| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Call of the Wild by Jack London: apprehensions were realized. "Black" Burton, a man evil-tempered
and malicious, had been picking a quarrel with a tenderfoot at the
bar, when Thornton stepped good-naturedly between. Buck, as was
his custom, was lying in a corner, head on paws, watching his
master's every action. Burton struck out, without warning,
straight from the shoulder. Thornton was sent spinning, and saved
himself from falling only by clutching the rail of the bar.
Those who were looking on heard what was neither bark nor yelp,
but a something which is best described as a roar, and they saw
Buck's body rise up in the air as he left the floor for Burton's
throat. The man saved his life by instinctively throwing out his
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Silverado Squatters by Robert Louis Stevenson: carted it away? If it was, would they not preserve their
title to these movables, even after they had lost their title
to the mine? And if it were not, what the better was Rufe?
Nothing would grow at Silverado; there was even no wood to
cut; beyond a sense of property, there was nothing to be
gained. Lastly, was it at all credible that Ronalds would
forget what Rufe remembered? The days of grace were not yet
over: any fine morning he might appear, paper in hand, and
enter for another year on his inheritance. However, it was
none of my business; all seemed legal; Rufe or Ronalds, all
was one to me.
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Margret Howth: A Story of To-day by Rebecca Harding Davis: bear it,--bearing worse himself. She did not say once, "I might
have been," but day by day, more surely, "I shall be." There was
not a tear on the homely faces turning from her bed, not a tint
of colour in the flowers they brought her, not a shiver of light
in the ashy sky, that did not make her more sure of that which
was to come. More loving she grew, as she went away from them,
the touch of her hand more pitiful, her voice more tender, if
such a thing could be,--with a look in her eyes never seen there
before. Old Yare pointed it out to Mrs. Polston one day.
"My girl's far off frum us," he said, sobbing in the
kitchen,--"my girl's far off now."
Margret Howth: A Story of To-day |
