Solution Manual For Precalculus 1st Edition Julie Miller Donna Gerken
Solution Manual For Precalculus 1st Edition Julie Miller Donna Gerken
Solution Manual For Precalculus 1st Edition Julie Miller Donna Gerken
“For his marvelous success in mixing salads, the Duke, who studied the
culinary art in Paris and Rome, has been made Second Mate.”
“Three days out. The Languid Aquarellist insisted this morning on going
ashore and shooting ducks—wild ones. After he had almost decimated a
farmer’s prize flock of pekins (without noticing their barnyard confidence in
man)—he was promoted by the Captain for excellent gunnery, and the
addition to the yacht’s stores.”
“Tomson, (of the Barber’s-Own School), spent the entire afternoon trying to
convince Miss ⸺ that his own peculiar method of painting is the acme of art.
Miss ⸺ seemed delighted with his efforts, and thinks his pictures are “just
lovely.” She wants him to attempt an imaginary portrait of the sea serpent.
Owing to the ceaseless motion of the boat, Tomson’s pictures are decidedly
impressionistic.”
—“And then Bill Weatherbones gave us his version of the great naval
combat at Santiago, in which he took a very prominent part. ‘I tole yer how it
wuz,’ Bill began; ‘it wuz dis way, sur. I wuz a-settin’ on de aft hatch a-smokin’ a
cigar Bill Sampson giv’ me, an’ Bill an’ Winnie Schley wuz a-workin’ out a little
game wid de cards. Bill t’rowed down his papes an’ sed,—
“I
aint
got
no
luck,
I got to shake yuse fellers. Mc. he’s sent me de wire to go over an’ chin dat
man Shafter, wot’s runnin’ de army push, an’ make him git a move on hisself.”
“Don’t go, Bill,” sez I, “send one o’ de gang, it’s too hot fer yer, wot’s de good
yer workin’?” “Dem aint me orders,” sez Bill, den turnin’ to Winnie Schley, he
giv’ him de stern look, an’ sed, “Winnie, yer do de stunts here till I gets back
wid meself, an’ if de Spaniels tries ter get out de bottle squirt de guns on ’em.”
“I’m on,” sez Winnie, an’ he giv’ me de wink, “if de farmers shows up I shoots.”
Den de Admiral he gits in his little ya’t an’ sails off. Winnie den piped up de
grog all eround, an’ de game went on ag’in. I aint much stuck on de game de
navy push puts up, it’s on de squar’, an’ so I set dere gappin’ an’ feedin’ me
face, while de boys plays. All of a sudding I seen over dere where de guy
Hobson sinked de Merrymac some smoke. I wunk t’ meself, but didden say
nothin’ to break de boys up, but soon Winnie Schley looked up an’ seen it.
“Hully gee!” he yelled, “de blokes is a-chasin’ out,” an’ he grabbed a bunch o’
flags an’ did de signal act o’ his life. He worked dose flags till he looked like a
skirt dancer. De udder ships looked like a back yard wid de clothes-line full of
red-flannel shirts from de wavin’ de guys put up. “Git dem guns loaded,” yelled
Schley, “yuse blokes look lively, dere.” Boom! busted out one o’ de big guns,
an’ de noise it knock de win’ outten me works. It hit de Spaniel an’ turned him
bottom upwards; when he come up ag’in he shot his gun at us, but it wuz half
a mile too high. Schley he rung out de joyous laugh. “Dere optics aint no
good,” sez he, den he lets anudder ball go at him dat went clean t’rough him
an’ hit anudder ship two miles off an’ sunk it in a minnit. Den up comes
anudder Spaniel, an’ I seen⸺’”
“The steering gear is a little rattled: a puff of wind blew a lock of Mate
Fuzzie-Wuzzie’s hair into the wheels, and instantly the vessel swung round.
The engine was stopped, and in the excitement that ensued, a case of
champagne was almost lost overboard. We had to run backward for a mile
and a-half to disengage Fuzzie’s hair from the machinery. Fuzzie has been
reduced.”
“Spike’s interest in the war has grown to be a matter of serious
inconvenience to all on board. He has literally covered the yacht with
Military
and
Naval
cartoons.
The boat will certainly have to be re-painted. This morning he came on deck
with a drawing he did sometime during the night, which represents Uncle Sam
admonishing Spain to stop kicking the “yaller dorg”—Cuba. It’s not half bad,
but his claim of it’s being the best yet made on the war is a little strong. He
has been so busy admiring it all day he has not thought to make any others—
and we have had time to breathe.”
“We
came
to
anchor
this evening near the wreck of the “Two Sisters,” in the vicinity of which—on
the shore—was situated a dog-pound, containing some two hundred canines
awaiting execution.... We enjoyed a night of delightful rest.”
“The Skipper went out on his bicycle gig to take a survey of the harbor, but the
roadway was running so high he found it difficult to make any headway,
and had to return to the yacht.”
“Curly has been pronounced unfit for the duties of an able-bodied seaman,
and has been handed over to the Duke for treatment. It is suspected he is
afflicted with some curious, and hitherto unknown, form of love. Yesterday the
Duke administered a very carefully prepared shrimp salad, but it failed utterly
to bring about the desired results. He’s still very pensive, and seems to wish to
be alone. Grave symptoms indeed. Ever since our last visit ashore, when he
was seen walking through the fields with a tall, willowy creature of undeniable
attractiveness, he has been very dejected and apathetic.
We shall
try
keel-hauling
as a
last resort,
—but trust it will not be necessary.”
“The last glimpse of the glorious old Bay, and the last day afloat. The cruise
has been one of continuous delight, but we can not but regret the end has
come, and we must tread the bricks of uninteresting streets instead of the
swaying deck of the Rita. But, as Bill Weatherbones would say, “Wot’s de
use? Man aint born to be happy,
—an’
dats
straight.”
THE END
THE FOUR FEARS OF OUR GENERAL
SOUVENIRS of CHILDHOOD
Adapted from the French by Adele Bacon.
THE SECOND FEAR.
The battle on the mountain had passed off much better than we
had dared to hope, and, although we had not found our enemies as
sound asleep as we had desired, our early morning attack had
never-the-less completely surprised them. We managed to seize
their recent position on the plateau with scarcely any loss. This
position, although a very exposed one, was worth a great deal more,
from the strategist’s point of view, than the valley in which we were
encamped the night before. Besides, in making war, it is always
desirable to occupy those places voluntarily selected and defended
by an opponent.
Our work, however, was by no means over; another sort of effort
lay before us.
Our foes, driven from their position on the heights, had succeeded
in forming another; and were strongly entrenched on the lower
extremity of the same plateau, from the loftier end of which we had
so lately dislodged them.
With a considerable amount of adroitness, they had succeeded in
placing a little river, called the Oued-el-Kebir, between our camp and
their own. We were compelled therefore to cross this river, in order to
force them to move farther on, and abandon to us the territory that
we both coveted.
We had resolved, once our morning’s work was over, to enjoy a
much needed repose on our hardly earned mountain; but, towards
noon, everybody was on foot, excepting several badly wounded
soldiers, and the little group of officers, who had chatted together
near the General’s tent the preceding evening, were invited to drink
a cup of coffee with him in the most picturesque smoking room that I
have ever seen, although the picturesque quality is by no means
rare in Algeria.
It was an enclosure walled in by rocks in the shape of heaps of
large pennies, arranged side by side, so as to form an amphitheatre,
the slope of which permitted us to see, by the aid of our glasses, the
new field on which we were soon to operate.
The country, which was beautiful so far as the scenery was
concerned, presented no insolvable military problems; it was
wooded, but not impenetrable.
We would of course have much preferred not to be separated from
the place of attack by a long, serpentine strip of water, which,
swollen by the recent melting of the snow, added materially to the
defence of our adversaries. It goes without saying that we
possessed neither artillery to protect our passage nor boats to effect
it. In pursuits such as now occupied us, a train of artillery could only
be an encumbrance, and the river which flowed sometimes in a
valley, and sometimes between high, steep banks, made it almost a
certainty that we should get a thorough wetting before we reached
the other side. We knew that the General had sent the necessary
men to measure the depth of that barrier of water, and to see if we
should have the good luck to find a place for fording it. In default of
this, we should be forced to make use of our temporary bridges, but
we did not wish to count absolutely on them. In making war, one can
usually tell best what to do on the spur of the moment. While waiting
for the necessary information to be brought in for making such
preparations as were possible, and for the night to come, fully half a
day must elapse. The General had thought that crossing at night was
less dangerous. Little Jacques, grown up, had no longer a horror of
shadows, and even liked to utilize them. When we had considered,
found great fault with, and speculated upon the meditated
expedition, we returned to our conversation of the preceding night.
The General had had the imprudence to speak to us of two
stories; we had heard one; what about the other?
Captain Robert,—the officer with whom the General sometimes
quarrelled, perhaps because he felt that he had an especial partiality
for him,—being slyly urged on by the rest of us, had the indiscretion
to ask him for it.
“Oh, as to that one, my children, you must not insist,” said the
General. “It is only a story of childhood, which has none of the
qualities which made the other acceptable to grown men. I have no
taste for failures,—you will cause me to be guilty of one.”
“General,” replied the obstinate captain, “you have just called us
your children, therefore a child’s story is quite suitable for us. It will
rejuvenate us. Children are amused by everything, you know, and if
by chance your second tale is a trifle more gay than the first, very
well,—we shall enjoy it.”
“Gay!” responded the General, “I don’t know about that. However,
it is not a tragedy. But you shall see. You wish it,—so here goes!”
“Perhaps all of you here are not fond of the water,” began the
General, casting a significant glance at the river which had
preoccupied our thoughts.
“That depends on circumstances,” responded the captain; “water
is very good, but there are times when one would rather do without
it.”
“Water, mingled with too many gun-shots, and after a difficult
march, might prove unhealthy,” interrupted a hoarse voice, that of
the doctor. “I should not recommend it as a remedy for my cold, but
the water of your story, General,—for I suppose by your
commencement your history is going to be a wet one,—will perhaps
do me good.”
“Good!” said the General, “here is the doctor who imagines I am
going to give him a tonic. But so long as you have wished for it
doctor, you must drink it. But no more interruptions:—I have already
forgotten where I was.”
“General,” replied the doctor, “you have just said ‘every one here is
perhaps not fond of water;’ and you were not contradicted.”
“Thanks!” said the General. “And silence in the ranks; I will
recommence.”
“Every one here does not like the water I said, very well, when I
was little it seems I was of that same opinion. I didn’t like water. Let
us understand each other fully as to the importance which you
should attach to my repugnance to this fluid, during these first years
of my life. I accepted water in many ways: I loved it sugared, and
even with a little orange flavor, but I hated it cold on my face in
winter, and only allowed myself to be washed willingly when it was
warm. I liked, too, to stand on a bridge, and watch the water flowing
underneath, and by a strange contradiction, I even enjoyed going on
it, in a boat—with papa. But I should have had a horrible fear to fall
in the water, or have it go suddenly over my head. To be frank, I
believe I should have been frightened to have it up to my ankles,
otherwise than in a foot bath. But then, one is not born perfect.
“This fear of the water was the despair of my father. He, like a
practical man, thought my love of boats and navigation, and my
horror of all actual contact with it, were contradictory if not
incompatible traits; that the liking for it on the one hand and the
dislike of it on the other argued as complete an absence of logic in
the brain of his little son as in his physical and moral organisms. He
was right. Aunt Marie and my mother were guilty of the sugared and
warm water, but my antipathy for it, otherwise than in these forms,
seemed to be a fundamental part of my nature.
“‘There is a reform for you to make in my absence,’ said my father
to his wife and his sister-in-law. ‘If I don’t find it accomplished when I
return, I agree in any way that you may find best, you will force me to
intervene myself, with a method perhaps a little brusque, but of
which I have more than once seen the efficacy.
“‘Understand that if I have to throw Jacques into the water like a
little dog, to teach him to save himself, I shall do it over and over
again, until he finds it agreeable, until he conquers his fright, and
learns to swim. Jacques pretends he wishes to become a sailor, like
his father, but I shall not allow him to become one of those sailors,—
and there are such,—who are actually afraid of the water.’”
“‘Afraid of the water? The child is not afraid of it,’ said mamma.
“‘It is only the cold which he dislikes,’ added my aunt.
“‘Really! And you can suggest no other remedy than to heat the
brooks and the rivers, the lakes and the seas, expressly for our little
darling? That would be, according to your ideas, a reform more
easily carried out than the correction of his fear of cold water!’
“‘Correction! Correction!’ replied aunt Marie impatiently. ‘One can
not “correct” one’s nervous system at will, my dear brother, one has
to cure it as one can. There are certain organisms which must be left
to correct themselves, with age. Our Jacques is brave in many ways,
as you well know; he has really only one fear,—that of contact with
cold water. Well, that will pass in time, as he grows older.’
“‘Time! time!’ returned my father, ‘time passes, but not our defects,
when, instead of correcting them, we leave them alone, or envelop
them in cotton. Sister Marie, do not change my boy into a little girl.’
“‘Your son,’ responded aunt Marie, ‘is as yet neither a boy nor a
girl: he is an angel, and you ought to be glad of it.’
“‘Glad!’ replied my father. ‘I can tell you about that better on my
return. However, I reserve the right of trying to find a young sailor in
your angel, some fine morning. I will not take you unawares. I have
warned both you and my wife. When I come back, I will take your
little Jacques with me in a boat, and whether he knows how to swim
or not, I will make him brave, in spite of himself.’
“This conversation made my aunt and my mother tremble.
Although they were apparently against me, they were really on my
side. They tried to encourage me, telling me I should be a sailor first,
and a brave one,—an admiral soon after. This delighted me. ‘What a
pity, though,’ I said to myself, ‘that water is so cold and wet, and that
one can not walk on it without sinking. Why should it be so?’”
“My father and I at length set out. It was good to have him back, to
hold his hand, and our disagreement upon one point had not
seriously troubled our friendly relations. When we arrived, we found
uncle Antoine, who occasionally suffered from the gout, incapable of
taking a step in the garden. My father offered to give him his revenge
for the game of chess which he had gained from him the year before,
—the day previous to his departure.
“‘As for you, Jacques,’ said uncle Antoine, ‘as you have no gout,
run away, pick my cherries, eat my strawberries, look at my roses,
go and see your chickens and rabbits and feed them for me. You
would perhaps do well to take along a book, your ‘Swiss Family
Robinson,’ go and read it in the hammock. Take a nap, if that
pleases you, but whatever you do, be good. When one is not
watched, there is a double duty and a double merit in being good.’
“‘I will add,’ put in my father, ‘that you may go in the path by the
edge of the water, and you will do well to watch attentively what goes
on in the river. Flowing water is an instructive spectacle for a boy like
you.’
“‘Instructive?’ queried my uncle.
“‘Full of information,’ answered my father. ‘It is in the water that the
fishes swim. It is in the water also that Jacques will have to swim
very shortly,—like a fish.’
“‘Like a fish?’ said my uncle. ‘Then you will have to give him fins.’
“‘One doesn’t need fins to swim with,’ replied my father. ‘Frogs do
not have them, yet they manage to swim beautifully. If Jacques will
examine those which he disturbs when he approaches the bank, if
he studies the way they keep their heads out of the water in order to
breathe, and the art with which they manage their arms and legs, in
directing themselves about in that beautiful fresh water which so
frightens your nephew, he will receive from these little animals a
swimming lesson superior to any that your gardener can give him.’
“‘That is very true’, uncle Antoine replied. ‘Go, Jacques,—go take
your lesson. It has never before occurred to me what services my
frogs could render you.’
“I was about to start, when my father stopped me with a gesture.
VI.
“Then I found the little one’s mother, whom I knew by sight.
“She was a large, healthy-looking woman, and, as I rushed into
her presence, was working at her spinning-wheel, singing
meanwhile. When she saw me suddenly appear, scarcely half
clothed, and soaking wet, she was seized with a fit of anger, and
before in my trouble I could manage to explain myself, boxed me
vigorously on both ears.
“It was the first time in my life I had received such treatment.
Furious at this proceeding, I threw myself on her, calling her every
name I could think of, and holding her by the skirt, I cried to her that
out among the cabbages there lay a little boy who might be dead.
“The good woman, astonished, began to imagine from the little I
was able to tell her, that she had been too quick; she concluded to
follow me. I feared I was taking her to a dead child, all was so quiet
over in the cabbage garden. But I was wrong. The little fellow I had
pulled out of the water was in better condition than I. We found him
sitting tranquilly in his wet garments, his arm resting carelessly on a
fine large cabbage. Without saying a word, he was staring straight in
front of him. But at the sight of his mother he suddenly recovered his
voice, and commenced bellowing even louder than he had done
when he was paddling in the river. Why should he cry? I thought it
stupid to cry just when help had arrived. He was, however, not so far
wrong, poor, fat little fellow: he was a little man who had already
experienced many things in life; he knew well what awaited him. To
tell the truth, he knew that his mother’s first action, in moments of
excitement, was at once quick and varied.
“Seeing him in good condition, but wet from head to foot, mother
Brazon lifted him up by one arm, and pulling up his frock,
administered a spanking which considerably augmented the
loudness of the little boy’s shrieks. I was indignant. It appears that I
was wrong. I have since heard it said that, medicinally, the maternal
treatment was admirably suited to the occasion. Is that true, doctor?”
“Quite true,” answered the doctor, laughing.
“With all this going on, I was scarcely contented; on the one hand,
I was beginning to shiver with cold, and on the other, for the first time
in my life, I found myself with strangers far away from the remainder
of my clothes, and I had a terrible fear lest Madame Brazon should
profit by the occasion to administer to me (otherwise than on my
ears) the same treatment she had so recently applied to her own
son, and which the doctor, no doubt, would have approved. But
these two exercises had been sufficient to calm the good woman.
“We had no sooner entered the house than she proved herself a
loving mother to little Auguste, and very kind to me. Quick as a wink
she undressed us both entirely, and bundled us both, in spite of our
resistance, between the white sheets of her big bed.
“Three minutes later she made us each drink a glass of sugared
wine—very hot—which put Auguste in an extremely jubilant frame of
mind. I could not share it. The worst was perhaps over. All was
finished on our side of the river, but that which was soon going to
pass on the other side began to occupy my mind. I thought
alternately of papa, of mamma, of my uncle, of my wet clothes, of the
two boxes on my ears, of the boat, and of aunt Marie. All this was
very complicated for a childish brain, already confused. Little
Auguste, searching for a warm place, had curled up in my arms and
gone to sleep. Scarcely knowing it, I followed his example, and
became unconscious in the middle of my sad reflections. It seems
they let us sleep nearly two hours. When I awoke and found myself
in that room and in that bed, and felt the head of a chubby little boy
on my shoulder, I was, at first, much astonished. I opened my eyes
without daring to move. But soon my memory returned, I
remembered everything, and cried, ‘Papa! papa!’
“‘Present!’ replied my father. He had been there by my bedside,—
my dear father,—for one hour, and my darling mother was there also.
Aunt Sister Marie had been unable to leave, or she would have been
there, too.
“Madame Brazon, it appears, had at length succeeded in
recognizing in the small gentleman so scantily clad, whose ears she
had so lately boxed, the little boy she had often seen in the garden
across the river, and to explain the enigma, she had sent a neighbor
to uncle Antoine’s. It had suddenly interrupted the game of chess.
My father arrived soon after, bringing with him my uncle’s doctor. The
doctor, after looking at the pretty picture we made in Madame
Brazon’s bed, had said, ‘Let them sleep.’
“While waiting for us to wake up, father had sent to town for dry
clothes; my mother had brought them herself. When I was dressed,
my father took me between his knees and said to me:
“‘Tell me everything.’
“I gave him, in fewer words than I have just used, an exact
account of what had happened. My father listened to me. I saw
clearly that he was not angry. At one moment, however, I saw him
grow pale; it was when he realized from my explanations that to go
and undrown little Auguste (this was the word I used, and it has been
so well remembered by all the family that I have not forgotten it), it
was, I say, when he understood that I must certainly have crossed
the river to reach the child.
“‘It is incomprehensible!’ said he to mamma and the doctor. ‘The
middle of the river is every where at least five or six feet deep. What
did he do?’
“‘Papa,’ said I, ‘I did as I saw the frogs do.’
“‘But then, my child, you swam.’
“‘I do not know, papa; perhaps—’
“‘Did the water go over your head?’
“‘No, papa, surely not.’
“‘You got no water in your mouth while you were going across to
rescue little Auguste? You did not go altogether under water?’
“‘No, papa; no papa.’
“‘Very well, my wife,’ said my father to my mother, ‘that proves that
when one has to swim, one can swim. Jacques swam, because
occupied with something besides his fear of water, he thought only of
the end he wished to attain. I am sure that he is now cured of his
former fright, and that with a few good lessons he will become a
good swimmer. And to be a good swimmer is very useful: it enables
one to save one’s self as well as others. Without this baby, Madame
Brazon, without his courage and sang-froid, your child would have
been lost.’
“‘My God!’ she cried. ‘And I thanked him with two blows!’
“‘Yes, papa,—two hard ones!’
“‘Madame Brazon,’ said my father, ‘kiss my son on the two cheeks
that you treated so roughly. There is nothing like a kiss to repair an
injury. When one is kissed, all wounds are cured.’”
VII.
“My story,” continued the General, “should not give the idea to
children, or to grown persons either, that it is always wise to make an
abrupt debut in the art of swimming, but it shows that the movements
by the aid of which a man swims are as natural to him as to most
animals, and that if suddenly forced to do so, he has no fear of
wetting himself, and can, by not losing his head, and by thinking of
frogs, cross a little river in safety.
“If you have to make the effort to-night, remember this, and help
one another. To leave a comrade behind is not a creditable
proceeding. Many a time have I congratulated myself that I pulled
little Brazon out of the water.”
“Brazon! Brazon! General?” said the doctor. “But I have known
someone of that name in the army,—a lieutenant-colonel, a strong,
brave fellow. Wait! It was he whose arm I cut off after our expedition
against the Beni-Raten. He was forced to retire—brave fellow!—after
that. I shall always remember what he said to me when the operation
was over: ‘Thanks, doctor. I regret my arm, but don’t regret the
occasion that made me lose it.’”
“And did he tell you,” said the General, “what that occasion was?”
“Faith! no!” responded the doctor, “he needed sleep too badly.”
“Very well, I will tell you,” continued the General, in a voice full of
feeling. “I had had my horse killed under me and my leg broken. I
should have been left to the mercy of the Kabyles, but he rescued
me, took me on his shoulders, carried me to a place of safety, and
only when this was done, discovered that during the trip a ball had
shattered his elbow. Brazon lost his arm in saving my life.
“The story I have just told you made us good friends. Uncle
Antoine became interested in him, my father also: we were educated
together, and have had more or less the same career. Poor Brazon!
When he retired, he returned to ⸺ and lives in what used to be his
father’s garden, opposite uncle Antoine’s ‘Garden of Roses.’
“Since then we have joined the two properties by a bridge, under
which a boat can pass. When I retire, in my turn, I shall not have to
swim to go and see my dear Auguste.”
VIII.
“General,” said the young captain, “will you permit me to ask you
one question? Did not your family spoil you a trifle after this
incident?”
“Oh, yes!” replied the General. “I did not lack attention. Aunt Marie
and my mother both kissed me. My uncle declared I was a fine little
fellow, and Madame Brazon, about two weeks later, sent me the very
biggest pumpkin in her garden. She had found out that I adored
pumpkin soup.”