to collude,” Kate commented, “as no one has seen fit to even explain to us the rules of play.” “Just follow along,” Daphne said briskly. “You’ll figure it out as you go.” “I think,” Kate whispered to Edwina, “that the object is to sink your opponents’ balls into the lake.” “Really?” “No. But I think that’s how the Bridgertons see it.” “You’re still whispering!” Colin called out without sparing a glance in their direction. Then, to the duke, he barked, “Hastings, hit the bloody ball. We haven’t all day.” “Colin,” Daphne cut in, “don’t curse. There are ladies present” “You don’t count.” “There are two ladies present who are not me,” she ground out. Colin blinked, then turned to the Sheffield sisters. “Do you mind?” “Not at all,” Kate replied, utterly fascinated. Edwina just shook her head. “Good.” Colin turned back to the duke. “Hastings, get moving.

I just realized I know nothing about you. Do you have a family? Where are you from?” The idea that I just invited a relative stranger, who owns nothing, to live in my apartment gave me a stomachache, but the weird thing was that I felt like I had known him forever. “I’m from Detroit; my entire family still lives there. My mom works in a bakery at a grocery store and my dad is a retired electrician. I have twelve brothers and sisters.” “Really? I’m an only child. I can’t imagine having a huge family like that—it must have been awesome!” Relaxing his stance, he leaned his tattooed forearm onto the dresser and crossed his feet. Jackson came over and sat next to him. Will unconsciously began petting Jackson’s head. It made my heart warm. “Actually, I don’t have twelve brothers and sisters. I have one brother and eleven sisters.” He paused. “I’m dead serious. My brother Ray is the oldest and I’m the youngest with eleven girls in between. I swear my parents just wanted to give Ray a brother, so they kept having more babies. By the time I was born, Ray was sixteen and didn’t give a shit. On top of it, they all have R names except me. It’s a f**king joke.” “You’re kidding? Name ‘em,” I demanded. In a super-fast voice Will recited, “Raymond, Reina, Rachelle, Rae, Riley, Rianna, Reese, Regan, Remy, Regina, Ranielle, Rebecca, and then me, Will.” “Surely they could have figured out another R name?” “Well my brother was named after my dad, so my mom felt like I should be named after someone too, being the only other boy and all. So I was named after my grandfather… Wilbur Ryan.” “Oh my god!” I burst into laughter. “Your name is Wilbur?” “Hey, woman, that’s my poppy’s name, too.” Still giggling, I said, “I’m sorry, I just expected William.” “Yeah, it’s okay. Everyone does.” He smiled and winked at me again.

According to folk belief that is reflected in the stories and poems, a being who is petrified man and he can revive. In fairy tales, the blind destructiveness of demonic beings can, through humanization psychological demons, transformed into affection and love of the water and freeing petrified beings. In the fairy tale " The Three Sisters " Mezei de-stone petrified people when the hero , which she liked it , obtain them free . In the second story , the hero finding fairy , be petrified to the knee , but since Fairy wish to marry him , she kissed him and freed . When entering a demonic time and space hero can be saved if it behaves in a manner that protects it from the effects of demonic forces . And the tales of fortune Council hero to not turn around and near the terrifying challenges that will find him in the demon area . These recommendations can be tracked ancient prohibited acts in magical behavior . In one short story Penina ( evil mother in law ) , an old man , with demonic qualities , sheds , first of two brothers and their sister who then asks them , iron Balot the place where it should be zero as chorus, which sings wood and green water . When the ball hits the ground resulting clamor and tumult of a thousand voices, but no one sees - the brothers turned , despite warnings that it should not , and was petrified . The old man has contradictory properties assistants and demons . Warning of an old man in a related one variant is more developed - the old man tells the hero to be the place where the ball falls to the reputation of stones and hear thousands of voices around him to cry Get him, go kill him, swang with his sword , stick go ! . The young man did not listen to warnings that reveals the danger : the body does not stones , during the site heroes - like you, and was petrified . The initiation rite in which the suffering of a binding part of the ritual of testing allows the understanding of the magical essence of the prohibition looking back . MAGICAL logic respectful direction of movement is particularly strong in relation to the conduct of the world of demons and the dead . From hero - boys are required to be deaf to the daunting threats of death and temporarily overcome evil by not allowing him to touch his terrible content . The temptation in the case of the two brothers shows failed , while the third attempt brothers usually releases the youngest brother or sister . In fairy tales elements of a rite of passage blended with elements of Remembrance lapot . Silence is one way of preventing the evil demon in a series of ritual acts , thoughts Penina Mezei . Violation of the prohibition of speech allows the communication of man with a demon , and abolishes protection from him . In fairy tales , this ritual obligations lost connection with specific rituals and turned into a motive of testing . The duration of the ban is extended in the spirit of poetic genre in years . Dvanadestorica brothers , to twelve for saving haunted girls , silent for almost seven years, but eleven does not take an oath and petrified ; twelfth brother died three times , defeat the dragon , throw an egg at a crystal mountain , and save the brothers ( Penina Mezei : 115 ) . Petrify in fairy tales is not necessarily caused by fear , or impatience uneducated hero . Self-sacrificing hero resolves accident of his friend's seemingly irrational moves, but he knows that he will be petrified if it is to warn them in advance , he avoids talking . As his friend persuaded him to explain his actions , he is petrified ( Penina Mezei : 129 ) . Petrified friends can save only the blood of a child , and his " borrower " Strikes sacrifice their own child and revives his rescuers . A child is a sacrificial object that provides its innocence and purity of the sacrificial gift of power that allows the return of the forces of life.

Will’s fleshy face contorted and a memory swept over him like a chilling wind. He did not move slowly over the past, it was all there in one flash, all of the years, a picture, a feeling and a despair, all stopped the way a fast camera stops the world. There was the flashing Samuel, beautiful as dawn with a fancy like a swallow’s flight, and the brilliant, brooding Tom who was dark fire, Una who rode the storms, and the lovely Mollie, Dessie of laughter, George handsome and with a sweetness that filled a room like the perfume of flowers, and there was Joe, the youngest, the beloved. Each one without effort brought some gift into the family. Nearly everyone has his box of secret pain, shared with no one. Will had concealed his well, laughed loud, exploited perverse virtues, and never let his jealousy go wandering. He thought of himself as slow, doltish, conservative, uninspired. No great dream lifted him high and no despair forced self-destruction. He was always on the edge, trying to hold on to the rim of the family with what gifts he had—care, and reason, application. He kept the books, hired the attorneys, called the undertaker, and eventually paid the bills. The others didn’t even know they needed him. He had the ability to get money and to keep it. He thought the Hamiltons despised him for his one ability. He had loved them doggedly, had always been at hand with his money to pull them out of their errors. He thought they were ashamed of him, and he fought bitterly for their recognition. All of this was in the frozen wind that blew through him. His slightly bulging eyes were damp as he stared past Cal, and the boy asked, “What’s the matter, Mr. Hamilton? Don’t you feel well?” Will had sensed his family but he had not understood them. And they had accepted him without knowing there was anything to understand. And now this boy came along. Will understood him, felt him, sensed him, recognized him. This was the son he should have had, or the brother, or the father. And the cold wind of memory changed to a warmth toward Cal which gripped him in the stomach and pushed up against his lungs.

and Bran was suddenly afraid. Old sour-smelling Yoren looked up at Robb, unimpressed. “Whatever you say, m’lord,” he said. He sucked at a piece of meat between his teeth. The youngest of the black brothers shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There’s not a man on the Wall knows the haunted forest better than Benjen Stark. He’ll find his way back.” “Well,” said Yoren, “maybe he will and maybe he won’t. Good men have gone into those woods before, and never come out.” All Bran could think of was Old Nan’s story of the Others and the last hero, hounded through the white woods by dead men and spiders big as hounds. He was afraid for a moment, until he remembered how that story ended. “The children will help him,” he blurted, “the children of the forest!” Theon Greyjoy sniggered, and Maester Luwin said, “Bran, the children of the forest have been dead and gone for thousands of years. All that is left of them are the faces in the trees.” “Down here, might be that’s true, Maester,” Yoren said, “but up past the Wall, who’s to say? Up there, a man can’t always tell what’s alive and what’s dead.” That night, after the plates had been cleared, Robb carried Bran up to bed himself. Grey Wind led the way, and Summer came close behind. His brother was strong for his age, and Bran was as light as a bundle of rags, but the stairs were steep and dark, and Robb was breathing hard by the time they reached the top. He put Bran into bed, covered him with blankets, and blew out the candle. For a time Robb sat beside him in the dark. Bran wanted to talk to him, but he did not know what to say. “We’ll find a horse for you, I promise,” Robb whispered at last. “Are they ever coming back?” Bran asked him. “Yes,” Robb said with such hope in his voice that Bran knew he was hearing his brother and not just Robb the Lord. “Mother will be home soon. Maybe we can ride out to meet her when she comes. Wouldn’t that surprise her, to see you ahorse?” Even in the dark room, Bran could feel his brother’s smile. “And afterward, we’ll ride north to see the Wall. We won’t even tell Jon we’re coming, we’ll just be there one day, you and me. It will be an adventure.” “An adventure,” Bran repeated wistfully. He heard his brother sob. The room was so dark he could not see the tears on Robb’s face, so he reached out and found his hand. Their fingers twined together. EDDARD “Lord Arryn’s death was a great sadness for all of us, my lord,” Grand Maester Pycelle said.

One morning, a farmer knocked loudly on the door of a monastery. When Brother Porter opened the door, the farmer held out to him a magnificent bunch of grapes. “Dear Brother Porter, these are the finest grapes from my vineyard. Please accept them as a gift from me.” “Why, thank you! I’ll take them straight to the Abbot, who will be thrilled with such a gift.” “No, no. I brought them for you.” “For me? But I don’t deserve such a beautiful gift from nature.” “Whenever I knocked on the door, you opened it. When the harvest had been ruined by drought, you gave me a piece of bread and a glass of wine every day. I want this bunch of grapes to bring you a little of the sun’s love, the rain’s beauty and God’s miraculous power.” Brother Porter put the grapes down where he could see them and spent the whole morning admiring them: they really were lovely. Because of this, he decided to give the present to the Abbot, whose words of wisdom had always been such a boon to him. The Abbot was very pleased with the grapes, but then he remembered that one of the other monks was ill and thought: “I’ll give him the grapes. Who knows, they might bring a little joy into his life.” But the grapes did not remain for very long in the room of the ailing monk, for he in turn thought: “Brother Cook has taken such good care of me, giving me only the very best food to eat. I’m sure these grapes will bring him great happiness.” And when Brother Cook brought him his lunch, the monk gave him the grapes. “These are for you. You are in close touch with the gifts Nature gives us and will know what to do with this, God’s produce.” Brother Cook was amazed at the beauty of the grapes and drew his assistant’s attention to their perfection. They were so perfect that no one could possibly appreciate them more than Brother Sacristan, who had charge of the Holy Sacrament, and whom many in the monastery considered to be a truly saintly man. Brother Sacristan, in turn, gave the grapes to the youngest of the novices in order to help him understand that God’s work is to be found in the smallest details of the Creation. When the novice received them, his heart was filled with the Glory of God, because he had never before seen such a beautiful bunch of grapes. At the same time, he remembered the day he had arrived at the monastery and the person who had opened the door to him; that gesture of opening the door had allowed him to be there now in that community of people who knew the value of miracles. Shortly before dark, he took the bunch of grapes to Brother Porter. “Eat and enjoy. You spend most of your time here all alone, and these grapes will do you good.” Brother Porter understood then that the gift really was intended for him; he savoured every grape and went to sleep a happy man. In this way, the circle was closed; the circle of happiness and joy which always wraps around those who are in contact with the energy of love.

Youngest Brother, swan's wing, where one arm should be, yours the shirt of nettles short a sleeve and me with no time left to finish -- I didn't mend you all the way back into man though I managed for your brothers; they flit again from court to playing-courts to courting, while you station yourself, wing folded from sight, avian eye to the outside, no rebuke meant but love's. Was it better then, the living on the water, the taking to air...? ("Ever After," from the book 'The Poets' Grimm')

Dylan Caine came over last night and worked with me to strip the walls.” Her stomach tingled again as she remembered that kiss that had happened right about where her mother stood. Laura frowned. “Which Caine brother is that? There are dozens of them.” “Only six, Mother. He’s the youngest son.” Laura looked baffled for a moment, trying to put the pieces together, and then her eyes widened. “Dylan. He’s the one who lives up in Snowflake Canyon. The one who lost his arm.” “Yes,” she said calmly. “That’s the one.” Laura stared at her. “Why would you have him help you? What can he even do without an arm?” Kiss her until she couldn’t remember her name, for one thing. He had amazing skills in that direction, but she was quite certain her mother wouldn’t appreciate that particular insight.

Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife. Mounted on his huge black destrier, the knight towered above Will and Gared on their smaller garrons. He wore black leather boots, black woolen pants, black moleskin gloves, and a fine supple coat of gleaming black ringmail over layers of black wool and boiled leather. Ser Waymar had been a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch for less than half a year, but no one could say he had not prepared for his vocation. At least insofar as his wardrobe was concerned.

Kyra stood atop the grassy knoll, the frozen ground hard beneath her boots, snow falling around her, and tried to ignore the biting cold as she raised her bow and focused on her target. She narrowed her eyes, shutting out the rest of the world—a gale of wind, the sound of a distant crow—and forced herself to see only the skinny birch tree, far-off, stark-white, standing out amidst the landscape of purple pine trees. At forty yards, this was just the sort of shot her brothers couldn’t make, that even her father’s men couldn’t make—and that made her all the more determined—she being the youngest of the bunch, and the only girl amongst them. Kyra had never fit in. A part of her wanted to, of course, wanted to do what was expected of her and spend time with the other girls, as was her place, attending to domestic affairs; but deep down, it was not who she was. She was her father’s daughter, had a warrior’s spirit, like he, and she would not be contained to the stone walls of their stronghold, would not succumb to a life beside a hearth. She was a better shot than these men—indeed, she could already outshoot her father’s finest archers—and she would do whatever she had to to prove to them all—most of all, her father—that she deserved to be taken seriously.

Wednesday evening arrived, eight o'clock came, and eight members of the committee were punctual in their attendance. Mr Loggins, the solicitor, of Boswell-court, sent an excuse, and Mr Samuel Briggs, the ditto of Furnival's Inn, sent his brother, much to his (the brother's) satisfaction, and greatly to the discomfiture of Mr Percy Noakes. Between the Briggses and the Tauntons there existed a degree of implacable hatred, quite unprecedented. The animosity between the Montagues and Capulets was nothing to that which prevailed between these two illustrious houses. Mrs Briggs was a widow, with three daughters and two sons; Mr Samuel, the eldest, was an attorney, and Mr Alexander, the youngest, was under articles to his brother. They resided in Portland-street, Oxford-street, and moved in the same orbit as the Tauntons - hence their mutual dislike. If the Miss Briggs appeared in smart bonnets, the Miss Tauntons eclipsed them with smarter. If Mrs Taunton appeared in a cap of all the hues of the rainbow, Mrs Briggs forthwith mounted a toque, with all the patterns of a kaleidoscope. If Miss Sophia Taunton learnt a new song, two of the Miss Briggses came out with a new duet. The Tauntons had once gained a temporary triumph with the assistance of a harp, but the Briggses brought three guitars into the field, and effectually routed the enemy. There was no end to the rivalry between them.

Behind her was my youngest brother, David Michael (seven, going on three). He was brandishing an ugly figurine carved from a coconut, which he’d somehow convinced my mom and dad to buy in Hawaii. “Nyyyah-hah-hah, the coco-monster’s going to get you!” I stepped out of his way. My foot hooked into a backpack that was on the floor, and I fell into a kitchen chair. “ANYBODY SEEN MY BACKPACK?” called my seventeen-year-old brother, Charlie, from upstairs. “UNDER MY FEET!” I shouted

Our youngest brother, Roscoe, was in town from vet school because this week marked the one-year anniversary of our mother’s death. Ashley had sent a group text message earlier in the  week, saying, Dinner on Tuesday the 4th at home. Please be there or I’ll be forced to wax your beard from your face. You know I will… XOXO Ash So, in addition to everything else going wrong recently, I had that to look forward to.

associate with that.” He tugged on his ear again. “So … tell me about your family. You and Jake seem very close. Do you have the same kind of relationship with your other brothers?” Happy to change the subject, Bethany launched into a brief description of her siblings. “In a large family like ours, it’s never easy being the youngest, and I think it was especially difficult being the only girl. Too many protectors. Someone was always watching after me. It took a lot of maneuvering on my part to get away with anything.” “I’m sure your folks appreciated your brothers’ efforts.

Kyra stood atop the grassy knoll, the frozen ground hard beneath her boots, snow falling around her, and tried to ignore the biting cold as she raised her bow and focused on her target. She narrowed her eyes, shutting out the rest of the world—a gale of wind, the sound of a distant crow—and forced herself to see only the skinny birch tree, far-off, stark-white, standing out amidst the landscape of purple pine trees. At forty yards, this was just the sort of shot her brothers couldn’t make, that even her father’s men couldn’t make—and that made her all the more determined—she being the youngest of the bunch, and the only girl amongst them. Kyra had never fit in. A part of her wanted to, of course, wanted to do what was expected of her and spend time with the other girls, as was her place, attending to domestic affairs; but deep down, it was not who she was. She was her father’s daughter, had a warrior’s spirit, like he, and she would not be contained to the stone walls of their stronghold, would not succumb to a life beside a hearth. She was a better shot than these men—indeed, she could already outshoot her father’s finest archers—and she would do whatever she had to to prove to them all—most of all, her father—that she deserved to be taken seriously. Her father loved her, she knew, but he refused to see her for who she was. Kyra did her best training far from the fort, out here on

But the way Roscoe spoke sometimes, he acted like his poop didn’t smell even though he was just a poor boy from backwoods Tennessee, the youngest son of a con man and a librarian. He’s

Soon after the marriage of Miss Meg, George, the third son, and youngest of the family, was placed in the counting house of one of the most eminent West Indian merchants at that period in Glasgow. This incident was in no other respect important in the history of the Lairds of Grippy, than as serving to open a career to George, that would lead him into a higher class of acquaintance than his elder brothers: for it was about this time that the general merchants began to arrogate to themselves that aristocratic superiority over the shopkeepers, which they have since established into an oligarchy, as proud and sacred, in what respects the reciprocities of society, as the famous Seignories of Venice and Genoa.

We love you, our angel, and always will,” Papa said and patted me on the back. I knew enough of my Bible to realize why I had overheard, more than once, some of our Bowes Lyon relations refer to David and me as “the Benjamins.” After all, Benjamin was the dearly beloved and youngest of his father’s and Rachel’s children and had many older half brothers.

achieved an outcome that he could call a victory by capturing fifty-three women and children. But in the process, he failed to support his detachment of scouts led by Major Joel Elliott. The detachment was killed and butchered by an army of warriors that Custer didn’t know was there. Benteen, for one, never forgave Custer for failing to make a stronger effort to save Elliott and the scouts. Now, Custer faced a similar problem. He believed the noncombatants were running north from the village. But to his south, Reno’s battalion was in danger of being destroyed. He couldn’t capture the noncombatants and save Reno at the same time. As Custer deliberated, his youngest brother, Boston, rode up. Boston had ridden back to the pack train to exchange his horse for a fresh mount. Along the way, he passed Benteen’s battalion, and now he told his brother that Benteen’s men were on the trail to the battlefield and the pack train was only a mile behind them. Custer decided he needed a better view of the landscape. He led his column farther north, across a wide ravine and up onto a high ridge. From there, he saw even more of the village and realized it was even larger than he’d previously believed. He also saw a dust cloud to the south that he thought was a sign of Benteen’s battalion. If Benteen hurried as ordered, he could reunite with Custer in less than half an hour. That thought solidified the decision in Custer’s mind, and Custer explained his plan to his senior officers. Custer split his command into two wings. He told his old friend Captain George Yates to lead the smaller wing, with two of the five companies, over the hills and down a ravine toward the river. Yates would make a big show of acting like he was going to charge across the river and into the village, but in reality, he would secure a place to cross for the rest of the column. Custer would stay with the larger wing—the three companies commanded by Captain Myles Keogh—and wait for Benteen. If Benteen arrived soon, his three companies would join with Keogh’s three companies and rush down to Yates’s position. Then all eight companies would cross the river together and storm the village. If Benteen was delayed, then Keogh’s companies would fire

her youngest brother, Ser Gwayne Hightower.

Before he left White Harbor a compact was drawn up and signed, by the terms of which Lord Manderly’s youngest daughter would be wed to the prince’s brother Joffrey once the war was over.

Radar, his youngest brother, who appeared on the cover of two of U2’s early albums, Boy and War.

Renesme Fractures Nickname: Ness or Ren girl age: 16 Junior black hair rainbow eyes Heterosexual Personality: Fun, smart, but quiet, sticks to drawing and her books. siblings: deceased Parents: deceased father: power of storm mother: power of fire Wolf shifter Powers: to summon and control fire, earth, and storm. Familiar: wolf named luca Loves art, reading, and music History: Lost her parents and brothers when she was 5, she was the youngest of 5. In foster care til she got a letter on her birthday inviting her here completely paid for. Luca appeared when she 5 shortly after she lost here family. She also skipped 7th grade. Friends: Comet Royce Relationship: (Saved for Cameron Augustine)

Key Apache Warriors Cochise—one of the great Chiricahua (Chokonen) chiefs. Born c. 1805. No known pictures exist but he was said to be very tall and imposing, over six feet and very muscular. Son-in-law to Mangas Coloradas. Died in 1874, probably from stomach cancer. Chihuahua—chief of the Warm Springs band (Red Paint people) of the Chiricahua. Fought alongside Geronimo in the resistance. Died in 1901. Fun—probably a cousin to Geronimo and among his best, most trusted warriors. Fun committed suicide in captivity in 1892, after becoming jealous over his young wife, whom he also shot. Only slightly wounded, she recovered. Juh—pronounced “Whoa,” “Ho,” or sometimes “Who.” Chief of the Nedhni band of the Apache, he married Ishton, Geronimo’s “favorite” sister. Juh and Geronimo were lifelong friends and battle brothers. Juh died in 1883. Loco—chief of the Warm Springs band. Born in 1823, the same year as Geronimo. Once was mauled by a bear and killed it single-handedly with a knife, but his face was clawed and his left eye was blinded and disfigured. Known as the “Apache Peacemaker,” he preferred peace to war and tried to live under reservation rules. Died as a prisoner of war from “causes unknown” in 1905, at age eighty-two. Lozen—warrior woman and Chief Victorio’s sister. She was a medicine woman and frequent messenger for Geronimo. She fought alongside Geronimo in his long resistance. Mangas Coloradas—Born in 1790, he was the most noted chief of the Bedonkohe Apache. A massive man for his era, at 6'6” and 250 pounds, he was Geronimo’s central mentor and influence. He was betrayed and murdered by the U.S. military in 1863. Geronimo called his murder “the greatest wrong ever done to the Indians.” Mangas—son of the great chief Mangas Coloradas, but did not succeed his father as chief because of his youth and lack of leadership. Died as a prisoner of war in 1901. Naiche—Cochise’s youngest son. Succeeded older brother Taza after he died, becoming the last chief of the free Chiricahua Apache. Nana—brother-in-law to Geronimo and chief of the Warm Springs band. Sometimes referred to as “Old Nana.” Died as a prisoner of war in 1896. Victorio—chief of the Warm Springs band. Noted and courageous leader and a brilliant military strategist. Brother and mentor to warrior woman Lozen. Slain by Mexicans in the massacre of Tres Castillos in 1880.

The People of Ice Planet Barbarians As of the end of Barbarian’s Mate (suggested pronunciations in parenthesis) AT THE MAIN TRIBAL CAVE CAVE 1 VEKTAL (Vehk-tall) - The chief of the sa-khui. Mated to Georgie. GEORGIE – Human woman (and unofficial leader of the human females). Has taken on a dual-leadership role with her mate. TALIE (Tah-lee) – Their baby daughter. CAVE 2 Maylak (May-lack) – Tribe Healer. Mated to Kashrem and currently pregnant with child. Kashrem (Cash-rehm) - Her mate, also a leather-worker. Esha (Esh-uh) – Their young daughter. CAVE 3 Sevvah (Sev-uh) – Tribe elder, mother to Aehako, Rokan, and Sessah Oshen (Aw-shen) – Tribe elder, her mate Sessah – (Ses-uh) - Their youngest son Rokan – (Row-can) – Their oldest son. Adult male hunter. CAVE 4 Warrek (War-ehk) – Tribal hunter. Eklan (Ehk-lan) – His father. Elder. CAVE 5 Ereven (Air-uh-ven) Hunter, mated to Claire Claire – mated to Ereven, currently pregnant CAVE 6 Liz – Raahosh’s mate and huntress. Raahosh (Rah-hosh) – Her mate. A hunter and brother to Rukh. Raashel (Rah-shel) – Their daughter. CAVE 7 Stacy – Mated to Pashov. Has an unnamed child. Pashov (Pah-showv) – son of Kemli and Borran, brother to Farli and Salukh. Mate of Stacy, and has an unnamed child. CAVE 8 Nora – Mate to Dagesh, mother to twins Anna and Elsa. Dagesh (Dah-zzhesh) (the g sound is swallowed) – Her mate. A hunter. Anna & Elsa – Their infant twin daughters. CAVE 9 Harlow – Mate to Rukh. ‘Mechanic’ to the Elders’ Cave. Spends 75% of her time there with her family. Rukh (Rookh) – Former exile and loner. Original name Maarukh. (Mah-rookh). Brother to Raahosh. Mate to Harlow. Rukhar (Roo-car) – Their infant son. CAVE 10 Megan – Mate to Cashol. Extremely pregnant. Cashol – (Cash-awl) – Mate to Megan. Hunter. CAVE 11 Marlene (Mar-lenn) – Human mate to Zennek. Has unnamed child. French. Zennek – (Zehn-eck) – Mate to Marlene. Has unnamed child. CAVE 12 Ariana – Human female. Mate to Zolaya. Unnamed child. Zolaya (Zoh-lay-uh) – Hunter and mate to Ariana. Unnamed child. CAVE 13 Tiffany – Human female. Mated to Salukh and newly pregnant. Salukh - Salukh (Sah-luke) – Hunter. Son of Kemli and Borran, brother to Farli, Pashov and Dagesh. CAVE 14 Aehako – (Eye-ha-koh) – Acting leader of the South cave. Mate to Kira, father to Kae. Son of Sevvah and Oshen, brother to Rokan and Sessah. Kira – Human woman, mate to Aehako, mother of Kae. Was the first to be abducted by aliens and wore an ear-translator for a long time. Kae (Ki –rhymes with ‘fly’) – Their newborn daughter. CAVE 15 Kemli – (Kemm-lee) Female elder, mother to Salukh, Pashov and Farli Borran – (Bore-awn) Her mate, elder Farli – (Far-lee) Their teenage daughter. Her brothers are Salukh and Pashov. She has a pet dvisti named Chahm-pee (Chompy). CAVE 16 Drayan (Dry-ann) – Elder. Drenol (Dree-nowl) – Elder. CAVE 17 Vadren (Vaw-dren) – Elder. Vaza (Vaw-zhuh) – Widower and elder. Loves to creep on the ladies. CAVE 18 Asha (Ah-shuh) – Mated to Hemalo. No living child. Hemalo (Hee-mah-lo) – Mated to Asha. CAVE 19 Bek – (BEHK) – Hunter. Hassen (Hass-en) – Hunter. Harrec (Hair-ek) – Hunter. Taushen (Tow –rhymes with cow- shen) – Hunter. CAVE 20 Josie – Human woman and last one to resonate. Haeden (Hi-den) – Hunter. Previously resonated to Zalah but she died (along with his khui) in the khui-sickness before resonance could be completed. Now mated to Josie

And before she could go after the final king, the youngest one who loved his brothers so very deeply, the keys were taken from her.

The boys and Lark disappeared into the trees. “My youngest brother killed a lynx yesterday,” Rose said. “Apparently it came into his territory and left some spray marks. He skinned it, smeared himself in its blood, and put its pelt on his shoulders like a cape. And that’s how he came dressed for breakfast.” Cerise drank some beer. “My sister kills small animals and hangs their corpses on a tree, because she thinks she is a monster and she’s convinced we’ll eventually banish her from the house. They’re her rations. Just in case.” Rose blinked. “I see. I think we’re going to get along just fine, don’t you?” “I think so, yes.

For the six youngest children, from Katherine, who at two, can only toddle after her bigger siblings, imploring them not to leave her behind, through Edward, Margaret, Lionel, Eleanor, and Martha, the oldest of the nursery at ten years, the return of their older brothers and sisters is like an explosion of noise and excitement.

If it appeases you, you may wish to know that my brothers and I have very specific tastes sexually and neither you nor Miss Vega fulfil them, so I can assure you the work was in no way gratifying. I prefer men in their fifties or older with considerably more body hair than you. My middle brother only enjoys sex with inanimate objects and my youngest brother likes Medusa women in shifted form.

In the only picture Brennan ever did for the legendary director John Ford, the character actor worked well beside Ford stalwarts such as Ward Bond, playing one of Earp’s brothers. Indeed, what is most remarkable about this film is the contrast between Clanton and his boys and Earp and his congenial brothers, the youngest of whom is killed when the Clanton gang rustles cattle the Earps have been driving to California. Brennan personifies the authority of evil, as he does in Brimstone (August 15, 1949), where he again bullies his boys into driving out homesteaders. It is almost as if in each subsequent film—especially in Westerns—Brennan is building a persona that is like a suit subjected to constant alteration without ever losing its basic contours. He would essay yet another version of the dominating father with sons in tow in Shoot Out at Big Sag (June 1, 1962), an independent production organized by his son Andy, in which Walter plays a pusillanimous preacher who has let down his wife and family by not defending them. But he ultimately redeems himself when he realizes he has lost the respect of everyone, including his daughter, who in the end proves to be his salvation owing to her unwillingness to accept her family’s defeatist mentality.

The scene of the Epic is the ancient kingdom of the Kurus which flourished along the upper course of the Ganges; and the historical fact on which the Epic is based is a great war which took place between the Kurus and a neighbouring tribe, the Panchalas, in the thirteenth or fourteenth century before Christ. According to the Epic, Pandu and Dhrita-rashtra, who was born blind, were brothers. Pandu died early, and Dhrita-rashtra became king of the Kurus, and brought up the five sons of Pandu along with his hundred sons. Yudhishthir, the eldest son of Pandu, was a man of truth and piety; Bhima, the second, was a stalwart fighter; and Arjun, the third son, distinguished himself above all the other princes in arms. The two youngest brothers, Nakula and Sahadeva, were twins. Duryodhan was the eldest son of Dhrita-rashtra and was jealous of his cousins, the sons of Pandu. A tournament was held, and in the course of the day a warrior named Karna, of unknown origin, appeared on the scene and proved himself a worthy rival of Arjun. The rivalry between Arjun and Karna is the leading thought of the Epic, as the rivalry between Achilles and Hector is the leading thought of the Iliad. It is only necessary to add that the sons of Pandu as well as Karna, were, like the heroes of Homer, god-born chiefs. Some god inspired the birth of each. Yudhishthir was the son of Dharma or Virtue, Bhima of Vayu or Wind, Arjun of Indra or Rain-god, the twin youngest were the sons of the Aswin twins, and Karna was the son of Surya the Sun, but was believed by himself and by all others to be the son of a simple chariot-driver. The portion translated in this Book forms Sections cxxxiv. to cxxxvii. of Book i. of the original Epic in Sanscrit (Calcutta edition of 1834).

Austin couldn't help being protective of his youngest brother. While he and Hayes had both worked in law enforcement, Laramie had no experience dealing with criminals. "I hope you're right," Austin said as he watched his family finish their lunches. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that Laramie had no idea what he was getting into.

The Advent of Karna Now the feats of arm are ended, and the closing hour draws nigh, Music's voice is hushed in silence, and dispersing crowds pass by, Hark! Like welkin-shaking thunder wakes a deep and deadly sound, Clank and din of warlike weapons burst upon the tented ground! Are the solid mountains splitting, is it bursting of the earth, Is it tempest's pealing accent whence the lightning takes its birth? Thoughts like these alarm the people for the sound is dread and high, To the gate of the arena turns the crowd with anxious eye! Gathered round preceptor Drona, Pandu's sons in armour bright, Like the five-starred constellation round the radiant Queen of Night, Gathered round the proud Duryodhan, dreaded for his exploits done, All his brave and warlike brothers and preceptor Drona's son, So the gods encircled Indra, thunder-wielding, fierce and bold, When he scattered Danu's children in the misty days of old! Pale, before the unknown warrior, gathered nations part in twain, Conqueror of hostile cities, lofty Karna treads the plain! In his golden mail accoutred and his rings of yellow gold, Like a moving cliff in stature, arméd comes the chieftain bold! Pritha, yet unwedded, bore him, peerless archer on the earth, Portion of the solar radiance, for the Sun inspired his birth! Like a tusker in his fury, like a lion in his ire, Like the sun in noontide radiance, like the all-consuming fire! Lion-like in build and muscle, stately as a golden palm, Blessed with every very manly virtue, peerless warrior proud and calm! With his looks serene and lofty field of war the chief surveyed, Scarce to Kripa or to Drona honour and obeisance made! Still the panic-stricken people viewed him with unmoving gaze, Who may be this unknown warrior, questioned they in hushed amaze! Then in voice of pealing thunder spake fair Pritha's eldest son Unto Arjun, Pritha's youngest, each, alas! to each unknown! “All thy feats of weapons, Arjun, done with vain and needless boast, These and greater I accomplish—witness be this mighty host!” Thus spake proud and peerless Karna in his accents deep and loud, And as moved by sudden impulse leaped in joy the listening crowd! And a gleam of mighty transport glows in proud Duryodhan's heart, Flames of wrath and jealous anger from the eyes of Arjun start! Drona gave the word, and Karna, Pritha's war-beloving son, With his sword and with his arrows did the feats by Arjun done!

If you don’t wish to stay the night, what brings you here?” Lucien asked. “I thought perhaps you’d go straight to mother.” A terrible thought occurred to him. “She isn’t here is she?” Lucien half-expected the formidable Lady Rochester to explode out of a closet. His mother had on more than one occasion hidden herself to eavesdrop on her offspring, only to reveal her presence suddenly and scare the bloody hell out of her children. Linus, Lucien’s youngest brother, refused to shut the closet doors in his bedchamber for that very reason. She did so out of love of course. It was even a family joke. She’d been so besotted with their father that she’d insisted on naming every child with a name starting with L for love. Therefore they’d been named Lucien, Lawrence, Linus and Lysandra. Avery had been the only exception to their mother’s naming scheme. He looked just like their father and so bore the same name as him. The other Russells favored their mother in looks.

Key Points   Gordon Allport was an American psychologist who had a profound and lasting impact on his field. The Nature of Prejudice gives a comprehensive understanding of the psychology of prejudice, explaining how and why prejudice exists. The ideas that Allport put forward in The Nature of Prejudice shaped the study of prejudice for decades and are still relevant today.   Who Was Gordon Allport? Gordon Willard Allport (1897–1967) was born in Montezuma, Indiana, the youngest of four sons. One of his elder brothers, Floyd Henry Allport,* was an influential social psychologist* himself and played a key role in developing Gordon’s career. Floyd studied

No Shows I woke up this morning but there were some no shows. My wife, Darcy, died of pancreatic cancer at 31; one day she came from a routine checkup and the next month she was gone. My oldest daughter, Jenna, was 9 at the time, and 9 years later she OD’d on something; I asked the coroner not to tell me ‘what’ but ‘why’? My youngest daughter, Sylvia, hasn’t talk to me since, so I guess that counts as a no show. My parents are long gone, my brothers and sisters, dispersed over the world, rarely email. My cousins, uncles, aunts, are all distant or deceased. So when I woke up this morning, I counted the no shows like sheep and fell back into a welcome sleep where everyone still showed up.

Tussy’s announcement that she was double-brained was coincident with the time of her first conscious memory:   My earliest recollection . . . is when I was about three years old and Mohr . . . was carrying me on his shoulders round our small garden in Grafton Terrace, and putting convolvulus flowers in my brown curls. Mohr was admittedly a splendid horse.29   Putting Marx in harness was a family tradition. Tussy ‘heard tell’ that at Dean Street, Jenny, Laura and her dead brother Edgar would yoke Mohr to chairs which the three of them mounted as their carriage, and make him pull. As the youngest and a later arrival, Tussy got her own mount and his dedicated attention:   Personally – perhaps because I had no sisters of my own age – I preferred Mohr as a riding-horse. Seated on his shoulder holding tight by his great mane of hair, then black, but with a hint of grey, I have had magnificent rides round our little garden and over the fields . . . that surrounded our house at Grafton Terrace.30   Severe whooping cough in the winter of 1858 gave Tussy opportunity to assume dominion of the household: ‘The whole family became my bond slaves and I have heard that as usual in slavery there was general demoralisation.

Albert, apparently sensing that Traigh was, at that moment, plotting the different ways in which he’d kill their youngest brother, spoke up. “So will it be a hangin’in store fer Graeme, or do ye just plan on beatin’him half to death?” Traigh glanced at Albert. “I have no’decided just yet.” Albert was the most serious of the six MacAulay brothers. He rarely spoke without thinking first, and he was not one to go about chasing lasses like their brothers, Bruce and Albert. Neither was he one to jest frequently. ’Twas also said that Albert was as tightfisted with his money as a bairn is to his mother’s teat. Trying to get money from him was akin to trying to squeeze water from a stone. “I say we hang him,”Albert said, and not in jest. Traigh, though sorely tempted, knew ’twas impossible. “Our mother would have our heads if we hang him.” Albert thought on it for a moment. “Mayhap one day he will be out ridin’and have a mishap, whereby he falls off a cliff.” Traigh stared at him for a long while, uncertain if he was jesting or serious. Part of him was afraid to ask. Albert was just as vexed over Graeme’s behavior as Traigh was. “Remind me never to make ye angry,”he said. Albert raised a blonde brow. “Ye? Nay, I doubt ye’d ever anger me to the point of murder. Graeme, however, is another matter. I fear he has been so busy with book learnin’that he has fergotten everythin’a MacAulay stands for.” “Honor above self,”Traigh said. ’Twas the creed all MacAulays lived by. “Aye,”Albert said. “And right now, I believe he’s puttin’his own feelin’s ahead of everythin’. How anyone can remain angry for so long is beyond me. But then, I have no’had all the book learnin’that Graeme has had. Mayhap he can explain it to us.”Though his voice was laced with sarcasm, there was much truth to what he was saying. Traigh had to chuckle. “Shall we allow him to explain it before or after we beat him senseless?” Albert took a moment before answering. “Mayhap before, fer ’twill be difficult to understand him once I knock out a few of his teeth.” “Again, remind me ne’er to make ye angry, brother.” Albert shrugged his shoulders before urging his horse to move faster, leaving Traigh to wonder if he should mayhap begin to pray that Albert did not get his hands on Graeme first.

But you can’t keep them under surveillance every minute,” Dev protested. “They are intelligent women, and they will soon know we’re up to something.” “I’ll talk to Anna tonight,” the earl said. “She has to be made to see reason, or I’ll bundle her off to Morelands myself, there to be confined until she’ll marry me.” Val exchanged a look with Dev. “So the ducal blood will out, and you’re taking the Roman example of seizing and carrying off your bride.” Westhaven sighed. “I am no more willing to force a marriage on Anna than she would be willing to take her vows on those terms. I would live down to her worst expectations were I to even attempt it.” “Glad you comprehend that much,” Dev said. “Best of luck convincing her she needs bodyguards. Morgan, at least, can’t argue with us.” “Don’t bet on it,” Val said, his expression preoccupied. “I have missed my piano though, so I’ll leave you, Westhaven, to reason with Anna, while I bare my soul to my art.” “Damn.” Dev watched his youngest brother depart and smiled at the earl. “And here I’ve been baring everything else to the wenches at the Pleasure House. Which of us, do you suppose, has it right?” “Neither.

The first go out to his brothers, George the golden young man, Duke of Clarence, and the youngest York boy, twelve-year-old Richard, Duke of Gloucester, who smiles shyly at me and dips his head when I send him some braised peacock. He is as unlike his brothers as is possible, small and shy and dark-haired, slight of build and quiet, while they are tall and bronze-headed and filled with their own importance. I like Richard on sight, and I think he will be a good companion and playmate to my boys, who are only a little younger than him.

While reading some old articles to jog my memory for this book, I came across an article in the Chicago Sun-Times by Rick Kogan, a reporter who traveled with Styx for a few concert dates in 1979. I remember him. When we played the Long Beach Civic Center’s 12,000-seat sports arena in California, he rode in the car with JY and me as we approached the stadium. His recounting of the scene made me smile. It’s also a great snapshot of what life was like for us back in the day. The article from 1980 was called, “The Band That Styx It To ‘Em.” Here’s what he wrote: “At once, a sleek, gray Cadillac limousine glides toward the back stage area. Small groups of girls rush from under trees and other hiding places like a pack of lions attacking an antelope. They bang on the windows, try to halt the driver’s progress by standing in front of the car. They are a desperate bunch. Rain soaks their makeup and ruins their clothes. Some are crying. “Tommy, Tommmmmmmmmy! I love you!” one girl yells as she bangs against the limousine’s window. Inside the gray limousine, James Young, the tall, blond guitarist for Styx who likes to be called J.Y. looks out the window. “It sure is raining,” he says. Next to him, bass player Chuck Panozzo, finishing the last part of a cover story on Styx in a recent issue of Record World magazine, nods his head in agreement. Then he chuckles, and says, “They think you’re Tommy.” “I’m not Tommy Shaw,” J.Y. screams. “I’m Rod Stewart.” “Tommy, Tommmmmmmmmy! I love you! I love you!” the girl persists, now trying desperately to jump on the hood of the slippery auto. “Oh brother,” sighs J.Y. And the limousine rolls through the now fully raised backstage door and he hurries to get out and head for the dressing room. This scene is repeated twice, as two more limousines make their way into the stadium, five and ten minutes later. The second car carries young guitarist Tommy Shaw, drummer John Panozzo and his wife Debbie. The groupies muster their greatest energy for this car. As the youngest member of Styx and because of his good looks and flowing blond hair, Tommy Shaw is extremely popular with young girls. Some of his fans are now demonstrating their affection by covering his car with their bodies. John and Debbie Panozzo pay no attention to the frenzy. Tommy Shaw merely smiles, and shortly all of them are inside the sports arena dressing room. By the time the last and final car appears, spectacularly black in the California rain, the groupies’ enthusiasm has waned. Most of them have started tiptoeing through the puddles back to their hiding places to regroup for the band’s departure in a couple of hours.” Tommy

As with millions of others, Adeline Perry and her two young daughters endured the horrors of the Second World War in NAZI Germany. Following her death and armed with her manuscript, Captain Hank Bracker and his wife Ursula, Adeline’s youngest daughter, followed in Adeline’s footsteps to better understand the ordeal she experienced. Realizing that this book was the only way that her story could be preserved, Captain Hank took on the task of recording it. Ursula’s brother-in-law and stepsister, Peter Klett and his wife Jutta drove them to many of the places described in this book including Bischoffsheim, Strasbourg and Rosheim, in what was known as Reichsland Elsaß-Lothringen during World War II and which is now recognized as the administrative territory of Alsace-Moselle, France. He found the still existing bunker in Feudenheim and talked to people in Mannheim, Überlingen and Bischoffsheim who still remembered some of the details of the incidents in this book. Ursula’s sister Brigitte wrote her own manuscripts which helped fill in some previously unknown facts. “Suppressed I Rise” is an insight into how individual people’s lives were adversely affected by the insane acts of one man and the country he decimated.

So what do you want?” St. Just asked quietly. Winnie looked away, reminding him poignantly of Emmie in the midst of difficult discussions. “What do you want, princess?” he asked again. “I want…” Winnie’s little shoulders heaved, and still St. Just waited. “I want Emmie to s-s-stay.” She hurled herself across the mattress, sending her writing implements flying in her haste to throw herself into St. Just’s arms. “Don’t let her go away, please,” Winnie wailed. “I’ll be good, just… Make her stay. You have to make her stay.” He wrapped her in his arms and held her while she cried, producing a handkerchief when the storm seemed to be subsiding. All the while he held her, he thought of Her Grace raising ten children, ten little hearts that potentially broke over every lost stuffed bear, dead pony, and broken toy. Ten stubborn little chins, ten complicated little minds, each as dear and deserving as the last, and all with intense little worlds of their own. Ye Gods. And what to say? Never lie to your men, St. Just admonished himself… “I don’t want her to go, either,” St. Just murmured when Winnie’s tears had quieted to sniffles. “But Emmie has her business to run, Win. She won’t go far, though, just back to the cottage, and we can visit her there a lot.” Like hell. “She isn’t going to the cottage,” Winnie replied with desperate conviction. “She’s going to marry Vicar and his brother will die and she’ll be rich, but far, far away. Cumbria is like another country, farther away than Scotland or France or anywhere.” “Hush,” St. Just soothed, fearing he was about to witness the youngest female crying jag of his experience. “Emmie hasn’t said anything to me, Winnie, and I think she’d let me know if she were going somewhere.” She had, however, told him to find another governess by Christmas at the latest. “She’s going,” Winnie said, heartsick misery in her tone. “I know it, but she’ll listen to you if you tell her to stay.” “I can’t tell her, Win.” St. Just rose to turn back the bedcovers. “I can only ask.” “Then ask her,” Winnie pleaded as she scooted between the sheets. “Please, you have to.” “I will ask her what her plans are, but that doesn’t affect your needing and deserving a governess. Understand?” When Winnie’s chin jutted, he dropped onto the bed and met her eyes. “We haven’t hired anybody yet, we haven’t even interviewed anybody yet, and we won’t expect you to tolerate anybody who isn’t acceptable to both Emmie and me, all right?” “I don’t want a governess,” Winnie said, but her tone was whimpery, miserable, and hopeless. “I understand that, and I only want you to have a governess you’re going to like, Winnie. All I’m asking is that you give somebody a chance to help you learn, whether Emmie’s here, back at the cottage, or married to the Vicar.” “I love Emmie,” Winnie said, reaching for Mrs. Bear. “I love Emmie, and I don’t want her to go, and I don’t want her to marry Vicar.” “Neither do I, princess.” St. Just blew out her candle. “Neither do I.” He

So it wasn’t all Indians, pilfered brandy, and erotica?” “Not lately. The point I wanted to make, however, is I do not want to be—I most assuredly do not want to be—Moreland’s youngest pup while I am among my neighbors here.” “You’re a mighty strapping pup, but you are his son.” “I could be the size of your dear brother-in-law, Nick Haddonfield,” Val retorted, a note of exasperation in his voice, “and I would still be Moreland’s youngest pup, and not just to the doddering old titles His Grace battles with in the Lords. You try being the youngest of five boys and blessed with a name like Valentine. It wears on one.” Darius

His brothers accepted his fluid nature as something Darian simply was. He had been so all his life; suspended between male and female, one rising, the other ebbing without pattern or reason. The Queen, daughterless and doting, had gladly let her youngest son wear gowns, bows, and curls far longer than appropriate, until his father had intervened with violent persuasion. At court, he now moved as a man. In private, he never stopped wearing gowns or ribbons when the softer she inside him waxed like the full moon. He allowed her complete rein. In truth, he no longer knew where he ended and she began. They were the same.

In our culture it is important to show respect to the dead and to comfort the survivors. This commitment was even more important since the one who died was Jabir, meaning “Comforter,” my father’s uncle. Jabir had comforted and taken care of my papa, who was only five years old, as well as his youngest brother and his mom, when his father had been killed fighting as a warrior in World War II. So Papa was adamant that he should go to the funeral, despite my mother’s fears for his safety.

And as they came out, they found a man of Cyrene, Simon by name: him they compelled to bear his cross. —Matthew 27:32 (KJV) WEDNESDAY OF HOLY WEEK: GOD IS IN THE DETAILS Which cliché do you abide by: The devil is in the details or God is in the details? No matter; something extraordinary is in the details. Take for instance that single line about Simon of Cyrene. Maybe the Romans forced Simon to help; maybe he would’ve offered this small gift anyway. In either case, Jesus accepted. A cynic might note that Jesus didn’t have much choice, but that misses the point: Jesus had lots of choices. He could have wiggled out of the whole mess with Pilate. He could have chosen a quicker execution. He could have skipped the whole proceeding. He did not. Our youngest daughter, Grace, has talked about becoming a hospice worker when she grows up. She’s seen two grandparents die in hospices. She has seen the kind of people who work there: kind people. Maybe it’s a job; maybe economic circumstances compelled them to work there—does it matter? Fact is, they’re there, in someone’s time of need, to assist others on their journey, to make their passing less difficult. Are we compelled to help others or do we offer? I’m guessing that the person whose burden is suddenly lightened by our presence doesn’t really care what brought us to that moment. Those are just details…and I think God is, most assuredly, in the details. Lord, You said that what we do for the least of our brothers and sisters we do for You. Help us to see You in everything we do in our everyday lives, even in the tiniest details. —Mark Collins Digging Deeper: Ps 147:4–5; Lk 12:6–7

Tell me about Bryce, Sparrow." Effie bit into a cookie and aimed blue eyes her way. She shrugged. "What's to tell? He's the youngest of the Matheson brothers, but then maybe ye ken that since yer granddaughter is married to the eldest." "No. Tell me about your relationship with him and how you ended up with his muddy hand prints on your boobs. I'm betting that story is a barn burner.

There once lived a family that had three sons. The oldest one was called Ram, the middle one Goat, and the youngest brother was named Phillip.

These days her family, particularly her sisters, Jane and Sarah and brother Charles, are aware of the appalling problems she has endured. Jane has always given sensible advice and Sarah, from being dubious of her kid sister’s success, is now very protective. “You never criticize Diana in front of her,” notes a friend. Her relations with her mother and her father, when he was alive, are patchier. While Diana enjoys a sporadic but affectionate relationship with her mother, she was robust in her reaction to news that her second husband, Peter Shand Kydd had left her for another woman. Last summer her bond with her father went through a difficult period following publicity surrounding the secret sale of treasures from Althorp House. The children, including the Princess, had written to their father objecting to the trade in family heirlooms. There were bitter exchanges, subsequently regretted, which deeply hurt the Princess of Wales. Even the Prince of Wales intervened, voicing his concern to Raine Spencer who was typically robust in her response. Last autumn a reconciliation between father and daughter was effected. During a leisurely tour around the world the late Earl Spencer was deeply touched by the affection shown towards his youngest daughter by so many strangers. He telephoned from America to tell her just how proud of her that made him feel.