#oakum boys

[sitting-on-me-bum]

An adult king penguin hunts for its chick amongst a sea of similar-looking 'oakum boys' (juvenile king penguins) on the Island of South Georgia in Antarctica.

By Paul Nicklen

[vengelark]

what r y’all’s favorite albums… like what albums do u come back to time & time again I would like to know…

[ltwilliammowett]

Toe the line

The space between each pair of deck planks in a wooden ship was filled with a packing material called "oakum" and then sealed with a mixture of pitch and tar. The result, from afar, was a series of parallel lines a half-foot or so apart, running the length of the deck. Once a week, as a rule, usually on Sunday, a warship's crew was ordered to fall in at quarters - that is, each group of men into which the crew was divided would line up in formation in a given area of the deck.

To insure a neat alignment of each row, the Sailors were directed to stand with their toes just touching a particular seam. Another use for these seams was punitive. The youngsters in a ship, be they ship's boys or midshipmen, might be required to stand with their toes just touching a designated seam for a length of time as punishment for some minor infraction of discipline, such as talking or fidgeting at the wrong time.

A tough captain might require the miscreant to stand there, not talking to anyone, in fair weather or foul, for hours at a time. Hopefully, he would learn it was easier and more pleasant to conduct himself in the required manner rather than suffer the punishment. From these two uses of deck seams comes our cautionary word to obstreperous youngsters to "toe the line."

[jiubilant]

“There are twenty-two Company factories in Haafingar,” says the boy named Rafe, beaming as though he’d built them himself. “Ours is the biggest. Our godowns—can you tell me,” he adds, glancing down at his companion, “what a godown is?”

The urchin, shrugging her worldly goods over her shoulder, grudgingly shakes her head.

She’s wobbling in the shadow of the seawall, her legs still off-kilter after several seasick weeks afloat. Above her, the boy named Rafe strides confident as anything along the wall’s crumbly top, the salt wind whipping his curls and his crumpled shirt-collar. When he’d met the urchin at the gangplank a few minutes back, he’d tried to take her sack and carry it himself. She’d flashed her teeth at him, which taught him better. Or so she’d thought, because—

“Here,” he says, and thrusts down an inky hand.

The urchin stares at him until he retracts it, then clambers onto the seawall without help. It’s a better vantage than she’d expected. She squints down, the wind buffeting her fur, at the tangle of masts in the bay—and beyond them the biggest Company factory in Haafingar, where Rafe is prenticed. Where she, too, will be prenticed. A warren of warehouses, their piers sticking out like fat wooden tongues, sprawls in the shadow of the rich coves’ city on the peak.

“Godowns.” Rafe nods at the warehouses. A stone slides from the wall beneath his too-small boot; he windmills his arms to keep his balance, but does not, the urchin notes with reluctant respect, slow. “That’s where we store what comes in. And what goes out. Mostly we export iron, tin, timber, tallow, potash—”

Beneath the urchin’s feet, the wall bucks like the deck of a ship. She throws out her arms, too, hackles bristling, and wonders with despair how she’ll ever mill a third-story glaze again—

“—kidskin, stuff and fustian, furs, woolens, worsted, and worse—”

He’s trying, the urchin thinks, to make her laugh. Like she’s some scrib. She firms her mouth into a line. “How ‘bout imports?”

“—oh, coffee, calico, indigo, serge, silk, sugar, spices, saltpeter—careful!”

The urchin flattens her ears at him, irritated, then realizes that she’s tipping. The wind rushes sideways past her ears before she twists on her feet, lashing her tail like a rudder, and saves herself and the sack by sitting down hard—thump—on the seawall.

“Beneful,” she grumbles, then kicks out her legs to glower at them. Bryn and Lleryn would laugh themselves sick. “Stupid stumps.”

“You’ve still got your sealegs, is all.” Rafe plunks down beside her. There’s an ease in his movements, an unthinking absence of caution and calculation, that the urchin resents. “Close your eyes and breathe in real deep.”

The urchin glowers at him, now.

Then she closes her eyes—not because he told her to, she tells herself, but because she wants to get her bearings. She opens her mouth and tastes the strange new air. Sweat. Stockfish and oakum. Birdshit. Rafe, beside her, smells oddly of both ink and laundry-lye.

“Um,” she says, eyes still shut tight. Gulls cry over the ruckus of the shipyard. The wind carries a snatch of bawdy song, bawled in a tongue that the urchin does not know, from the warehouses—godowns—below.

When she opens her eyes, she thinks, she’ll wake up. It will all go away.

Beside her, a rustle. “Um?”

“Um,” the urchin confirms. Her voice comes out rough; she swallows and tries again. “What’s saltpeter?”

“Glassblowers use it.” Rafe’s voice is light and nonchalant. “And Master Rano says people up there”—up on the peak, the urchin assumes, but he could be gesturing to Sovngard for all she knows—“put it in their beer.”

“How come?”

“Keeps it cold.”

This is so strange that the urchin opens one eye. She’s still on the seawall. There’s stupid Rafe, too, grinning at her.

“There,” he says. “Better?”

The urchin opens her mouth to snap at him. Then she closes it. The wall is no longer swaying from side to side.

“Here,” he says again, and stands, and puts out his stupid hand.

The urchin narrows her eyes at it.

Then she takes it—and, with a haughty sweep of her tail, lets him hoist her up.

[namenerdery]

Babies with interesting names born in Missouri in 2021 [O, P, Q & R]

-note that this dataset didn't include gender so your guess as to whether a name belongs to a girl or boy is as good as mine-

Oaklye Samuel Lee Oakum Banks Obsidian Lotus October Harvest Moonchyld Omega Alyse

Onameaous Xavier Orchinson Osiris Magnolia Othello Pea Lennon Ottley Yvonne

Owynn Maru Oxlee James Ozymandias Aleister Ozziah Troubadour Sterling Ozzilynn Anne Chaos

Pai'slei Aiyana Marie Parkhyr' Alexandria Patiennce Skai Patty Jean Jolynn Paytence Forever

Peayzle Jaylynn Pennington K Peosleen Karin Perceus Adonis Ray Percival Yasuo Wayne

Phaith Alise Pheenyx Amaurii-Reign Phynixx Remington Hart Pilot Scott Poetic Ocean West Eleven

Poison-Ivy Marie Posh Gleaux Powerful Akeyleus Prairie Shawnee Ray Princess Miami

Prodigy Kamari Prosperity Layne Psalm Marleyemma Psilas Kal-El Puncher Cole

Purpose Garrett Wayman Pystol James

Qruze Darrell Quartney Emoni Quillin Malcolm Quinleigh Nicole Leann Quinterrace Ormond Terrell

Racelyn Mae Racsan Earlene Marie Racynn Allen Raddler Ramsey Raeylynn Renea-Ann

Raggie Jonmur Ralstyn Rae Ramseigh Eiriann Jayne Rancher Dale Ranezmae Lea

Ransom Willard Rebel Ray'gime Earl Razareia Cynthia Rose Razz Everett Rderrick Drevon

Rebel Legend Reeson Malini Reigner James Reigns Alexander Rembrandt Earl

Remelia Ivy Rendlee Rae-Jean Renegade Seay Rensley Jolene Repson Jaydan

Reuel Kate Reverie Bloom Reward A Rexxar Jackson Reynadia Monique

Reynnli Layne Rhainee Amoree Dior Rhetting Foster Rhettlynn Kay Rhiot Jude Dale

Rhip Tyler Rhoric Christopher Rhyett Ray Rhymedy Nirvana-Dawn Riahlyn Renee

Ricochet Ruby Rachelle Riddian Klause Michael Rider Evan Rieyen Lee Rigdon Ianthus

Righteous Xela Nova Riot Zane Rippley Daniel Ripsey Rose Riversynn Laneal

Riyver Aanae Raine Ro'xxanne Love Roam Alton Ross Rock Solid Rockne David

Rogue Lera Peach Roialti Nyla Rommel Naier Romulus Ryan Rookh Chasity

Roper Sue Roryie Lorenzo Roseariellika Peace Rosmery Edith Rowdy Roy

Roxas Brian Rubeus Lee Rueger Wesley Rusher Wayne Rycker Lee

Ryette Leeann Rygar Talon Rygh James Rylix James Ryme Tilson Ryott Storm-Michelle

[achronicallive]

I spent a while getting these together and this isn’t even all of them I have but these are the best of them. Might be wrong on a few but I remember pretty much all the lyrics to most of these. Hope this helps >:)

Madmoiselle Noir

Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

House of Memories

Hell’s Comin’ With Me

They’re only Human

Can’t the Future Just Wait

Come Little Children

Cost of the Crown

Curses (Crane Wives)

Savage Daughter

Come Along

How to be Me

The Boy who Cried Icarus

Rule #4 - Fish in a Birdcage

Providence (Poor Man’s Poison)

Enemy (Imagine Dragons)

Feed the Machine

Santana

Give and Take

Rät

Ashes (The Longest Johns)

Oak and Ash and Thorn (The Longest Johns)

Moby Duck (The Longest Johns)

Here’s a Health to the Company (The Longest Johns)

Hoist up the Thing (The Longest Johns)

Welcome to the Internet

Ha Ha Freak (The Great Malarkey)

I think the entire “Smoke and Oakum” album by The Longest Johns

IF FANDOM SONGS DON’T COUNT, IGNORE ANYTHING BELOW HERE

Gone Away (CG5)

Hush (kroh)

Voices (Derivakat)

Captain’s Call (Derivakat)

Casino Royale (Derivakat)

Lonely King (CG5)

Blink of an Eye (Halfy and Winks)

Oblivion (Halfy and Winks)

Nothing but Free (Halfy and Winks)

‘Till the End (Halfy and Winks)

Oblivion (Halfy and Winks)

Bittersweet (Amanda Fagan)

White Castle (Halfy and Winks)

Vantage (Halfy and Winks)

I’ve currently made myself a challenge:

Right now, as we speak, I am compiling as many songs as I can think of into one playlist, with only requirement: it cannot be about romantic love or sex. Sounds easy enough right? Oh honey, you have no idea just how little the amount of songs with lyrics that are completely platonic just is.

So what is the challenge, you ask?

Well, if I can find over 12 hours worth of non romance/sex songs, I will buy myself a pair of hot pink contact lenses and take a picture of myself with them on. It is worthy to note that I do not like this color, much less would I want to put it in my eyes.

So, will I be able to do it? Let’s find out…

Also the deadline is January 1st, 2024.

Oh, and if you happen to find a song, please let me know!!

(This can be any genre of music, just as long as it’s got lyrics too, no lyrics is considered cheating)

The playlist in question:

[jurassicqueer]

My horrible son

[agallimaufryofoddments]

Speaking of the Advena Avis, it was jolly well good of Szilard to spare Nile, Denkurō Tōgō, and (*inhales, crosses fingers*) Zank Rowan like he did during that wee massacre of his. You know, the alchemists whom Majida Battuta sent in part because they were also fully qualified sailors who could pilot the ship? Those guys?

I expect that the trio did recruit and teach some of their fellow alchemists in the ways of seamanship because the more the better; just because the Advena Avis is a special ship that can be operated by far fewer people than a ship that size normally would require doesn’t mean it has to. Still... I do wonder how the ship and its immortal survivors would have faired without the Battuta Boys. Majida Men.

Y’think Ronny would have deigned to do the survivors a compensatory solid by ensuring fair weather and fish galore for the rest of the trip? I mean, he gives the mortals immortality, and what do they do? First thing one of them does is eat thirteen—whoop, sixteen, bye-bye Battuta Boys—there goes the most qualified if not only sailors on board. Szilard’s bad, but still. Oof.

Frankly, as much as the majority of passengers were nerds alchemists who could certainly busy themselves during the transatlantic journey with some paper and pen, some of them might even have welcomed learning the ship’s ropes and engaging in the physical busywork, despite how hard that work was, because...well, that would keep their minds off the massacre. Also, entertainment and activities were, I imagine, limited, since fleeing the city as fugitives probably didn’t leave much time for packing such possessions.

On the other hand, picturing the alchemists emerging from the catacombs to dash past the burning buildings toward the Advena Avis with instruments (musical and alchemical) on their backs, dice, chess pieces, and knucklebones in their pockets, and books in their rucksacks is somewhat compelling. Ah, imagination. The original entertainment.

Edit: What are the chances that resident noodle LFV would have pitched in to blend in vs. LFV worming his way out of helping every single time? Patching the ship with oakum? Can’t, sorry; it’s time for Czes’ bath. Painting the rails? Excuse me, but I must pen a wrought memoir lamenting Szilard’s wretched deeds. If only I were the writer that my dear friend Jean was...

[seekers-who-are-lovers]

The reality of living in a Workhouse in the Victorian era

For a while there I misunderstood the notion of a workhouse versus an orphanage in “Black Butler/Kuroshitsuji.” I mistakenly took them the same. Though both institutions were wretched and subjected to cruelty and hierarchy, workhouses don’t exist anymore. Whereas orphanages are still relevant and still part of the modern society (fortunately or unfortunately). Poorhouses already existed in England throughout the centuries. The first workhouse was built in 1835 in Abingdon, Oxfordshire under the Poor Law Amendment Act. They officially closed in 1930 after the Local Government Act in previous year. Though a few still thrived till the 1960s. These were now converted to hospitals and care homes. Their existence coincided with the growing number of paupers living in England in the Victorian era.

There were several ways of accommodations for those “too poor” during that time. From doss houses to temporary lodging houses, anonymous living quarters, to living in a workhouse to, last but not the least, staying on the streets. London was a filthy, stinking witness to those who couldn’t afford the standard of living either by chance or intent (the sick, the old, the alcoholics, prostitutes, the orphans, the jobless, etc.). The Southwell Workhouse was said to be one of a kind as it was the model workhouse, lovingly well maintained by its inmates. In fact, one can visit it and be informed of the life living in that kind of institution.

In the manga and anime (Chapter 35: In the Afternoon, The Butler, Executor/Book of Circus, Episode 10) Yana T painted an ideal picture where her troupe of Noah’s Circus Ark first-stringers had a “better life” in a workhouse after living roughly on the streets. Joker went on to become Baron Kelvin’s butler/personal assistant and Beast and the rest as the domestic help until they were asked to form a circus group. Joker still believed that children still resided in the workhouse until he fell into a harsh realisation during the course of Ciel and Sebastian’s summary execution that the doctor, with the permission of the Baron, made an experiment on the remaining children.

In reality, this was quite the opposite. According to Hallie Rubenhold’s recollection of the forgotten victims of Jack the Ripper, “The Five: The Untold Lives of the Women Killed by Jack the Ripper,” Londoners would rather stay for a night on Embankment or camp on Trafalgar Square than be stuck in a grim workhouse. She recounted the tale of an old couple whose husband was used to be working in a theatre as a musical director when an injury occurred, found himself soon to be jobless. They couldn’t pay the rent and lost the privilege to live in dignity.

“The thought of throwing themselves upon the mercy of their local workhouse was too shameful and frightening even to consider.”

They opted to live on the street sleeping on one of the stone benches of the square.

Families were also separated once entering the premises of a workhouse. Furthermore, to be able to stay in a Victorian workhouse one should be willing to work, demeaning it might be, in exchange for lodging and nutrition.

The original scheme of classification of inmates categorized females under 16 as 'girls' and males under 13 as 'boys', with those aged under seven forming a separate class. It probably came as a surprise to the Commissioners that, by 1839, almost half of the workhouse population (42,767 out of 97,510) were children. ( x )

The men, women, and children were all housed separately. Children were only allowed to spend a brief amount of time a week with their parents. However, most children in a workhouse were orphans.

Men and women (inmates) were expected to work 10 hours a day seven days a week. It was so demeaning that people chose it as a last resort.

Both men and women had to work doing something called oakum. This was a task where old ropes were unpicked for many hours at a time, so that the threads could be mixed with tar on board ships to waterproof sailing vessels.

… Men were expected to stone breaking, grinding corn, work in the fields, chopping wood. While women did the laundry, cleaning, scrubbing walls and floors, spinning, and weaving.

… Girls had some lessons, but generally they were taught needlework and other domestic skills so that they could become a maid or servant at the age of fourteen. ( x )

One famous inmate of St. Asaph Union Workhouse, Henry Morton Stanley, who found the missing explorer Dr. David Livingstone, only had this description for his former accommodation: “A house of torture.”

One way or another, Yana T’s imagined ending of her own version of a workhouse was not that far off. Ciel looking at the ruins and then having a breakdown.

[your-dandy-king]

“Enough, Briel! I brought you out here on the recommendation of Colonel Musquinet, who clearly overestimated your sense of fucking respect!" Her eyes shoot an angry glare towards the colonel, and her muscles flex under her uniform. She's going to have words with Musquinet too. She's angry and embarrassed. "You stand on the deck of Le Bucentaure, and all you can do is run your mouth? I don’t care how good you are at swinging a fucking hammer, now get back in the fucking rowboat before I kick your ass over the side!"

She turns her attention back to Villeneuve. "Vice Admiral Villeneuve, Le Bucentaure, I must apologize for this, I was misled into thinking that — " And then Villeneuve speaks, asking Briel to stay. Murat raises an eyebrow, but Villeneuve, despite Briel's rough words, seems genuinely interested.

And honestly, when she thinks about it, Le Bucentaure kind of deserves that dressing down anyway. Not that she'd ever admit that out loud. She holds up a hand to stop Musquinet from interrupting whatever comes next.

Briel’s expression flickers for a moment as he takes in Villeneuve’s words. He’s clearly still fired up, but something in the admiral’s tone makes him pause, if only slightly. He straightens up, taking a breath to steady himself before responding in a much more gentle and professional fashion.

“Admiral Villeneuve, you want proof of my work? Fair enough. I didn’t get the chance to haul everything out here on that piss-poor excuse for a rowboat we came on. Most of my samples and my best tools are still back on shore. But I didn’t come aboard empty-handed.”

Briel reaches into his leather satchel, pulling out a variety of woodworking tools, laying them out with a methodical precision that speaks volumes about his experience. “Here, I’ve got my adze, for shaping and trimming timbers to fit the curve of the hull—nothing fancy, just the right edge for the job. A slick chisel, razor-sharp, perfect for getting those tight joints on the deck to lock in place without so much as a whisper of a gap. And these,” he says, holding up a caulking mallet and a bundle of oakum, “are what I’ll use to seal up your deck seams, to keep this old boy from leaking like a damn sieve.”

He gestures to a small pot of pitch he’s brought along. “This here’s pine tar, straight from the resin. Once I’ve caulked the seams, I’ll pay them with this, making sure the deck stays watertight. It’s not pretty work, but it’s solid, and it’ll keep you afloat when the waves come crashing in.”

Briel’s eyes narrow as he looks Villeneuve straight in the eye. “I might not have brought my finished work to show you, but I’ve got the skills and the means right here to prove myself. I’ll patch this fucking deck, smooth it out, and make it tight enough to walk barefoot on without a splinter to your name. You want more? You give me half a chance, and I’ll show you what I’m capable of. Let me get my hands on this ship, and I’ll make you proud he’s French-built again, despite what he’s been through.”

He holds up his tools with a steady hand, his confidence unwavering. “I’m not some half-rate bullshit carpenter peddling fake miracle cures; I’m the real fucking deal. I know what I’m doing, and I’ll prove it to you, right here on this deck, if you give me the chance. You said you want me to start with the gunwales? Why don't we go over there and have a look?"

L’étendue de l’appel

—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—

((@your-dandy-king)) prev

—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—

The sea today is a gentle swell, to and fro, painted in curious shades of amaranth and amaryllis. The lost vice-admiral of a broken fleet watches as a rowboat approaches his ship, one driftwood eye sparkling with static emptiness. He does not know how he quite feels about this… female marshal, who claims to represent the Ministre de la Marine, who claims to be the famed horseman Murat, who claims to offer so much in exchange for so little. But then again, he is unsure of so many things.

Vɪʟʟᴇɴᴇᴜᴠᴇ: Bienvenue, Maréchale. Please, let me aid you- the steps can be slippery.

O̬ꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴛ̊͘ʀᴜ̢ꜱᴛ ʜᴇʀ. Bᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ꜱʜᴇ ᴅ̫ᴏ ᴛᴏ ᴜ͠ꜱ? The tower’s light in the distance continues to flicker on and off.

•–– •••• •– – •• ••• •– –•–• •– •••– •– •–•• •–• –•–– –– •– –• –•• ––– •• –• ––• ––– –• – •••• • ••• • •– ••––••

[beljar]

He was asleep in a short time and he dreamed of Africa when he was a boy and the long, golden beaches and the white beaches, so white they hurt your eyes, and the high capes and the great brown mountains. He lived along that coast now every night and in his dreams he heard the surf roar and saw the native boats come riding through it. He smelled the tar and oakum of the deck as he slept and he smelled the smell of Africa that the land breeze brought at morning.

Ernest Hemingway, from The Old Man and the Sea, September 1, 1952

[kennythecock]

Kenny and Talleywhacker are both ex Army and now hunt space-Nazis from planet Ceres for the Israeli government. When they catch one they anal rape and blow jobber that Nazi to death. Talleywhacker’s just a plain old white boy but Kennycock is 1/4 Jewish. He is also a trained assassin in the Israeli Army and holds the rank of Colonel. Ken and Talley have 1,254 captures/kills/nazi-rapes under their belts. They are both Jewish national heroes/living legends. Alaha slam a sal oakum.

[gotyouanyway]

oh this is fun i just learned how picky i am about album covers!

Vampire Weekend - Vampire Weekend

The Happy Fits - Concentrate

fun. - Aim and Ignite

Styx - Crystal Ball

Panic! at the Disco - Pretty. Odd.

Fall Out Boy - Infinity On High

Ultravox - Systems of Romance

Fever Dolls - The Distance (single but w/e)

The Longest Johns - Smoke & Oakum

tagging @little-alien-duck @whycellothurr @handweavers and @kotor :)

TAG GAME TIME! thank you @wispstalk for the tag!

post your 9 favorite album covers. like, aesthetics, not necessarily favorite albums. (some happen to be favorite albums i won’t lie)

these aren’t in any particular order of preference and i’m providing genre descriptions (according to me) just because

1. fishing for fishies - king gizzard and the lizard wizard (psychedelic boogie folk rock and briefly electronic boogie stuff)

2. thornstar - lord of the lost (metal)

3. seven inches of satanic panic - ghost (psychedelic 60s pop)

4. age of aquarius - villagers of ioannina city (greek stoner folk rock and metal. they literally use like bagpipes and clarinet it’s incredible)

5. pentiment soundtrack - alkemi (medieval video game music lol)

6. weapon- skinny puppy (industrial electronic)

7. gothic nightmare - imperial night (prog rock. THESE DUDES ARE MY FRIENDS YALL SHOULD LISTEN TO THEM)

8. you thought we ran out of poop song ideas. you were wrong - the toilet bowl cleaners (poop music. literally so hard to pick a moternverse album cover because matt farley is a musical genius with hundreds of album covers to choose from)

9. tarot - aether realm (melodic death metal from north carolina and not finland)

@theoutli3r @tiptapricot @pokimoko @scuntallope @corduroysockz and anyone who sees this and wants to do it too! i haven’t opened tumblr in a hot minute so my memory of everyone’s urls is bad </3

[properbastard]

WRITE ABOUT ANTONIA AND SHARPE and sharpe just holding her in her arms and her being outside the walls for the first time and keeping her warm and safe and close and being so excited to show her the world and hes so happy his girls are safe and okay and together and he loves antonia so much. shes everything he couldve hoped for and he just doesnt want to let Antonia out of his arms!!!!!! AHHHH GIVE ME ALL THE FLUFF

     It was hell, all around him. The explosions of the canons blinded him, the smoke choked him–he could hardly breathe, and he saw the swarm of blue coats coming towards him, the glint of bayonets in the flash of the powder.

     He would die here, he would–

     His head dropped from his hand and he woke with a start, knees jerking up to hit the table. Heart pounding, Sharpe looked down, his mind slow with sleep clumsily putting the pieces back together; he was in his tent, he was safe, the siege was over. He had fallen asleep finishing his paperwork–the candle was still burning, the quill in his hand.

     With a heavy sigh, he shoved his work away and rubbed at his face, grimacing as he felt the rough stubble on his chin. He hated nights like this… full of nightmares and snatches of restless sleep. Badajoz was haunting him, the images of it’s high, high walls lit with flame and littered with bodies burned into his mind. Some part of him had known, from the moment he entered Cuidad Rodrigo, that he would never forget Badajoz.

     Sharpe ran his hands through his hair, shoving the memory of blood and death from his mind, and turned in his seat to look at the cot. Teresa was asleep, on her stomach, her face buried in his pillow. Exhaustion pulled at him, and he wanted to crawl in beside her and forget the terrors of his dreams, and find comfort in her arms. He could feel his eyes drooping, body aching to find comfort in the thin mattress and woven blanket just inches away, to tangle his fingers in his lover’s–no, his wife’s–soft, dark curls. He guessed that it was late, and he would only get a few hours of sleep in before dawn, but a few hours were better than none, he had learned.

     But just as he rose from the chair, he discovered that he was not the only one awake.

     Antonia shifted and whimpered from her place in the make-shift cradle the men had put together for her, made from a large woven basket found in Badajoz and hastily carved legs. Sharpe hesitated, wondering if she’d called out in her sleep and would settle again, but her fussing grew louder, and he slipped out of his chair and crept over, rescuing her from the confines of her blankets.

     “Hey, hey,” his voice was soft, still thick with sleep, and he yawned. He was too tired to feel embarrassed, as he had felt lately, when picking up his daughter. He had little experience with babies, and there was a small hitch in his chest at remembering the tragedies that had denied him this before–personal failures, in his eyes, that he did not speak of, yet took hard.

     So he tried to hold her as he saw Teresa do, with the baby on her hip, tucked close to her body, and to his relief, Antonia settled into his arms easily. Her little hands clutched at the collar of his jacket, and her father quietly shushed her pitiful fussing.

     “It’s alrigh’,” he whispered, offering her a tired smile. “I’ve go’ ye.”

     He wondered if she was hungry? It was late at night, and he knew by now that she woke often at night to be fed, and changed, and rocked back to sleep, and from the moment he had held his child, he wanted to help. Teresa had showed him, and after his first horrified encounter with diapers, he was sure never to complain of latrine duty again.

     Though after a moment, he slowly began to think that she wasn’t hungry; Antonia had, to Teresa’s great amusement, shown that she had not yet discovered the difference between her mother’s bosom and her father’s chest, much to the latter’s dismay and embarrassment. Teresa had laughed at him, and took Antonia from him, insisting that he had two choices; get his thin wife fat, or fatten himself up until their daughter learned to tell apart the two slim, fit bodies of her parents.

     But now he was sure that Antonia was not hungry, and he was relieved that he didn’t have to wake his sleeping wife. And he checked, and his daughter did not need changed either.

     So what had woken her?

     Richard shifted her in his arms, watching those tiny little fingers grip the worn, distressed velvet of his jacket; a pink, rosy-cheeked treasure resting against his chest, and his tired smile grew softer and fonder.

     “Did you have a bad dream too?”

     He pressed his lips to her forehead, and it seemed like he’d gotten it right–she’d either woken from her own bad dream, maybe even her own recollection of the siege, or she had heard her father jolt awake from his nightmare. Either way, she snuggled closer to him, whimpering against his neck, and he glanced back at Teresa’s sleeping frame. He wouldn’t wake her–he’d lull their daughter back to sleep himself.

     The cold night air bit at his nose as he slipped out of the tent, Antonia bundled tightly in the blankets from her bed, her soft little bonnet, and tucked snuggly into her father’s arms. Sharpe had thrown on his greatcoat, thankful for the thick, soft wool and the warmth it provided both of them, and tugged on the knit fingerless gloves with his teeth.

     It was a brisk night, as crisp and clear as water in a stream. Winter was ending, and spring beginning, and Sharpe watched his breath fog up in front of him. The cold was not quite done with them yet, lingering here in the dim light from the tents and dwindling campfires. A horse nickered, shifting in its sleep, and somewhere to his left, he heard a sentry pick up a song. It was as quiet as army life could get, and if he did not know any better, he would have believed this to be peace.

     But it wasn’t the peace he was used to. He’d stood out here countless times, or lay on his back on the road, head resting on his pack, but it had never felt like this. A husband and a father, not just a soldier; he felt like his heart had changed, swollen in size, and felt it shiver in his chest. He had a family, at last, a family–

     –a wife sleeping soundly in his bed, and a daughter tugging at the buttons of his jacket.

     He looked down, a smile tugging at his lips, and he watched Antonia pluck at the pewter buttons. She was fascinated with anything and everything that shone, her little brow furrowing into a concentrated scowl that could only have come from him as she investigated each button. But he knew her little fingers were stronger than they seemed, and he shifted her in his arms to keep her from plucking his uniform apart.

     She reached up with those tenacious little hands, babbling to him quietly, and grabbed the end of his nose while he laughed. For a moment, it was just them, in this world; the cold biting at their noses, soft giggling in the calm of night, and the bad dreams that had taken them from their beds forgotten.

     And then he looked up, and his smile widened.

     “Antonia.” He shifted her to his hip, freeing one hand, and he pointed up, watching her dark eyes follow the line of his arm, up past his finger, and up, up into the starry sky above them. “Look.”

     His own gaze followed, his arm coming down to hold her again as she stared, transfixed, up at the stars. She had grown up, so far, in a fortress–a place of constant noise, constant light. But out here, in an army camp, with the fires burning low at this time of night… the stars shone brighter than they ever did elsewhere.

     “Look at the stars, love.”

     He wondered, if, at her age, he had ever stared up at the heavens like this. He remembered the orphanage, the workhouse, and on the days when they rose before the sun, when they plucked oakum in the dark, he would look up at the fading stars, and hope that there was something better than this.

     A wane smile tugged at his lips, and as Antonia gasped and spoke to him in sounds and babble he didn’t understand, he told her a story. He didn’t really know the beginning of it, nor the end. But he told her the story of a young man, an orphan with no home, no family, who had laid on his back in India, looking up at the stars, and had believed that the answers to all of life’s mysteries were in them, and he could try but never truly reach them.

     And at some point, he turned his head away from the sky, from what he always thought looked like thousands of thousands of tiny cook fires burning in the dark, and found his daughter sound asleep against his shoulder, her fingers gripping the shiny pewter buttons of his jacket.

     “Antonia.” His child. His daughter. His little girl. A family, at last, a family.

     There was a time that this was only a dream, something he could never wish to have, the dream of a boy who grew up alone, with no one in the world to claim him. But those thoughts were far away now, as far away as the red sands of India, and tonight he was with his family, his daughter lulled to sleep by a story about the stars.

     One day, he promised, this war will be over. And we’ll be together, always. But until then…

     Until then, he would look up at the stars when he was away, and think of her, of the rosy-cheeked treasure that had become his entire world. Until then he would look up at the stars, lying on his back in the wilderness of Spain, and know that he may never reach those heavens, but he could get close.

     Close was waking up the next morning, bleary-eyed and warm, with his wife’s arm draped across him, and his daughter lying on his chest, patting at his face and drooling on his chest.

                      Close was here, in the one place he found he belonged.

[kusnow]

20210117 U Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea

20201005 월요일 Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea I remeber everything from when we first went together.

His hope and his confidence had never gone.

He was too simple to wonder when he had atteined humility.

20201006 T Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea. Once there had been a tinted photograph of his wife on the wall but he had taken it down because it made him too lonely to see it.

20201007 W Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea. Why do old men wake so early? is it to have one longer day?

he was asleep in a short time and he dreamed of Africa when he wa sa bdoy and the long golden beaches and the white beaches, so white they hurt your eyes, and high capes and the great brown mountains. He lived along that coast now every night and in his dreams he heard the surf roar and saw the native boats come riding through it. He smelled the tar and oakum of the deck as he slept and he smelled the smell of Africa that the land breeze brought at morning.

Usually when he smelled the land breeze he woke up and dressed to go and wkae the boy.

20201008 R Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea. he was shivering with the morning cold 그는 아침 추위에 몸을 떨고 있었다.

But he knew he would shiver himself warm and that soon he would be rowing. 하지만 그는 노를 젓기 시작하면 따뜻해질걸 알았다.

He was sleepy and the old man pu his arm across his shoulders and said, I am sorry. 그는 졸렸고 노인은 소년 어깨에 팔을 두루고 말했다. 미안하구나

"Que va" the boy said. 전혀요 it is what a man must do. 이거는 남자가 해야되는 거에요.

20201009 F Ernest. Hemingway. The old man and the sea. The sun rose thinly from the sea and the old man could see the other boats, low on the water and well in toward the shore, spread out across the current. Then the sun was brighter and the glare came on the water and then, as it rose clear, the flat sea sent it back at his eyes so that it hurts sharply and he rowed without looking into it.

20201011 U Eenest Hemingway. The old man and the sea. He watched his lines to see them go steatight down out of sight into the water and he was happy to see so much plankton because it meant fish. The strange light the sun made in the water, now that the sun was higher, meant good weather and so did the shape of the clouds over the land.

20201012 M Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea IF the others heard me talking out loud they would think that I am crazy, he said aloud. But since I am not crazy, I do not care. And the rich have radios to talk to them in their baots and to bring them the baseball.

20201013 T Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea This will kimm him, the old man thought. He can't do this forever. But four hours later the fish was still swimming steadily out to sea, towing the skiff, and the old man wasstill braced solidly with the lion across his back.

20201014 W Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea. That makes no difference, he thought. I can always come in on the glow from Havana. there ar ettwo more hours before teh sun sets and maybe he will come up before that . If he doesn't maybe hewil lcome up with hte moon. If he does not do that maybe he will come up with the sunrise. I have no cramps and I feel strong. It is he that has the hook in his mouth. But what a fish to pull like that. He must have his mouth shut tight on the wire.  Iwish I could see him.

20201015 R Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea When the sun had risen further the old man realized that the fish was not tiring. There was only one favorable sing. The slant of the line showed he was swimming at a lesser depth. That did not necessarily mean that he would jump. But he might

20201019 M Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea Fish he said. I love you and respect you very much,. But I will kill you dead before this day ends. Let us hope so, he thought

20201020 T Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea. He straightened up, wiping his hand on his trousers. Now he said. You can let the cord go, hand, and I will handle him with the right arm alone until you stop that nonsense. He put his left foot on the heavy line that the left hand held and lay back against the pull against his back.

20201021 W Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea. He is a great fish and I must convince him, he thought. I must never let him learn his strength nor what he could do if he mad his run. If i were him I would put in everything now and go until something broke. But thank God, they are not as intelligent as we who kill them; although they are more noble and more able.

20201025 U 4:53 PM Ernest Hemingweay. The old man and the sea. Once in the afternoon the line started to rise again. But the fish only continued to swim at a slightly higher level. The sun was on the old man's left arm and shoulder and on his back. So he knew the fish had turned east of north.

20201026 M 1:21 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea. Then he bagan to pity the great fish that he had hooked. He is wonderful and strange and who knows how old he is he though. Never have I had such a strong fish nor one who acted so strangely. Perhaps he is too wise to jump. He culd ruin me by jumping or by a wild rush

20201108 U 5:03 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea. He hasnt changed at all He said But waching the movement of the water against his hand he noted that it was perceptibly slower

20201110 T 3:12 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea He did not truly feel good because the pain from the cord across his back had almost passed pain and gone into a dullness that he mistrusted. But I have had worse thing sthan that, he thought. My hand is only cut a little and the cramp is gone from the other.

2020112 R 3:24 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea. He held teh light tight in his right hand and then pushed his thigh against his right hand as he leaned all his weight against the wood of the bow. then he passed the line a little lower on his shoulders and braced his left hand on it.

20201115 U 11:29 AM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea He could not see the fish's jumps but only heard the breaking of the ocean. and the heavy splash as he fell. The speed of the line was cutting his hands badly but he had always known this would happend and he tried to keep the cutting across the calloused parts and not elt the line slip into the palm nor cute the fingers

20201116 M 5:16 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea Why was I not born with two good hands? he thought. Perhaps it was my fault in not training that one properly. But God knows he has had enough chance sto learn. He did not do so badly in the night though

20201117 T 10:42 AM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea

It was a great temtptation to rest in the bow and let the fish make one circle by himself without reoering any line. but when the strain showed the fish had truned to come toward the boat, the old man rose to his feet and strated the pivoting and the seaving pulling that brought in all the line he gained.

20201118 W 11:53 AM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea But I must ge him close, close, close, he thought. I mustnt try for the head. I must get the heart. Be calm and strong, old man, he said On the next circle the fish's back was out but he was a little too far from the boat. On the next circle he was still too far away but he was higher out of water and the old man was sure that by gaining some more line he could have him alongside

2020119 R 2:18 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea He looked up at the sky and then out to his fish. He looked at the sun carefully. It is not much more than noon, he thought. And the grade wind is rising. The lines all mean nothing now. The boy and I will splice them when we are home

20201123 M 8:29 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea He could see the fish and he had only to look at his hands and feel his back against the stern to know that this had truly happened and was not a dream. At one time when he was feeling so badly toward the end, he had thought perhaps it was dream. Then when he had seen the fish come out of the water and hang motionless in the sky before he fell, he wa ssure there was some great strangeness and he could not believe it

20201126 R 11:49 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old mand and the sea The old man's head was clear and good now and he was full of resolution but he had little hope. It was too good to last, he thought. He took one look at the great fish as he watched the shark close in. It might as weel has been a dream, he thought. I cannot keep him from hittingme butmaybe I can get him. Dentuso, he thought. Bacd luck to your mother.

20201128 S 12:14 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea. He took about forty pounds. The old man said aloud. He took my harpoon too and all the rope, he thought, and now my fish bleeds again and there will be others

20201129 U 10:29 AM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea But he liked to think about all things that he was involved in and since there was nothing to read and he did not have a radio, he thought much and he kept on thinking about sin. You did not kill the fish only to keep alive and to seel for food, he thought. You killed him for pride an dbecause you aare a fisherman. You loved him when he was avlie and you loved him after .If you love him, it is not a sin to kill him. or is it more?

20201130 M 6:41 PM The old man withdrew the blade and puche the shark exactly in the same spot again. H still hung to the fish with his jaws hooked and the old man stabbed him in his left eye. The shark still hung there.

20201201 T 9:34 AM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea Now they have beaten me, he thought. I am too old to club sharks to death. But I will try it as long as I have the oars and the short club and the tiller.

20201202 W 1:27 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea He did not want to look at the fish. He knew that half of him had been destroyed. The sun had gone down while he had been in the fight with the sharks.

20201203 R 12:14 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea In the night sharks hit the carcass as someone might pick up crumbs from the table. The old man paid no attention to them and did not pay attention to anything except steering. He only noticed how lightly and how weel the skiff sailed now there was no great weight beside her

20201204 F 6:12 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea

it was then he knew the depth of his tiredness.

20201205 S 1:05 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea He was eighteen feet from nose to tail, the fisherman who was measuring called

20210117 U 4:04 PM Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea. He was still sleeping on his face and the boy was sitting by him watching him. The old man was dreaming about the lions

[howieabel]

“…Their former occupations are of mixed character – they are employed in picking oakum for His Majesty’s Dockyard.  The younger females are employed in carding, and spinning, and making stockings for the use of inmates; also plaiting of straw, and making hats and bonnets, for the girls and boys. The elder are employed in the internal economy of the house as Teachers, Nurses, cooks, washerwomen, seamstress etc…The sick, aged and impotent are accommodated in smaller apartments, and their diet is different; they are allowed, in most cases, tea, a better sort of beer; and, if ordered by the surgeon, wine or spirits…The inmates may be considered to embrace three classes; the destitute Infant Poor, who must out of necessity be inmates; the profligate, from disease and bad character; and the aged and impotent. The infant poor are looked after in the house by the mother or under a proper nurse.” - Portsea’s report on their workhouse population in London Road, Landport