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The Life Treasury of American Folklore.

This section tells how, in Longfellow's poem Evangeline, her life long search for her lover, Gabriel, who was lost to her at age 14 when the British military exiled them along with their their whole French Canadian village of Arcadia to Louisiana ends as she at last finds him there dying of old age.

In the rest of this picture, she has bare feet showing beneath the hem that stops somewhere below mid-calf. In the far back ground there is a sort of canoe with 4 mountain men paddling along the bayou. There is a large butterfly hovering in the foreground above the area of her mid-thigh. The caption reads, "The real Evangeline lies hopelessly insane by a Louisiana bayou after finding her long-lost lover, Louis Arceneaux, not gray and dying, as in Longfellow's poem, but engaged to another woman." The author has included a short story he says is (They keep causing a space bar malfunction that causes a delay in the entry of the letters. They used to do this several years ago at the Anderson library to the point I couldn't continue. Here, they are only doing it momentarily and sporadically. One of them sneezed at me several times as I wrote this parenthesis. They were very cruel to me yesterday all day and even violently woke me several times during the night.) is the "true story" which tells how when she found him not so many years later, he told he was married but the words "From that moment until her death...Emmeline was hopelessly insane." makes it seem like a dramatic embellishment the DSM probably wouldn' support. It does sound a little like Ophelia and Ariadne, though, and both of those are absolutely, unequivocally, unquestionably so. (The bland faced police officer more slender coughed softly twice. A student aged male with wire rim glasses and short, brown brushed back hair can and frantically did something at the computer next to me then left with quick strides and sweeping his head left and right.

I didn't really intend to copy anything from this book. There were two other tales that caught my eye but I had decided they were both too bloody. One tells about a "Tom Quick the Indian slayer" who managed to kill 7 Indians who attacked him as he was alone in the woods splitting rails by tricking them into putting their hands in a partially split log (They're causing the malfunction to grow worse. A male voice coughed at me from across the carrel. I think It's the distant Michael. He seems to have a special hatred for me. For all the years I have known Michael, they have presented him as the foil at the most painful and distressing of moments.) then knocking the wedge out crushing ther hands in the log which held them helpless as he killed them all with an ax. The picture shows the grimacing, struggling Indians all painted and bare chested, dressed in feathers, breech clouts and moccasins with the grinning Tom Quick standing over them and grinning as he holds the ax in front of himself with the blade turned up. There is a shaved head marine next to me who has been sporadically distracting me all afternoon. He just got up quickly and walked around to my left---he's sitting to my right---and started talking loudly in a cell phone with a catbird smile and several changes of facial expression affecting a kind of innocence ore something. throat clear from the direction of the perhaps distant Michael.

The other was the the story of a blackmith who after the British military killed his wife and child and burned his house, joined the revolutionary war battle at Brandywine Bridge where he "crushed English skulls as fast as he could swing a huge hammer.", the tool of his trade, I guess. It says that with each fatal blow he called out the name of his wife until, weakened with wounds he climbed as a last resort into a cherry tree where as he killed 3 more men before he himself died, he called out for the first "George Washington", for the second, "Mad Anthony Wayne" and the last, "Mary". (cough cough, cough cough, cough cough, cough cough, all from the same male behind me at a distance.)

I started to wonder who Mad Anthony Wayne is and what and where the Neversink River, the river where Tom Quick the Indian Slayer was splitting rails. I spent all day trying to research it out and one thing lead to another.

The Neversink river is in south eastern New York Sate, Sullivan County, and runs into the Delaware around where it forms a border between New York, Pennsylvania and New Jersey as it makes a turn to flow south toward Delaware Bay.

It's also the name of a township in Sullivan county, one founded in 1798 and moved later on as New York City proclaimed eminent domain to build two reservoirs [[[[cough cough, cough cough way back there and a distant Michael. I think, throat clear. I saw him sitting down over there a moment ago but he may have just arrived. female throat clear and the distant co

Needle to thread. Scythe to wheat. Foot to pedal. Hammer and
sickle. Work, work, work. She has three sisters. At dusk she drinks tea.
From the silver belly of a samovar. In the dark she drinks vodka. She
takes a lover who smells of fresh meat and the pines. The hunt is on
him, like his tongue on the crest of her sex. Like the little forest of
white down on her breasts. On the nape of her neck. A hunger
grows. Grows inside her. Note: She is not hungry for him. He is a
symptom of that hunger. An empty cup she could keep replenishing. A
clue: bread crust, apple core, chicken bone. Wishbone. Knowing three
languages is a useless luxury in this town. A sort of unwanted
appendage. A sixth finger. She can’t remember the Italian for
window. She climbs the ceilings. The water spouts. She eats
strawberries, using her lips like a blind girl uses her fingers. Little
match girl. Little lamb. Little shoe. Black boot. Achoo. A little red
wine? Red Riding Hood. All the better to see you with. To read you
with, my dear. Follow. Over the river. Through the woods. To the sea.
Knees deep in the salty water. To the island of Crete. To Tunis. To
Florence. To Russia. To Moscow. Finally. Finally, you say, to Moscow.
She will arrive on that page. That splendid stage of trajectory. Of
destiny. Destination. She is splendid. Sexy. Oh baby. She is Little
Miss Adjective. She will wear her best black dress. Sings a soft song
when she walks. Syllables of silk, of organza and tulle say hush, we
are almost at "The End." She wears a veil of Swiss lace. Real, they said
about the lace she was wearing. Little accents, little umlauts, tiny
apostrophes like snowflakes sting her cheeks. She does not blush.
She makes the sign of the cross. She makes a date. With hunger.
With the great black cloak of a train. But this time she doesn’t lie
down. She refuses to make her bed. To spill her blood like children.
She doesn’t set herself on fire. She won’t sign her name or spell you
her secrets. She won’t uncross her legs. She opens her mouth
instead. She opens her mouth and she. She eats. She eats it all:
porters, nannies with babies, the tracks, the coal, the iron, the ore. She
dines for pages, for chapters. Eating paper, drinking the sweet black
ink, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. Then she eats her best black
dress and so she is naked. And so she is huge. And it is you, it is you
she is holding like an open book, well-loved, in her hands.

- Eve Alexandra, Heroine