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Fragaria , genus Fragaria - strawberries. Amygdalaceae , family Amygdalaceae - used in former classifications for plum and peach and almond trees which are now usually classified as members of the genus Prunus. Mentioned in?

Robert Frost

References in periodicals archive? These two fruits belong to the rose family and are botanically related to almonds, peaches, nectarines and other stone fruits. There's three generations of the Rose family involved in this show, and hopefully things will continue for many years ahead," said Gang Show chairman Frank Rose. The gang's all here to provide a night of fun and entertainment.

Five reasons to eat blackberries. The girls were sitting in the parlor of the Rose family home on Walnut Street in their pajamas enjoying Oreo cookies and milk when young David walked in. Mason found his lifelong partner at Auburn High. The ladies perfume belongs to the rose family , which has light top notes preluding to bergamot and violet with a presence of blackcurrant accelerating to a jasmine and rose infusion.

Sophisticated scents for everyone. Specific to this issue, many rodents and some insects and diseases share a special preference for members of the rose family. Some families of plants that typically are great for attracting bees are the rose family Rosaceae , mint family Lamiaceae , and the aster family Asteraceae. A bounty to buzz about: the art of attracting nature's pollinators to your garden. Do you believe it is? Not quite. I believe it is almost an event. But I like the comparison of a thing with an event. I notice another from the same quarter. It seems to me that that is simply and utterly charming—to say that space is something like curved in the neighborhood of matter.

Famous Poems

Its aim is to restore you to your ideas of free will. It wants to give you back your freedom of will. All right, here it is on a platter. It shows, you see, that the individual particles can come freely. It can come when it wills and as it wills; and the action of the individual particle is unpredictable. But it is not so of the action of the mass. There you can predict. Never mind going into the Latin word.

The metaphor is simply the metaphor of the growing plant or of the growing thing. And somebody very brilliantly, quite a while ago, said that the whole universe, the whole of everything, was like unto a growing thing. That is all. I know the metaphor will break down at some point, but it has not failed everywhere. It is a very brilliant metaphor, I acknowledge, though I myself get too tired of the kind of essay that talks about the evolution of candy, we will say, or the evolution of elevators—the evolution of this, that, and the other.

Everything is evolution. You are not safe in science; you are not safe in history. From the on-line "Tree Encyclopedia", where one may explore over 3, images of different types of trees, with detailed botanical information. Click on the image to be taken there. One thought and one comment. Or what, via either natural or artificial selection, will become rose-shaped. People already do strange things with cauliflowers ….

Ruskin was a proper, i. When you say that Frost deals with botany, what you mean — if I read you aright — is that he espouses a nominalist attitude towards natural historical classification. But this was not the only attitude available [to botanists] in the 18th and 19th centuries, so there is nothing particularly obscurantist about the poets or botanists of the period not espousing it. Perhaps even today.

Merry Christmas! What would be the correct genitive form? Ask one of your clever Rutgers fellows], a New Humanist spirit was seen to move upon the face of the waters, and in the depths of the earth, and even unto the hightest conglomeration of ionized water droplets. And the Brights came into their Kingdom …].

THE AFTERMATH

A happy Darwin-tide to you, too. As for the Romantics I traduced, I hereby take your objection into account. I was thinking not of things like E. The typical anthology pieces. That sort of thing. In saying that Frost dealt in botany, I meant not only that he wrote poems informed by it, but also had in mind his own practical dealings in pomology. By the way, the curator at the Robert Frost Stone House Museum in South Shaftsbury, VT—a house RF bought in , and where he grew some apples, and other things—has now found on the property a particular apple tree which he planted, but which had long since been overtaken by the woods.

Being nothing essentially new, it harmonizes with many ancient philosophic tendencies. It agrees with nominalism for instance, in always appealing to particulars; with utilitarianism in emphasizing practical aspects; with positivism in its disdain for verbal solutions, useless questions, and metaphysical abstractions. Few things would seem to have fewer pragmatic consequences for us than substances, cut off as we are from every contact with them.

Yet in one case scholasticism has proved the importance of the substance-idea by treating it pragmatically. I refer to certain disputes about the mystery of the Eucharist. Substance here would appear to have momentous pragmatic value. The bread-substance must have been withdrawn, and the divine substance substituted miraculously without altering the immediate sensible properties. The substance-notion breaks into life, then, with tremendous effect, if once you allow that substances can separate from their accidents, and exchange these latter.

Many facts appear as if expressly designed in view of one another. The parts of our eye fit the laws of light to perfection, leading its rays to a sharp picture on our retina. Such mutual fitting of things diverse in origin argued design, it was held; and the designer was always treated as a man-loving deity. The first step in these arguments was to prove that the design existed. Nature was ransacked for results obtained through separate things being co-adapted. Our eyes, for instance, originate in intra- uterine darkness, and the light originates in the sun, yet see how they fit each other.

They are evidently made FOR each other. Vision is the end designed, light and eyes the separate means devised for its attainment. It is strange, considering how unanimously our ancestors felt the force of this argument, to see how little it counts for since the triumph of the darwinian theory. He showed the enormous waste of nature in producing results that get destroyed because of their unfitness. He also emphasized the number of adaptations which, if designed, would argue an evil rather than a good designer.

Here all depends upon the point of view. Theologians have by this time stretched their minds so as to embrace the darwinian facts, and yet to interpret them as still showing divine purpose. Theology need only stretch similarly the designs of God. This saves the form of the design-argument at the expense of its old easy human content. The designer is no longer the old man-like deity. His designs have grown so vast as to be incomprehensible to us humans.

Or rather we cannot by any possibility comprehend it. It is the barrenest of principles. The recent Mont-Pelee eruption, for example, required all previous history to produce that exact combination of ruined houses, human and animal corpses, sunken ships, volcanic ashes, etc. France had to be a nation and colonize Martinique. Our country had to exist and send our ships there.

IF God aimed at just that result, the means by which the centuries bent their influences towards it, showed exquisite intelligence. And so of any state of things whatever, either in nature or in history, which we find actually realized. For the parts of things must always make SOME definite resultant, be it chaotic or harmonious. When we look at what has actually come, the conditions must always appear perfectly designed to ensure it. We can always say, therefore, in any conceivable world, of any conceivable character, that the whole cosmic machinery MAY have been designed to produce it.

It carries no consequences, it does no execution. What sort of design? Returning with it into experience, we gain a more confiding outlook on the future. If not a blind force but a seeing force runs things, we may reasonably expect better issues. This vague confidence in the future is the sole pragmatic meaning at present discernible in the terms design and designer. But if cosmic confidence is right not wrong, better not worse, that is a most important meaning. You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Google account. You are commenting using your Twitter account.

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Notify me of new comments via email. Notify me of new posts via email. Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. Sign me up! The remarks below appear in that greatest of books, at least if one cares to learn a thing or two about America: "The Souls of Black Folk. Sunday morning brings the dawn in.

It's just a restless feeling by my side. Early dawning, Sunday morning, it's just the wasted years so close behind. Watch out, the world's behind you. There's always someone around you who will call. It's nothing at all. Sunday morning, and I'm falling.


  • The Rose Family by Robert Frost.
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  • Analysis of the Poem "The Rose Family"?
  • rose family;

I've got a feeling I don't want to know. Early dawning, Sunday morning: it's all the streets you crossed, not so long ago. We sing it And pay a million priests to bring it. A long, long time ago, In the land of idiot boys, There lived a cat, a phenomenal cat, Who loved to wallow all day. No one bothered him As he sat content in his tree. He just lived to eat: it kept him fat, And that's how he wanted to stay. Though he was big and fat, All the world was good to him, And he pointed out on the map All the places he had been Old boy he ran a little stop sign in the south And he got in deeper trouble with his mouth They wouldn't let him phone or make a bail Just let him sit there in that Delford County jail.

It wudn't me, it wudn't me I'm so glad it wudn't me No phone, no bail, no plea Oh, I'm so glad it wudn't me. He had to break out of that Delford County jail They put a Grand Dragon posse on his trail And seven Alabama bloodhounds in a line Buckin' and barkin' for a bite of his behind. It wudn't me, it wudn't me I'm so glad it wudn't me Hound posses ain't my cup of tea Oh, I'm so glad it wudn't me. He was streakin' through the Delta double three But them hungry hounds was gainin'on his lee His feet was playin' "Louisiana Bound" Lord, you help me pick 'em up, I'll put 'em down.

It wudn't me, it wudn't me I'm so glad it wudn't me Prayin' ain't no sure guarantee Oh, I'm so glad it wudn't me. He was streakin' through the Delta, stridin' wide But that leadin' hound was meters from his hide Lord, bless my feet, don't let 'em go corrupt I'll lay 'em down as fast as you can pick 'em up. It wudn't me, it wudn't me I'm so glad it wudn't me Just meters from a canine jubilee Oh, I'm so glad it wudn't me. He reached a highway through the ticket on the side And a trucker came along and let him ride But as he settled down to thank him for no harm He saw a swastika-KKK band on his arm.

That's when he knew he had to get on help himself 'Stead of depending on someone else He hung a left into that thicket 'cross the fence And ain't nobody ever sawed or seen him since He had reported to General Blair, who sent him on to me at Iuka. This Pike proved to be a singular character; his manner attracted my notice at once, and I got him a horse, and had him travel with us eastward to about Elkton, whence I sent him back to General Crook at Huntsville; but told him, if I could ever do him a personal service, he might apply to me.

The next spring when I was in Chattanooga, preparing for the Atlanta campaign, Corporal Pike made his appearance and asked a fulfillment of my promise. I inquired what he wanted, and he said he wanted to do something bold, something that would make him a hero. I explained to him, that we were getting ready to go for Joe Johnston at Dalton, that I expected to be in the neighborhood of Atlanta about the 4th of July, and wanted the bridge across the Savannah River at Augusta, Georgia, to be burnt about that time, to produce alarm and confusion behind the rebel army.

I explained to Pike that the chances were three to one that he would be caught and hanged; but the greater the danger the greater seemed to be his desire to attempt it. I told him to select a companion, to disguise himself as an East Tennessee refugee, work his way over the mountains into North Carolina, and at the time appointed to float down the Savannah River and burn that bridge. In a few days he had made his preparations and took his departure. The bridge was not burnt, and I supposed that Pike had been caught and hanged. When we reached Columbia, South Carolina, in February, , just as we were leaving the town, in passing near the asylum, I heard my name called, and saw a very dirty fellow followed by a file of men running toward me, and as they got near I recognized Pike.

He called to me to identify him as one of my men; he was then a prisoner under guard, and I instructed the guard to bring him that night to my camp some fifteen miles up the road, which was done. Pike gave me a graphic narrative of his adventures, which would have filled a volume; told me how he had made two attempts to burn the bridge, and failed; and said that at the time of our entering Columbia he was a prisoner in the hands of the rebels, under trial for his life, but in the confusion of their retreat he made his escape and got into our lines, where he was again made a prisoner by our troops because of his looks.

Pike got some clothes, cleaned up, and I used him afterward to communicate with Wilmington, North Carolina. Some time after the war, he was appointed a lieutenant of the Regular Cavalry, and was killed in Oregon, by the accidental discharge of a pistol. Just before his death he wrote me, saying that he was tired of the monotony of garrison-life, and wanted to turn Indian, join the Cheyennes on the Plains, who were then giving us great trouble, and, after he had gained their confidence, he would betray them into our hands. Of course I wrote him that he must try and settle down and become a gentleman as well as an officer, apply himself to his duties, and forget the wild desires of his nature, which were well enough in time of war, but not suited to his new condition as an officer; but, poor fellow!

He is said to have been the last Red Man In Acton. And the Miller is said to have laughed— If you like to call such a sound a laugh. Some guttural exclamation of surprise The Red Man gave in poking about the mill Over the great big thumping shuffling mill-stone Disgusted the Miller physically as coming From one who had no right to be heard from. Oh, yes, he showed John the wheel pit all right. In Havenpool Harbour the ebb was strong, And a man with a dog drew near and hung, And taxpaying day was coming along, So the mongrel had to be drowned.

The man threw a stick from the paved wharf-side Into the midst of the ebbing tide, And the dog jumped after with ardent pride To bring the stick aground. But no: the steady suck of the flood To seaward needed, to be withstood, More than the strength of mongrelhood To fight its treacherous trend. So, swimming for life with desperate will, The struggler with all his natant skill Kept bouyant in front of his master still There standing to wait the end. The loving eyes of the dog inclined To the man he held as a god enshrined, With no suspicion in his mind That this had all been meant.

Till the effort not to drift from shore Of his little legs grew slower and slower, And, the tide still outing with brookless power, Outward the dog, too, went. Just ere his sinking what does one see Break on the face of that devotee? A wakening to the treachery He had loved with love so blind?

The faith that had shone in that mongrel's eye That his owner would save him by and by Turned to much like a curse as he sank to die, And a loathing of mankind. Job But man dieth, and wasteth away: yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he? As the waters fail from the sea, and the flood decayeth and drieth up: So man lieth down, and riseth not: till the heavens be no more, they shall not awake, nor be raised out of their sleep.

O that thou wouldest hide me in the grave, that thou wouldest keep me secret, until thy wrath be past, that thou wouldest appoint me a set time, and remember me! If a man die, shall he live again? All the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come. Written in the early s, according to Samuel Hynes in his edition of the complete poems. Upon making known our desires for a supper and a bed, Mrs. Hussey, postponing further scolding for the present, ushered us into a little room, and seating us at a table spread with the relics of a recently concluded repast, turned round to us and said - "Clam or Cod?

But being in a great hurry to resume scolding the man in the purple shirt, who was waiting for it in the entry, and seeming to hear nothing but the word "clam," Mrs. Hussey hurried towards an open door leading to the kitchen, and bawling out "clam for two," disappeared. However, a warm savory steam from the kitchen served to belie the apparently cheerless prospect before us.

But when that smoking chowder came in, the mystery was delightfully explained. Oh, sweet friends!


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It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuit, and salted pork cut up into little flakes; the whole enriched with butter, and plentifully seasoned with pepper and salt. Our appetites being sharpened by the frosty voyage, and in particular, Queequeg seeing his favorite fishing food before him, and the chowder being surpassingly excellent, we despatched it with great expedition: when leaning back a moment and bethinking me of Mrs. Hussey's clam and cod announcement, I thought I would try a little experiment.

Stepping to the kitchen door, I uttered the word "cod" with great emphasis, and resumed my seat. In a few moments the savory steam came forth again, but with a different flavor, and in good time a fine cod- chowder was placed before us. We resumed business; and while plying our spoons in the bowl, thinks I to myself, I wonder now if this here has any effect on the head? What's that stultifying saying about chowder-headed people?

Where's your harpoon? Fishiest of all fishy places was the Try Pots, which well deserved its name; for the pots there were always boiling chowders. Chowder for breakfast, and chowder for dinner, and chowder for supper, till you began to look for fish-bones coming through your clothes. Create a free website or blog at WordPress. The Era of Casual Fridays.

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The Rose Family December 24, William James. Title page, edition. Nobel Laureate in physics Niels Bohr. Rate this:. Like this: Like Loading Henry permalink. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Enter your comment here Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:. Email required Address never made public. Name required. RSS - Posts Email Subscription Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. Join other followers Sign me up! The Era of Casual Fridays on Twitter If you wish, you may follow updates to this web-blog via Twitter, where my account name is: markkyoto.

You will also find, at the end of any given entry, the usual buttons for "sharing" that entry. BIRTH, n. The first and direst of all disasters. As to the nature of it there appears to be no uniformity. Castor and Pollux were born from the egg. Pallas came out of a skull. Galatea was once a block of stone. Peresilis, who wrote in the tenth century, avers that he grew up out of the ground where a priest had spilled holy water. It is known that Arimaxus was derived from a hole in the earth, made by a stroke of lightning. Leucomedon was the son of a cavern in Mount Aetna, and I have myself seen a man come out of a wine cellar.

I heartily encourage free and fair online use. But please ask permission before reproducing a post in its entirety, whether on-line or off. When you think the night has seen your mind, that inside you're twisted and unkind, let me stand to show that you are blind. Please put down your hands 'cause I see you. I find it hard to believe you don't know the beauty you are. But if you don't let me be your eyes, a hand in your darkness, so you wont be afraid. If you close the door, the night could last forever. Leave the sunshine out and say hello to never. All the people are dancing and they're having such fun.

I wish it could happen to me. But if you close the door I'd never have to see the day again. Leave the wine-glass out, and drink a toast to never. Oh, someday I know someone will look into my eyes, and say, 'Hello, you're my very special one. The background is hugeness and confusion shading away from where we stand into black and utter chaos; and against the background any small man-made figure of order and concentration.

What pleasanter than that this should be so? And there's even some evil mothers, well they're gonna tell you that everything is just dirt.

Rose family study leads to new understanding of fruit diversity across geological time

You know, that women, never really faint, and that villains always blink their eyes, woo! And that, you know, children are the only ones who blush, and that, life is just to die. But anyone who ever had a heart, they wouldn't turn around and break it. And anyone who ever played a part, oh, wouldn't turn around and hate it!

Sweet Jane! Let us for curiosity outline the process. To start with, the Negroes are already considerably mixed many of them in large proportion, and most of them in some degree and the white people, as I shall endeavor to show later on, are many of them slightly mixed with the Negro. But we will assume, for the sake of the argument, that the two races are absolutely pure. We will assume, too, that the laws of the whole country were as favorable to this amalgamation as the laws of most Southern States are at present against it; i.

Taking the population as one-eighth Negro, this eighth, married to an equal number of whites, would give in the next generation a population of which one-fourth would be mulattoes. Mating these in turn with white persons, the next generation would be composed one-half of quadroons, or persons one-fourth Negro. In the third generation, applying the same rule, the entire population would be composed of octoroons, or persons only one-eighth Negro, who would probably call themselves white, if by this time there remained any particular advantage in being so considered.

Thus in three generations the pure whites would be entirely eliminated, and there would be no perceptible trace of the blacks left. The mechanical mixture would be complete; as it would probably be put, the white race would have absorbed the black. There would be no inferior race to domineer over; there would be no superior race to oppress those who differed from them in racial externals.

The inevitable social struggle, which in one form or another, seems to be one of the conditions of progress, would proceed along other lines than those of race. If now and then, for a few generations, an occasional trace of the black ancestor should crop out, no one would care, for all would be tarred with the same stick. From a Negroid nation, which ours is already, we would have become a composite and homogeneous people, and the elements of racial discord which have troubled our civil life so gravely and still threaten our free institutions, would have been entirely eliminated. From the "Boston Evening Transcript," August 18, I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelly to which he is the constant victim.

To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants, brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade, and solemnity, are, to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy -- a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages.

There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices, more shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour. Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the monarchies and despotisms of the old world, travel through South America, search out every abuse, and when you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the everyday practices of this nation, and you will say with me, that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival.

Henry David Thoreau. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their colors, or the heavens without their azure. The most attractive sentences are, perhaps, not the wisest, but the surest and roundest. They are spoken firmly and conclusively, as if the speaker had a right to know what he says, and if not wise, they have at least been well learned.

Sir Walter Raleigh might well be studied if only for the excellence of his style, for he is remarkable in the midst of so many masters. There is a natural emphasis in his style, like a man's tread, and a breathing space between the sentences, which the best of modern writing does not furnish.

His chapters are like English parks, or say rather like a Western forest, where the larger growth keeps down the underwood, and one may ride on horseback through the openings. All the distinguished writers of that period possess a greater vigor and naturalness than the more modern,--for it is allowed to slander our own time,--and when we read a quotation from one of them in the midst of a modern author, we seem to have come suddenly upon a greener ground, a greater depth and strength of soil. It is as if a green bough were laid across the page, and we are refreshed as by the sight of fresh grass in midwinter or early spring.

You have constantly the warrant of life and experience in what you read. The little that is said is eked out by implication of the much that was done. The sentences are verdurous and blooming as evergreen and flowers, because they are rooted in fact and experience, but our false and florid sentence have only the tints of flowers without their sap or roots. The books of any philosopher who slurs them or distorts them will hold up a false mirror to life. If an inhabitant of another planet should visit the earth, he would receive, on the whole, a truer notion of human life by attending an Italian opera than he would by reading Emerson's volumes.

He would learn from the Italian opera that there were two sexes; and this, after all, is probably the fact with which the education of such a stranger ought to begin. Nobel Lauretae Cezlaw Miloscz. The cloaca of the world. A certain German wrote that definition of Poland in I spent the war years there and afterward, for years, I attempted to understand what it means to bear such an experience inside oneself. Horror is the law of the world of living creatures, and civilization is concerned with masking that truth.

Literature and art refine and beautify, and if they were to depict reality naked, just as everyone suspects it is although we defend ourselves against that knowledge , no one would be able to stand it. And what about the history of humankind, with its millennia of mutual murder? To say nothing of natural catastrophes, or of the plague, which depopulated Europe in the fourteenth century.

Nor of those aspects of human life which do not need a grand public arena to display their subservience to the laws of earth. Fum, fum, diddle-um da La la la la, la-la la la. Down on Cyprus Avenue, with a childlike vision leaping into view. Marching with the soldier boy behind he's much older with hat on drinking wine. And that smell of sweet perfume comes drifting through the cool night air like Shalimar.

And outside they're making all the stops, the kids out in the street collecting bottle-tops. Gone for cigarettes and matches in the shops.

Rose family - definition of rose family by The Free Dictionary

Happy taken Madame George. That's when you fall. That's when you fall into a trance, sitting on a sofa playing games of chance. With your folded arms and history books you glance into the eyes of Madame George. And you think you found the bag. You're getting weaker and your knees begin to sag. In the corner playing dominoes in drag, the one and only Madame George. And then from outside the frosty window raps, she jumps up and says, "Lord have mercy I think that it's the cops. And you know you gotta go on that train from Dublin up to Sandy Row, throwing pennies at the bridges down below, and the rain, hail, sleet, and snow.

Say goodbye to Madame George. Dry your eye for Madame George. Wonder why for Madame George. Say goodbye in the wind and the rain on the back street. In the backstreet, in the back street, say goodbye to Madame George What are time and space to Christianity, eighteen hundred years, and a new world? Forty-four lamps, the gift of kings, now burning in a place called the Holy Sepulchre;—a church-bell ringing;—some unaffected tears shed by a pilgrim on Mount Calvary within the week.

It is necessary not to be Christian to appreciate the beauty and significance of the life of Christ.