In Richmond, Virginia, one Saturday morning, an old man went into the market to buy something. He was dressed plainly, his coat was worn, and his hat was dingy. On his arm he carried a small basket.
“I wish to get a fowl for to-morrow’s dinner,” he said.
The market man showed him a fat turkey, plump and white and ready for roasting.
“Ah! that is just what I want,” said the old man. “My wife will be delighted with it.”
He asked the price and paid for it. The market man wrapped a paper round it and put it in the basket.
Just then a young man stepped up. “I will take one of those turkeys,” he said. He was dressed in fine style and carried a small cane.
“Shall I wrap it up for you?” asked the market man.
“Yes, here is your money,” answered the young gentleman; “and send it to my house at once.”
“I cannot do that,” said the market man. “My errand boy is sick to- day, and there is no one else to send. Besides, it is not our custom to deliver goods.”
“Then how am I to get it home?” asked the young gentleman.
“I suppose you will have to carry it yourself,” said the market man. “It is not heavy.”
“Carry it myself! Who do you think I am? Fancy me carrying a turkey along the street!” said the young gentleman; and he began to grow very angry. The old man who had bought the first turkey was standing quite near. He had heard all that was said.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said; “but may I ask where you live?”
“I live at Number 39, Blank Street,” answered the young gentleman; “and my name is Johnson.”
“Well, that is lucky,” said the old man, smiling. “I happen to be going that way, and I will carry your turkey, if you will allow me.”
“Oh, certainly!” said Mr. Johnson. “Here it is. You may follow me.”
When they reached Mr. Johnson’s house, the old man politely handed him the turkey and turned to go.
“Here, my friend, what shall I pay you?” said the young gentleman.
“Oh, nothing, sir, nothing,” answered the old man. “It was no trouble to me, and you are welcome.”
He bowed and went on. Young Mr. Johnson looked after him and wondered. Then he turned and walked briskly back to the market.
“Who is that polite old gentleman who carried my turkey for me?” he asked of the market man.
“That is John Marshall, Chief Justice of the United States. He is one of the greatest men in our country,” was the answer.
The young gentleman was surprised and ashamed. “Why did he offer to carry my turkey?” he asked.
“He wished to teach you a lesson,” answered the market man.
“What sort of lesson?” “He wished to teach you that no man should feel himself too fine to carry his own packages.”
“Oh, no!” said another man who had seen and heard it all. “Judge Marshall carried the turkey simply because he wished to be kind and obliging. That is his way.”
The way to get this experience is to go on lots of dates, do lots of approaches, and be around as many different types of women as possible.
How To Meet Girls: The First Step In Finding A Girlfriend
No girl is ever going to come knocking at your door looking for a relationship. It just doesn’t happen. It’s partly biological, but also partly societal. Either way, you’re going to have to do the work.
This involves going out to places where you can actively meet women. This includes bars, music festivals, malls or just about any densely populated area.
Dating apps are fine too, but don’t use them exclusively.
Generally, people don’t get into relationships the first, second or even third time they meet. It takes time, and getting to know one another.
If a girl gets the sense that all you want to do is get a girlfriend now, you’ll scare her off and ruin your chances of starting something with her.
If anything, it’s best to take your time and let her feel like she’s leading.
If you do things out of order, or try to rush her into a relationship, it’ll backfire. If you can be patient, you’ll eventually get the outcome you’re looking for—a girlfriend who you’re actually compatible with.
Girls may say they want a guy who worships them, but the reality is that they want a guy who has it together, and can be perfectly fine if things don’t go well.
It’s a little counterintuitive, but once you put it into practice, you’ll see how true it really is.
How To Find A Girlfriend Online (If You Must)
As a general rule, you shouldn’t be looking for a girlfriend online. It’s a superficial way of meeting people, and for the most part is really best if you’re just looking to hook up.
Granted, people are busier nowadays than they’ve ever been, and it is more convenient than going out.
That being said, it isn’t nearly as much fun. Meeting women in person is not only more enjoyable, but it makes connections stronger.
It gives you a better idea of who someone is. The biggest problem with online dating is that people can lie about their identity.
If you’re really serious about meeting someone you actually like, online dating is a pretty big risk. Both men and women go to some pretty great lengths to present themselves a certain way, but it isn’t always the truth.
If you have to use the internet to meet someone, make sure to get as much face time in with them as possible, and don’t spend too much time chatting online.
Try to set up a date as soon as possible. If the girl keeps flaking, she’s either not real, or isn’t worth your time.
How To Get A Girl To Want To Be Your Girlfriend
Usually as guys, we find ourselves doing a lot of the chasing when it comes to relationships.
However, it’s not impossible to think that we could put ourselves in a position to be the ones being chased. In fact, this makes the attraction stronger.
When a girl sees you as being a guy who is rare, she’ll want to keep you around as long as possible. This is exactly what a relationship is. A girl wants you in her life for an extended period of time.
All you have to do is satisfy a few of her basic needs, and she’ll be the one begging you to stick around. If you can satisfy the following, you’ll be in a great position:
If you can give her these things on a regular basis, and show her that you can give them to her better than other guys can, she’ll have a hard time turning down the idea of a relationship.
In England there was once a famous abbey, called Whitby. It was so close to the sea that those who lived in it could hear the waves forever beating against the shore. The land around it was rugged, with only a few fields in the midst of a vast forest.
In those far-off days, an abbey was half church, half castle. It was a place where good people, and timid, helpless people could find shelter in time of war. There they might live in peace and safety while all the country round was overrun by rude and barbarous men.
One cold night in winter the serving men of the abbey were gathered in the great kitchen. They were sitting around the fire and trying to keep themselves warm.
Out of doors the wind was blowing. The men heard it as it whistled through the trees and rattled the doors of the abbey. They drew up closer to the fire and felt thankful that they were safe from the raging storm. “Who will sing us a song?” said the master woodman as he threw a fresh log upon the fire.
“Yes, a song! a song!” shouted some of the others. “Let us have a good old song that will help to keep us warm.”
“We can all be minstrels to-night,” said the chief cook. “Suppose we each sing a song in turn. What say you?”
“Agreed! agreed!” cried the others. “And the cook shall begin.”
The woodman stirred the fire until the flames leaped high and the sparks flew out of the roof hole. Then the chief cook began his song. He sang of war, and of bold rough deeds, and of love and sorrow.
After him the other men were called, one by one; and each in turn sang his favorite song. The woodman sang of the wild forest; the plowman sang of the fields; the shepherd sang of his sheep; and those who listened forgot about the storm and the cold weather.
But in the corner, almost hidden from his fellows, one poor man was sitting who did not enjoy the singing. It was Caedmon, the cowherd. “What shall I do when it comes my turn?” he said to himself. “I do not know any song. My voice is harsh and I cannot sing.”
So he sat there trembling and afraid; for he was a timid, bashful man and did not like to be noticed.
At last, just as the blacksmith was in the midst of a stirring song, he rose quietly and went out into the darkness. He went across the narrow yard to the sheds where the cattle were kept in stormy weather.
“The gentle cows will not ask a song of me,” said the poor man. He soon found a warm corner, and there he lay down, covering himself with the straw.
Inside of the great kitchen, beside the fire, the men were shouting and laughing; for the blacksmith had finished his song, and it was very pleasing.
“Who is next?” asked the woodman.
“Caedmon, the keeper of the cows,” answered the chief cook.
“Yes, Caedmon! Caedmon!” all shouted together. “A song from Caedmon!” But when they looked, they saw that his seat was vacant.
“The poor, timid fellow!” said the blacksmith. “He was afraid and has slipped away from us.”
In his safe, warm place in the straw, Caedmon soon fell asleep. All around him were the cows of the abbey, some chewing their cuds, and others like their master quietly sleeping. The singing in the kitchen was ended, the fire had burned low, and each man had gone to his place.
Then Caedmon had a strange dream. He thought that a wonderful light was shining around him. His eyes were dazzled by it. He rubbed them with his hands, and when they were quite open he thought that he saw a beautiful face looking down upon him, and that a gentle voice said,—
“Caedmon, sing for me.”
At first he was so bewildered that he could not answer. Then he heard the voice again.
“Caedmon, sing something.”
“Oh, I cannot sing,” answered the poor man.” I do not know any song; and my voice is harsh and unpleasant. It was for this reason that I left my fellows in the abbey kitchen and came here to be alone.”
“But you must sing,” said the voice. “You must sing.”
“What shall I sing?” he asked.
“Sing of the creation,” was the answer.
Then Caedmon, with only the cows as his hearers, opened his mouth and began to sing. He sang of the beginning of things; how the world was made; how the sun and moon came into being; how the land rose from the water; how the birds and the beasts were given life.
All through the night he sat among the abbey cows, and sang his wonderful song. When the stable boys and shepherds came out in the morning, they heard him singing; and they were so amazed that they stood still in the drifted snow and listened with open mouths.
At length, others of the servants heard him, and were entranced by his wonderful song. And one ran quickly and told the good abbess, or mistress of the abbey, what strange thing had happened.
“Bring the cowherd hither, that I and those who are with me may hear him,” said she.
So Caedmon was led into the great hall of the abbey. And all of the sweet-faced sisters and other women of the place listened while he sang again the wonderful song of the creation.
“Surely,” said the abbess, “this is a poem, most sweet, most true, most beautiful. It must be written down so that people in other places and in other times may hear it read and sung.”
So she called her clerk, who was a scholar, and bade him write the song, word for word, as it came from Caedmon’s lips. And this he did.
Such was the way in which the first true English poem was written. And Caedmon, the poor cowherd of the abbey, was the first great poet of England.
Ten-year-old Harry Potter is an orphan who lives in the fictional London suburb of Little Whinging, Surrey, with the Dursleys: his uncaring Aunt Petunia, loathsome Uncle Vernon, and spoiled cousin Dudley. The Dursleys barely tolerate Harry, and Dudley bullies him. One day Harry is astonished to receive a letter addressed to him in the cupboard under the stairs (where he sleeps). Before he can open the letter, however, Uncle Vernon takes it. Letters for Harry subsequently arrive each day, in increasing numbers, but Uncle Vernon tears them all up, and finally, in an attempt to escape the missives, the Dursleys go to a miserable shack on a small island. On Harry’s 11th birthday, a giant named Hagrid arrives and reveals that Harry is a wizard and that he has been accepted at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He also sheds light on Harry’s past, informing the boy that his parents, a wizard and a witch, were killed by the evil wizard Voldemort and that Harry acquired the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead during the fatal confrontation.
Upon arrival at the school, the students are sorted into one of four houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin. Harry ends up in Gryffindor, and during his eventful first year at Hogwarts he becomes close friends with two other members of the house, Ron Weasley, who comes from an old wizarding family, and Hermione Granger, whose parents are Muggles (those who are not magical). Harry also finds that he has an enemy in Draco Malfoy (Slytherin). In addition, Harry’s prowess in flying on a broomstick makes him a star of Gryffindor’s Quidditch team. Hoping to get Harry and his friends into trouble, Draco tricks them into leaving their rooms one night, a violation of school rules. While trying to avoid being caught, they discover a three-headed dog guarding a trapdoor. Harry gradually comes to the conclusion that Professor Snape, who teaches Potions, dislikes him intensely and is trying to get hold of whatever is behind the trapdoor. Harry receives his father’s cloak of invisibility as a Christmas gift, and, while exploring under the cloak’s cover, he finds the Mirror of Erised, in which he can see his parents. Later, headmaster Albus Dumbledore explains that the mirror shows the viewer’s deepest desire.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione deduce that the treasure under the trapdoor is the Philosopher’s Stone, which can transform metal into gold and can also confer immortality. They later discover that Voldemort has been killing unicorns in the Forbidden Forest and drinking their blood, another way to achieve immortality. The trio comes to believe that Snape is in league with the evil wizard. After learning that Hagrid revealed the secret way to lull the three-headed dog to sleep to a suspicious stranger, whom they believe to be either Snape or Voldemort, they are certain that the Philosopher’s Stone is in danger. The three classmates use the cloak of invisibility on a secret mission to get the Stone themselves to keep it from Voldemort. After getting past the dog and defeating various protective spells, Harry reaches the room in which the Stone is hidden and is surprised to find the perpetually nervous Professor Quirrell there. Quirrell fails to figure out how to retrieve the Stone from the Mirror of Erised (the final protective measure) and forces Harry to try. When standing in front of the mirror, wishing only to protect the Stone and not use it for himself, Harry feels the Stone’s weight in his pocket but refuses to tell Quirrell that he has it. Quirrell unwraps his turban, revealing Voldemort’s face on the back of his head. Voldemort explains that he has been sharing Quirrell’s body until he can get to the Stone and become fully alive again, and Voldemort/Quirrell and Harry fight for possession of the Stone, until Harry blacks out. He awakens in the infirmary and learns that Dumbledore saved him, the Stone is to be destroyed, and Voldemort escaped.
There once lived in Paris a poor charcoal man whose name was Jacquot. His house was small, with only one room in it; but it was large enough for Jacquot and his wife and their two little boys.
At one end of the room there was a big fireplace, where the mother did the cooking. At the other end were the beds. And in the middle was a rough table with benches around it instead of chairs.
Jacquot’s business was to sell charcoal to the rich people in the city. He might be seen every day with a bag of charcoal on his back, carrying it to some of his customers. Sometimes he carried three or four bags to the palace where the little king of France lived with his mother.
One evening he was very late coming home. The table was spread and supper was ready. The children were hungry and could hardly wait for their father to come.
“The supper will get cold,” said Charlot, the eldest.
“I wonder why he is so late,” said his little brother, Blondel.
“There is to be a great feast at the queen’s palace to-night,” said the mother.” There will be music and dancing, and many fine people will be there. Perhaps your father is waiting to help in the kitchen.”
The next minute they heard his voice at the door: “Be quick, boys, and stir the fire. Throw on some chips and make a blaze.”
They did so, and as the flames lighted up the room, they saw their father enter with a child in his arms.
“What’s the matter?” cried the mother. “Who is that child?”
Then she saw that the child’s face was very pale and that he neither opened his eyes nor moved.
“Oh, what has happened? Where did you find him?”
“I’ll tell you all about it,” answered Jacquot. “But first get a blanket and warm it, quick. That on the children’s bed is best.”
“What a beautiful child!” said the mother, as she hurried to do his bidding. The two boys, Charlot and Blondel, with wondering eyes watched their father and mother undress the little stranger. His beautiful clothes were soaked with water, and his fine white collar and ruffles were soiled and dripping.
“He must have some dry clothes. Bring me your Sunday suit, Charlot.”
“Here it is, mother.” said Charlot.
Soon the little stranger was clad in the warm clothes; the dry soft blanket was wrapped around him; and he was laid on the children’s bed.
Then, being very comfortable, he began to grow stronger. The color came back to his cheeks. He opened his eyes and looked around at the small, plain room and at the poor people standing near him.
“Where am I? Where am I?” he asked.
“In my house, my little friend,” answered Jacquot.
“My little friend!” said the child with a sneer.
He looked at the fire on the hearth, and at the rough table and benches. Then he said, “Your house is a very poor place, I think.”
“I am sorry if you do not like it,” said Jacquot. “But if I had not helped you, you would have been in a worse place.”
“How did these clothes come on me?” cried the child. “They are not mine. You have stolen my clothes and have given me these ugly things.”
“Stolen!” said the charcoal man, angrily. “What do you mean, you ungrateful little rascal?”
“Hush, Jacquot,” said his wife, kindly. “He doesn’t know what he says. Wait till he rests a while, and then he’ll be in a better humor.”
The child was indeed very tired. His eyes closed and he was soon fast asleep.
“Now tell us, father,” whispered Charlot, “where did you find him?”
The charcoal man sat down by the fire. The two boys stood at his knees, and his wife sat at his side.
“I will tell you,” he said. “I had carried some charcoal to the queen’s kitchen and was just starting home. I took the shortest way through the little park behind the palace. You know where the fountain is?”
“Yes, yes!” said Blondel. “It is quite near the park gate.”
“Well, as I was hurrying along, I heard a great splash, as though something had fallen into the pool by the fountain. I looked and saw this little fellow struggling in the water. I ran and pulled him out. He was almost drowned.”
“Did he say anything, father?” asked Charlot.
“Oh, no! He was senseless; but I knew he wasn’t drowned. I thought of the big fire in the queen’s kitchen, and knew that the cook would never allow a half-drowned child to be carried into that fine place. Then I thought of our own warm little house, and how snug we could make him until he came to his senses again. So I took him in my arms and ran home as fast as I could.”
“The poor, dear child!” said Mrs. Jacquot. “I wonder who he is.”
“He shall be our little brother,” said Blondel; and both the boys clapped their hands very softly.
In a little while the child awoke. He seemed to feel quite well and strong. He sat up in the bed and looked around.
“You want your mother, don’t you?” said Mrs. Jacquot. “She must be very uneasy about you. Tell us who she is, and we will carry you to her.” “There is no hurry about that,” said the child.
“But they will be looking for you.”
“So much the better, let them look. My mother will not be worried. She has other things to do, and no time to attend to me.”
“What! Your own mother, and no time to attend to her child?”
“Yes, madam. But she has servants to attend to me.” “Servants! Yes, I think so,” said Jacquot. “They let you fall into the water, and you would have been drowned, if it hadn’t been for me. But come, children, let us have our supper.”
They sat down at the table. The mother gave each a tin plate and a wooden spoon, and then helped them all to boiled beans. The father cut slices from a loaf of brown bread.
The little stranger came and sat with them. But he would not eat anything.
“You must tell us who your mother is,” said Mrs. Jacquot. “We must let her know that you are safe.”
“Of course she will be glad to know that,” said the boy; “but she has no time to bother about me to-night.”
“Is she like our mother?” asked Chariot.
“She is handsomer.”
“But ours is better. She is always doing something for us,” said Blondel.
“Mine gives me fine clothes and plenty of money to spend,” said the stranger.
“Ours gives us kisses,” said Charlot.
“Ha! that’s nothing. Mine makes the servants wait on me and do as I tell them.”
“But our dear mother waits on us herself.”
The charcoal man and his wife listened to this little dispute, and said nothing. They were just rising from the table when they heard a great noise in the street. Then there was a knock at the door.
Before Mrs. Jacquot could open it, some one called out, “Is this the house of Jacquot, the charcoal man?”
“That is my tutor,” whispered the little stranger. “He has come after me.” Then he slipped quickly under the table and hid himself. “Don’t tell him I am here,” he said softly.
In a few minutes the room was filled with gentlemen. They were all dressed very finely, and some of them carried swords.
A tall man who wore a long red cloak seemed to be the leader of the company. He said to a soldier who stood at the door, “Tell your story again.”
“Well,” said the soldier, “about two hours ago I was on guard at the gate of the queen’s park. This charcoal man, whom I know very well, ran past me with a child in his arms. I did not—”
“That will do, sir,” said the man in red. “Now, you charcoal man, where is that child?”
“Here!” cried the child himself, darting out from his hiding place.
“O your Majesty!” said the man in red. “All your court has been looking for you for the past two hours.”
“I am glad to hear it, Cardinal Mazarin,” [Footnote: Maz a reen’.] said the boy.
“Your mother is very anxious.”
“I am sorry if I have given her trouble. But really, I fell into the pool at the fountain, and this kind man brought me here to get me dry.”
“Indeed!” said the cardinal. “But I hope you are now ready to come home with us.”
“I shall go when I please.”
“Oh, yes, I know she is anxious, and I will go. But first I must thank these poor people.”
“Please do so, your Majesty.”
The boy turned toward the charcoal man and said:—”My friend, I am the king of France. My name is Louis the Fourteenth. I thank you for what you have done for me. You shall have money to buy a larger house and to send your boys to school. Here is my hand to kiss.” Then he turned to the cardinal and said, “Now, I am ready. Let us go.”
Not dressed in that way?” said the cardinal. He had just noticed that the king was wearing poor Charlot’s Sunday suit instead of his own.
“Why not?” answered the little king.
“Think what your mother would say if she saw you in the clothes of a poor man’s son.” said the cardinal. “Think of what all the fine ladies would say.”
“Let them say what they please, I am not going to change my clothes.”
As the little king went out, he turned at the door and called to Charlot. “Come to the palace to-morrow,” he said, “and you shall have your clothes. You may bring mine with you.”
Louis the Fourteenth became king of France when he was only five years old. He was called “the Fourteenth” because there had been thirteen other kings before him who bore the name of Louis. In history he is often called the Grand Monarch.
How do l feel about it? You seriously just asked me how I feel about it? Classic. Ya know, this whole psychologist thing in general is kind of corrupt. You sit down, listen to my problems, (supposedly) and ask me how I feel? Look, I know my roommates gave you the rundown of my whole life story or whatever. I heard you from the waiting room. You know I was bullied. You know I have bipolar. You know my grandma died. How does that make me feel? Not great. But I don’t let that stuff define me. I’ve moved on. I’ve dealt with that stuff on my own. To be honest, you guys are just reopening those wounds. Last night I googled stuff about psychologists. All I have to say is wow. Y’all get paid a pretty hefty salary considering you just sit down and listen to people go on, and on about their problems. But I mean, let’s be honest here. You don’t actually listen. You’re just thinking about going home, watching tv, what you’re going to make for dinner. Look, I’m not stupid. You guys are still regular people. You have your own problems. If you ask me, I don’t think you want to spend your time engulfing yourself in some randos life. So, I’m just saying maybe asking me how I feel isn’t the best approach. Cause, I’m pretty sure I just told you how I feel. Let’s just cut this short okay. You can have that power bar you’ve been eyeing on your desk, and I can go ride my skateboard for the next hour.