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8
Eighth Edition
Everything’s an Argument
Andrea A. Lunsford
STANFORD UNIVERSITY
John J. Ruszkiewicz
9
For Bedford/St. Martin’s
10
bear) dagsjo/Getty Images; (vegan label) Good_Studio/Getty Images;
(free speech sign) Imfoto/Shutterstock; (kids with cell phones) Hero
Images/Getty Images
1 2 3 4 5 6 23 22 21 20 19 18
ISBN: 978-1-319-21157-8(mobi)
Acknowledgments
Text acknowledgments and copyrights appear at the back of the book
on page 545, which constitutes an extension of the copyright page. Art
acknowledgments and copyrights appear on the same page as the art
selections they cover.
11
Preface
When we began work on this text in 1996 (the first edition came out in
1998), we couldn’t have anticipated all the events of the next two
tumultuous decades, or all the changes to public and private discourse,
or the current deeply divided state of our nation. But we have tried
hard, over these decades, to track such changes and the ways rhetoric
and argument have evolved and responded to them.
We have also carefully tracked the forms that arguments take today,
from cartoons and graphic narratives to blogs and other postings to
multimodal projects of almost every conceivable kind. While argument
has always surrounded us, today it does so in an amazing array of
genres and forms, including aural and visual components that
strengthen and amplify arguments.
12
increasing use of informal registers and conversational styles even in
academic arguments.
Perhaps most important, though, a look back over the last twenty-two
years reaffirms the crucial role that rhetoric can and should play in
personal, work, and school lives. At its best, rhetoric is the art, theory,
and practice of ethical communication, needed more sorely today than
perhaps ever before. Everything’s an Argument presents this view of
rhetoric and illustrates it with a fair and wide range of perspectives and
views, which we hope will inspire student writers to think of
themselves as rhetors, as Quintilian’s “good person, speaking well.”
Key Features
Brief, cogent explanations of key argument concepts in a student-
friendly voice.
Snappy examples weave in the debates that rage around us. From
#metoo tweets and protest posters to essays and scholarly writing,
boldfaced examples illustrate the arguments happening in politics,
13
economics, journalism, and media, with brief student-friendly analyses.
Five new annotated student essays address topics students care about,
from millennials’ love of food to breaking a social media addiction.
14
We’re all in. As always.
Bedford/St. Martin’s is as passionately committed to the discipline of
English as ever, working hard to provide support and services that
make it easier for you to teach your course your way.
15
tools in a fully customizable course space; then assign and mix our
resources with yours.
16
best for you and your students:
17
Adaptive exercises that engage students. Writer’s Help 2.0
includes LearningCurve, game-like online quizzing that adapts to
what students already know and helps them focus on what they
need to learn.
Instructor Resources
You have a lot to do in your course. We want to make it easy for you to
find the support you need—and to get it quickly.
Acknowledgments
We owe a debt of gratitude to many people for making Everything’s an
Argument possible. Our first thanks must go to the thousands of people
we have taught in our writing courses over nearly four decades,
18
particularly students at the Ohio State University, Stanford University,
the University of Texas at Austin, and Portland State University.
Almost every chapter in this book has been informed by a classroom
encounter with a student whose shrewd observation or perceptive
question sent an ambitious lesson plan spiraling to the ground.
(Anyone who has tried to teach claims and warrants on the fly to
skeptical first-year writers will surely appreciate why we have qualified
our claims in the Toulmin chapter so carefully.) But students have also
provided the motive for writing this book. More than ever, they need to
know how to read and write arguments effectively if they are to secure
a place in a world growing ever smaller and more rhetorically
challenging.
19
assistant. All of you made editing the eighth edition feel fresh and
creative.
We’d also like to thank the astute instructors who reviewed the seventh
edition: Michael S. Begnal, Ball State University; Jennifer Boyle,
Davidson County Community College; Tabitha Bozeman, Gadsden
State Community College; Dana Crotwell, El Camino College;
Michael Emerson, Northwestern Michigan College; Jason Fichtel,
Joliet Junior College; Laura Gabrion, Oakland University; Michelle
Jarvis, Davidson County Community College; Peggy Karsten,
Ridgewater University; Rebecca Kovar, Blinn College; Juliette
Ludeker, Howard Community College; James Marinelli, Northwestern
Michigan College; Brian Martin, Howard Community College; Lisa
Mastrangelo, Centenary University; Michael Noschka, Paradise Valley
Community College; Yvonne Schultz, Mount Vernon Nazarene
University; Marcea Seible, Hawkeye Community College; KT Shaver,
CSU Long Beach; Geoffrey Way, Washburn University; Peter Wegner,
Arizona State University; Richard Williamson, Blinn College; and
Cassandra Woody, University of Oklahoma.
20
Juliana Chang, George Chidiac, and Charlotte Geaghan-Breiner. We
hope that Everything’s an Argument responds to what students and
instructors have said they want and need.
Andrea A. Lunsford
John J. Ruszkiewicz
Rhetorical
Knowledge
21
reading and across genres, from academic essays and newspaper
composing in editorials to tweets and infographics. “Respond” boxes
several genres to throughout each chapter (e.g., pp. 56–57) invite
understand how students to think critically about the material.
genre
conventions Each chapter on a specific type of argument features
shape and are project ideas (e.g., p. 186), giving students detailed
shaped by prompts to write their own arguments of fact,
readers’ and arguments of definition, evaluations, causal arguments,
writers’ practices and proposals.
and purposes.
22
electronic) to includes material on incorporating various media into
varying presentations and Webcasts.
rhetorical
situations. Chapter 16, “Multimodal Arguments” (pp. 381–402),
analyzes the evolving landscape of argument across
media platforms.
23
Chapter 10, “Evaluations” (pp. 224–54)
24
databases, and
informal Internet
sources.
Processes
25
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Granfer, and One
Christmas time
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever.
You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project
Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If
you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
country where you are located before using this eBook.
Illustrator: E. Woolmer
Language: English
BY
ELEANORA H. STOOKE
AUTHOR OF
LONDON
PRINTED BY
LONDON
CONTENTS
GRANFER
CHAPTER I
IN THE FARM-KITCHEN
IT was spring. The bright March sun in a cloudless blue sky was shining into
the kitchen of Lowercoombe Farm, upon the spotless china on the dresser,
the glistening tin ware on the mantelpiece, and the old copper warming pan
hanging from its accustomed nail against the wall. The farm-house kitchen
was a pleasant place: the stone floor was kept scrupulously clean, and the
large deal table was as white as scrubbing could make it, whilst the oak
settles by the fire-place and the few chairs placed at equal distances around
the room shone with the constant application of 'elbow-grease,' as the
housewives call rubbing and polishing. On the hearth burnt a large wood fire,
over which in an iron crock simmered a savoury stew which Mrs. Maple, the
farmer's wife, who was engaged in getting up her husband's shirts at the table,
put down her iron to stir occasionally.
Now, as she held up the last of the shirts at arm's length to survey her work
better, she heard a footstep approaching the kitchen door, which opened
straight into the yard, and in another moment her father, who had made his
home at Lowercoombe since her marriage to the farmer, entered, and going to
the fire-place, sat down in a corner of the settle.
He was a tall old man of nearly eighty, with a pair of shrewd dark eyes and a
stern face. Jabez Norris was known as honourable and upright, but was
considered a hard man. Many years ago he had turned his only son, David,
then a lad of eighteen, out of his house, because he wished to become an
artist, instead of following in his father's footsteps, and being a farmer. From
that day to this, Mr. Norris had never seen nor heard of his son, but whether
this was a trouble to the old man or not nobody knew, for he rarely mentioned
David to any one, and even his favourite daughter, with whom he lived, and
who had loved her brother dearly, spoke of him but seldom.
"Are you tired, father?" asked Mrs. Maple in her bright, cheerful tones. "I
always think these days of early spring are trying!"
"Ay, ay, to folks of my age, no doubt. I'm beginning to feel the weight of years,
Mary!"
"You are a wonderful man for your age, father; every one says so."
"It's time for Nellie and Bessie to be home from school," Mrs. Maple remarked,
adroitly changing the conversation as she glanced at the grandfather's clock
that ticked loudly in a corner of the kitchen.
Nellie and Bessie were her two little daughters, aged respectively eleven and
nine. Mr. Norris was very proud and fond of them both, and his stern face
softened at the mention of their names.
"No," Mrs. Maple answered; then she added, in a lower tone, "but I know who
she is like, though!"
"Who's that?" enquired the old man with a sharp glance at his daughter.
"Why, David, to be sure! Every one remarks the likeness! She has his soft
brown eyes, and his winning manner, and her very voice seems to have an
echo of his!"
Mr. Norris was silent, his eyes fixed on the flames which leaped and danced
on the hearth. His daughter plucked up her courage and continued:
"Have you forgotten what day it is, father? The third of March! David's
birthday! I wonder where he is now! I would give a great deal to know! An only
son, and brother, and to think we have neither seen nor heard of him for
fifteen years!"
"I don't know about that! You were hard on him, father, and told him never to
show his face at home again, and he took you at your word!"
"It is his pride that has kept him silent!" the old man exclaimed angrily. "It is to
be hoped that your Bessie does not take after him in disposition as well as in
appearance, or you'll have trouble with her yet!"
"Oh, father, how can you speak like that when she's such a good child?" the
mother cried in reproachful accents. "She has never given me a moment's
anxiety! But, speaking of David, I do wonder what has become of him, and
whether he is married or not!"
At that moment two pairs of light footsteps were heard in the yard, and Nellie
and Bessie entered, rosy with struggling against the March wind.
"Well, children," their mother said in greeting, as she turned her bright face
with its welcoming smile upon them, "are your appetites ready for dinner?"
"Oh, yes!" they both answered, and Nellie went to the hearth and peeped into
the crock, remarking:
Bessie sat down on the settle by her grandfather's side and slipped her little,
warm fingers into his cold palm.
"How grave you look, Granfer!" she exclaimed, calling him by the name she
and her sister had given him. "What have you and mother been talking
about?" she added coaxingly.
"About some one you never saw—your Uncle David!" the old man responded,
much to the surprise of his daughter, who had never known him mention their
uncle to the children before.
"Oh, I've heard of him!" Bessie cried. "He wanted to be an artist, and he went
away and never came back again! He used always to be painting pictures,
didn't he, Granfer?"
"Yes; neglecting his work and idling his time! He cared nothing for the farm,
but was for ever with a pencil or a paint-brush in his hand!"
"Then I suppose God gave it to him," Bessie said thoughtfully. "It wouldn't
have been right if he had not been an artist, would it, Granfer?"
"I think I understand," Mrs. Maple interposed, seeing her little daughter hardly
knew how to explain. "You mean that if your uncle David had not used the
talent God had given him, he would have been like the man in the parable
who hid his talent in the earth!"
"Yes," Bessie said eagerly, "he ought to have used it, and instead he put it
away so that it was no good to any one!"
"So you think my son was perfectly right in disobeying me," he said. "I wanted
him to be a farmer, and he would not!"
"He knew he could never be a good farmer," Mrs. Maple put in quietly. "We
must be just, father!"
"What became of him?" asked Nellie. "Do you think he has become rich,
Granfer?"
"Oh, but, Granfer, sometimes artists make a lot of money; they do really!"
Nellie cried eagerly. "They are not all poor, you know. The girls at school the
other day were speaking of a great artist who was introduced to Queen
Victoria!"
"It has sometimes crossed my mind that David may have been successful,"
Mrs. Maple said thoughtfully. "I'm sure I hope he has! I wish we knew
something about him—poor David!" and she sighed regretfully. There were
tears in her kind blue eyes as she spoke of her brother, for she had treasured
the memory of his handsome boyish face and winning ways in her heart for
many a long year; and, rich or poor, if he had returned at any time he would
have found his sister's love the same.
"Don't you wish Uncle David would come home, Granfer?" Bessie asked
softly. "I do!"
"Yes, I should like to see him once more," the old man acknowledged, "for
though he defied me, he is my only son."
His eyes rested thoughtfully and wistfully upon Bessie's face; and as he saw
the likeness to that other countenance that had passed out of his sight in
anger, more than fifteen years before, he sighed regretfully too, and his
daughter caught the murmured words:
"Perhaps I was to blame as well as the boy. As the child says, it was his one
talent! I wish David would come home!"
CHAPTER II
NEW NEIGHBOURS
NOT five minutes' walk from Lowercoombe Farm, situated a little back from
the high road, was a large-sized, detached cottage called Coombe Villa,
standing in its own grounds. It had been unoccupied for some months, but
one day towards the end of March, as Nellie and Bessie Maple went by on
their way to school, they noticed a large furniture van drawn up in front of the
garden gate, and several men engaged in carrying different articles of
household furniture into the cottage. They paused a moment to watch, and
then ran on to make up for lost time, wondering who the new inhabitants of
Coombe Villa were, and wishing they knew all about them.
On their return journey they found the van had gone, and an old man was
sweeping up the straw and litter that strewed the garden path, whilst a
maidservant stood at one of the open windows looking out.
The children went home in some excitement to inform their mother that
Coombe Villa was occupied again; and during the time the family was seated
at dinner the conversation was mostly about the newcomers.
"The cottage has been taken by a Mr. Manners," the farmer said. "I was told
so in the village this morning—in fact, Mr. Manners was pointed out to me, and
a fine-looking gentleman, he seemed, with a pleasant face. They tell me he is
a widower with an only child, a little girl of about the same age as our Bessie, I
should think."
"Oh, have you seen her?" the children enquired with great interest.
"Yes; she was with her father this morning. They had evidently been shopping
in the village, for they were laden with parcels. They look nice people, but of
course one cannot always judge by appearances."
Nellie and Bessie were very curious about their new neighbours, and felt the
advent of strangers to the parish to be an exciting event, for, like most country
children, they rarely saw a face they did not know, unless on the few
occasions when they went with their parents to the nearest market town. So
they peeped into the garden of Coombe Villa every time they passed, in the
hope of seeing the little girl, but nearly a week elapsed before they caught
sight of her. On that occasion she was at play with a black and white fox-
terrier, and laughing merrily as the dog frisked around her delighted with the
game.
She stood inside the gate looking through the bars as Nellie and Bessie came
within view, and when she met their eager glances she smiled a little shyly,
and said: "Good morning!"
Once they looked back, and perceived the little girl gazing after them with her
face full of lively interest. Next morning she was there again—this time
evidently watching for them. She greeted them in the same manner as before,
adding quickly:
"I thought so. I don't go to school, because father teaches me. You pass here
every day, don't you? Have you far to go?"
"About a mile—that is not far when the weather is fine, but it seems a long
way in the winter if it is rainy or snowy. We live at Lowercoombe Farm."
"That is the house down in the valley, isn't it? Is your father a farmer?"
"Yes."
"How nice! I should like to be a farmer if I were a man, and keep lots of
horses, and dogs, and cows!"
"And sheep, and pigs, and poultry," added Nellie, laughing, "but it's hard work
looking after them all!"
"I am called Nellie—Nellie Maple," the elder little girl explained, "and she,"
pointing to her sister, "is Bessie!"
"I think Nellie and Bessie are pretty names! Oh, are you going already? Can't
you stay and talk to me a little longer?"
"We should like to, but we should be late for school if we did, and that would
never do," Nellie replied, "but perhaps we shall see you another day!"
"Very likely. I will be on the look-out for you. This is my dog 'Crack.' Are you
fond of dogs?"
"Oh, yes," both children answered; and Bessie added: "We have a dear old
sheep-dog called 'Rags.'"
"I should like to see him! Oh, must you really go now? Good-bye!"
The little girls ran off and were soon out of sight. Una, after watching them till
they disappeared, opened the gate, and strolled into the road. As she went
along she gathered a bunch of primroses and a few white violets to take home
to her father.
Una drew back hastily with a cry of alarm, and Crack, who was close at her
heels, gave a sharp, indignant bark. The man called to his dog, and the well-
trained animal returned obediently to his side, looking up into his master's face
for further instructions.
"Don't be frightened, Missy," said the farmer, for it was Mr. Maple himself.
"Rags will not hurt you; but he saw you were a stranger, and he was
wondering what you were doing here!"
Una smiled, reassured, and as Rags came up to her again, fixing his brown
eyes on her face as though to ascertain if she was to be trusted or not, she
extended her little white hand to him. The big dog sniffed at it for a moment in
doubt, then he gave it a friendly lick, while Crack walked round him
inquisitively.
"There now!" exclaimed the farmer laughing. "Rags has quite made up his
mind to like you, and he'll know you when he sees you again. He's very fond
of children; my little maids can do anything with him; and he's really very
good-tempered, although he looks so fierce. Ah, dogs know those who
understand them."
"Are Nellie and Bessie your little girls?" Una enquired. "Then you must be the
farmer at Lowercoombe Farm?"
"I was talking to your little girls just now," she explained. "They pass our house
on their way to school. I live at Coombe Villa with my father and Nanny—she's
my nurse. We have another servant named Polly, but she has not been with
us long. Nanny has lived with us ever since I was born. What are you going to
do with that dear little lamb?"
"I hope so. We shall do our best for it, anyway. You must pay us a visit, little
Missy, one of these days, to see for yourself how the lamb is doing. Will you?"
"Oh, yes, if father will let me, and I know he will! How kind of you to ask me!"
"My wife and children will be pleased to see you, I know," the farmer
continued; "you'll be very welcome."
"And Rags?" said Una, smiling as she put her hand on the dog's shaggy back,
"you will be pleased to see me too, won't you, Rags?"
"Oh, yes!" she answered readily, "so is father! He says he cannot think how
any one can serve animals badly! It's so unchristian, isn't it?"
"I suppose it is, Missy, though I never thought of it in that light before!"
"Don't you remember what God says: 'Every beast of the forest is Mine, and
the cattle upon a thousand hills. I know all the fowls of the mountains, and the
wild beasts of the field are Mine.' Animals belong to God just as much as we
do, don't they?"
The farmer nodded, looking with interest at the bright, animated face of the
child. She put up her hand, and softly caressed the curly fleece of the
motherless lamb.
"Dear little thing!" she murmured, "I do hope it will live! How will your wife
manage to feed it?"
"She puts the finger of a kid glove on to the spout of a tea-pot, and lets the
lambs who lose their mothers take the milk that way. She's reared many like
that, and it's wonderful how soon the little creatures get to know her."
With a cheery "Good morning," the farmer turned his footsteps homewards,
followed by Rags; and Una calling to Crack, who was rat hunting in the hedge,
ran back along the road towards Coombe Villa.
She found her father at the garden gate looking for her, and immediately
began to tell him about the farmer and his dog and the little lamb, to all of
which he listened with an amused smile. Then she spoke of her interview with
Nellie and Bessie.
"I may go to the farm one day, may I not, father?" she asked coaxingly.
"We will see about it, my dear; I dare say you may. Perhaps the little girls may
mention the matter to you; and if they do, I have not the least objection to your
going. I hear the Maples are nice people, and much respected in the district,
and I dare say the children will be good companions for you. The folks at
Lowercoombe Farm are our nearest neighbours, and I should wish to be on
good terms with them."
"Oh, yes, father! See what beautiful flowers I have gathered for your studio!
Are not the violets sweet?"
"Very," Mr. Manners answered; "I think they are my favourite flowers, for they
always remind me of your dear mother. It was Spring when she died, and
some white violets that I gave her one day were the last flowers she noticed, I
remember."
He sighed, and the shadow of a deep grief crossed his face as he mentioned
his dead wife. Una gave his hand a little, sympathetic squeeze, and he looked
down at her with a tender, loving smile as he whispered:
CHAPTER III
VISITORS AT LOWERCOOMBE FARM
It was old Mr. Norris who spoke. He was seated with his Bible open upon his
knee, in his favourite corner of the settle.
"Coming, father!" his daughter's voice responded from the dairy. And in
another moment Mrs. Maple hurried into the kitchen and opened the door to