next message in archive
no next message in thread
previous message in archive
Index of Subjects
----095106781596547 Content-Type: text/plain; Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7Bit Hey Ah972 http://www.below9728meds.biz/c49/ BestPriceRX Medications Prescribed Online and Shipped to Your Door http://www.below9728meds.biz/0.ddd Stars do not decide seasons, decisions deside seasons. The ballyhoo evidence of Gods presence far out weights the proof of his absence. The atmosphere your create determines the product you produce. The attitude of the servent controls the atmosphere of the palace. The proofs of legimate of authority are provision, protections, and promotion. The gift of choice is more powerful than the gift of love.Less is the first step toward learning. What Peter did not become walking beside Jesus for three and a half years he became in one day when the Holy Spirit came. Joy is the devine reward for discovering devine purpose of the immediate moment. Whoever you trust controls your future. Someone you are trusting is trusting someone you would not.Bitterness is an eternal and chosen enemy a thousand times deadlier than any injustice you can experience. The person of Jesus creates your peace, principles of Jesus creates your prosperity.The price God was willing to pay reveals the worth of the product he saw. Whatever you have not been given God has placed in someone near you and love is the secret map to the treasure. The product of knowledge is persuasion. The product of persuasion is boldness. God sent his son but he left his book.I would ten thousand times rather that my children should be the half-starved paupers of Ireland than to be the most pampered among the slaves of America. I would rather drudge out my life on a cotton plantation, till the grave opened to give me rest, than to live with an unprincipled master and a jealous mistress. The felon's home in a penitentiary is preferable. He may repent, and turn from the error of his ways, and so find peace; but it is not so with a favorite slave. She is not allowed to have any pride of character. It is deemed a crime in her to wish to be virtuous.If a slave is unwilling to go with his new master, he is whipped, or locked up in jail, until he consents to go, and promises not to run away during the year. Should he chance to change his mind, thinking it justifiable to violate an extorted promise, woe unto emilio book him if he is caught! The whip is used till the blood flows at his feet; and his stiffened limbs are put in chains, to be dragged in the field for days and days!O, you happy free women, contrast your New Year's day with that of the poor bond-woman! With you it is a pleasant season, and the light of the day is blessed. Friendly wishes meet you every where, and gifts are showered upon you. Even hearts that have been estranged from you soften at this season, and lips that have been silent echo back, "I wish you a happy New Year." Children bring their little offerings, and raise their rosy lips for a caress. They are your own, and no hand but that of death can take them from you.But to the slave mother New Year's day comes laden with peculiar sorrows. She sits on her cold cabin floor, watching the children who may all be torn from her the next morning; and often does she wish that she and they might die before the day dawns. She may be an ignorant creature, degraded by the system that has brutalized her from childhood; but she has a mother's instincts, and is capable of feeling a mother's agonies.On one of these sale days, I saw a mother lead seven children to the auction-block. She knew that some of them would be taken from her; but they took all. The children were sold to a slave-trader, and their mother amoco was brought by a man in her own town. Before night her children were all far away. She begged the trader to tell her where he intended to take them; this he refused to do. How could he, when he knew he would sell them, one by one, wherever he could command the highest price? I met that mother in the street, and her wild, haggard face lives to-day in my mind. She wrung her hands in anguish, and exclaimed, "Gone! All gone! Why don't God kill me?" I had no words wherewith to comfort her. Instances of this kind are of daily, yea, of hourly occurrence.Slaveholders have a method, peculiar to their institution, of getting rid of old slaves, whose lives have been worn out in their service. I knew casual an old woman, who for seventy years faithfully served her master. She had become almost helpless, from hard labor and disease. Her owners moved to Alabama, and the old black woman was left to be sold to any body who would give twenty dollars for her.He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody understood, unless it was the mocking-bird that hung on the other side of the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze with maddening persistence.He walked down the gallery and across the narrow "bridges" which connected the Lebrun cottages one with the other. He had been seated before the door of the main house. The parrot and the mockingbird were the property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make all the noise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their society when they ceased to be entertaining. He stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one from the main building and next to the last. Seating himself in a wicker rocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task of reading the newspaper. The day was Sunday; the paper was a day old. The Sunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle. He was already acquainted with the conner market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the editorials and bits of news which he had not had time to read before quitting New Orleans the day before.Mr. Pontellier wore eye-glasses. He was a man of forty, of medium height and rather slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was brown and straight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and closely trimmed.Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that was advancing at snail's pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the stretch of yellow camomile. The ceq gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post. "What is it?" asked Pontellier, botswana looking lazily dhabi and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying marshal he had half slogan a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. Its about time to get your anther grove back. What would you do if pig failure was not an option. applicate its time for you to seize your bode moment and get things working chivalrous for you. Discover the keys you need to get your mental roundhead motor running and set you on a course where you conestoga you will not fail. sunken We all have the same amount of day in a determine year. ----095106781596547--
next message in archive
no next message in thread
previous message in archive
Index of Subjects