The task went more easily than he had ever known it to before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was a gift to his father. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure of the latch. He put the stool in its place by the door and hung up the clean milk pail. Then he went out of the barn and barred the door behind him.
When he heard these words, something in him woke: his father loved him! He had never thought of it before, taking for granted the tie of their blood. Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no more loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up, stumbling blind with sleep, and pulled on his clothes.
He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! His father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he still woke at four o'clock in the morning. But this morning, because it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep again.
I cannot say I blame him. I was sitting in my living room while the murder took place right in front of my windows. In my sleeplessness, I was drinking hot milk and flipping through a travel magazine, steadfastly ignoring the weird murmurings of the girl outside.
On a cool night recently, a woman was murdered in front of my apartment in Chelsea. She was sleeping in her car when someone—evidently trying to steal her car radio—was surprised by her, and slashed her throat with a knife.
I was grateful to all the people I met for their rides, their food, their shelter, and their gifts. But what I found most touching was the fact that they all did it as a matter of course.
One day in Nebraska a car pulled to the road shoulder. When I reached the window, I saw two little old ladies dressed in their Sunday finest." I know you're not supposed to pick up hitchhikers, but it's so far between towns out here, you feel bad passing a person," said the driver, who introduced herself as Vi.
One summer I was driving from my home town of Tahoe City, Calif, to New Orleans. In the middle of the desert, I came upon a young man standing by the roadside. He had his thumb out and held a gas can in his other hand. I drove right by him. There was a time in the country when you' d be considered a jerk if you passed by somebody in need.
A cat burglar invaded the bedroom of the President of the United States, who confronted him, struck a deal with him and helped him escape.
Balcony? Max asked curiously. No, I had a passkey. I did not know about the balcony. It might have saved me some trouble had I known about it.
And as the light came on, Fowler had his first real thrill of the day. For halfway across the room, a small automatic pistol in his hand, stood a man.
Ausable did not fit the description of any secret agent Fowler had ever read about. Following him down the corridor of the gloomy French hotel where Ausable had a room, Fowler felt disappointed. It was a small room on the sixth floor and hardly a setting for a romantic figure.
Beneath my clenched fingers the alder was wriggling like a small, frightened snake. My father saw that I was about to drop it.
After I started going to school my father scarcely talked any more. I was very intoxicated by the new game of spelling; my father had little skill for it (it was my mother who wrote our letters) and was convinced I was no longer interested in hearing him tell of his adventures during the long weeks when he was far away from the house.
I looked across at the snowbank I would have to negotiate on the opposite side of the street. There, making her way down through the small uneven pathway of ice, was an old woman with a cane. People were standing behind her muttering. She was feeling with her foot, trying to find solid ground.
"It's not as bad as you're making it out to be," I said to my good friend Alex, as she sat there staring vacantly at the heavy cast on her leg. One moment she was running about, preparing for college, worrying about books, her car and which classes to take. Now, she was sitting here with a broken ankle. It all happened so suddenly.
He had had some recurring dreams. He dreamt that he was going to be put to death, which made him realise that there were a lot of worthwhile things he could do if he were to be set free. In another frequently occuring dream, he thought he could give up his life to save others: 'After all, if I were going to die anyway, it might as well do some good.'
When Stephen Hawking returned to St. Albans for the Christmas vacation at the end of 1962, the whole of southern England was covered in a thick blanket of snow. In his own mind, he must have known that something was wrong.
Mad Mel looked at the mannequin. Isn't that right, Manny? asked Mel. Sorry, Manny. I know it's hard to talk when you're thinking about that awful cafeteria food.
Then I presented my poster ideas. I had made some rough sketches. One poster showed someone sewing a piece of cloth. The cloth had the words "Class President" on it. Under the drawing I wrote in large letters:
I'm not one of the in crowd at Haskell High School. I'm sort of on the outside of things. So I was surprised when Dagny Draperman asked to have lunch with me one day. Dagny is in the in crowd. She's in everything.
It's funny you should say that. It is pretty close to my aim in life. I'm going be a promotion man. I may be short, but I can promote big things.
I have never understood why we keep a garden and why over 36 years ago when I bought my first house in the country, I started digging up a patch for vegetables before doing anything else.
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