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Published by Basileae, in officina Frob. About this Item: Basileae, in officina Frob. Fresco e nitido esemplare. L'autore, Michele Riccio o Michael Ritius, giureconsulto e ambasciatore napoletano, nato nel e morto nel , fu discepolo di Pietro Summonte. Ferdinando I lo nomin avvocato del Real patrimonio. Moncada "Una biblioteca siciliana" n. Seller Inventory More information about this seller Contact this seller 2.
Published by In fine: Basileae, apud Ioannem Frobenium, , Condition: molto buono. Titolo entro bordura silogr. Dedica di Giano Parrasio all'autore ed altra di questi a Guido, cancelliere di Francia, ambedue datate ''ottobre '', anno della morte dell'autore. Seconda edizione la prima Parigi, Ascensius, di quest'opera molto rara che ''raccoglie pubblicazioni fatte dall'autore negli anni precedenti, tra le quali ricordiamo ''De regibus napolitanis'' stampata a Milano nel per J. De Castellonio'' cfr. Moncada Lo Giudice, Una biblioteca siciliana, n.
L'autore napoletano fu consigliere del Re di Francia Luigi XII e l'opera fu utilizzata nelle varie raccolte storiche dei paesi ai quali essa si riferisce. But it was a matter of economics. I am by nature a bargain shopper and the big bag worked out to eight cents per pop while the smaller bag worked out to twelve cents per pop.
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Now that I have fully rationalized that, while enjoying a grape one as I type, on to other matters. Halloween decorations are just plain fun. Pumpkins and witches and black cats and haunted houses and lit-up spooky little trees adorned with bats and ghosts!
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Stop me before I get to my favorite part, the costumes! Not quick enough! We have a strict code of creating our costumes conceived and planned in our own evil little minds! I am almost embarrassed to admit that I have a closet full of costumes. Almost being the key word. My friend Sandy says that I have more clothes in my costume closet than she has in her regular clothes closet.
I haven't done an actual count but I'm certain she's exaggerating.
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Over the years I have created a number of pretty darned cool costumes and not just for Halloween, how could I limit myself to dressing up just once a year? I have classics like the French Maid, various hippie outfits, scarecrow, witch, Peter Pan, Viking, pirate, and totes of odd accessories and pieces of clothing for free-form dressing up. Several years ago I whipped up the most excellent devil costumes for my husband and myself. Once we were in them including red make-up, capes, and pointy tails, we were truly unrecognizable.
We partied in the bars downtown completely incognito. We shot a couple of games of pool with people we knew and they didn't know it was us! The idle thoughts went on and on.
He felt sleepy, yet he could not sleep. And by and by the glimmering oblong of the unglazed window kept him watching the slow growth of light. Out on the hills, the still dawn must be stepping softly so as not to waken the world too soon The mere thought of it was sufficient to rouse him thoroughly. He rose, passed to the window, and thrust his young body into the chill air of dawn. All shadow! A deeper shadow in the valley, a lighter shadow in the encircling hills, and above it all the clear, grey, pellucid shadow of the sky.
That was the dawn cry of the wild fowl on the marsh and he held his breath to listen like the young Narcissus, while the whole joy of splendid life seemed to fill his world once more. He did not realise--few humans do--that he was but listening for the echo of himself; the self which came back to him from sights and sounds, that many a better man might have seen and heard unmoved. So he waited and watched till the eastern sky showed pale primrose, and the unseen sun encarnadined the distant snows, and separated the white morning mists from the blue shadows of the hills.
It was a new day, and yonder over the brow of the road were pennons and lance-points. The tribesmen were coming to bury the dead, to do homage to the living. It was a busy day, filled up with long-drawn, intricate ceremonial. Bare time for more than one tight clasp of tearless mother and tearless son, while that Dearest-One, his sister, stood by silent, the tear-stains still on her cheeks.
“I Do-Over: Confessions of a Recalcitrant Bridesmaid” by Michele Riccio | carolkean
But that did not matter; those three understood each other. And he did what he could, though it was a strain upon his twelve young years, for the long night had left him feverish and the long day with its need for initiative had outwearied him. So that when at last the ordeal was over, and he was free to seek the women's apartments for rest, his nerves were all a-rack, his pulse fast and irregular. He found his grandmother alone by the big coal fire. Mother and sister, outwearied also, had gone to bed; the best place, the old lady said oracularly, for sore eyes and broken hearts. And Babar felt it was better so.
The company of the stern-featured, soft-hearted old woman of whose sagacity and clear-sightedness he stood somewhat in awe, would be more bracing than the tears which must come sooner or later. People said he was like his grandmother. Was he, he wondered, as he lay prone on the sheepskin rug watching the firelight on her fine old face.
Such tales do to stir phlegm. They are not meet when the humours are already disturbed. Feel mine, Grandam--how it beats! Babar's face showed obstinate yet whimsical. And Kings are not to be coerced, see you, by black draughts, as mere boys are. And 'tis the first boon I have asked from thee-- as I am. The ring of almost apprehension in the last words was too much for the old woman, who loved the lad as the apple of her eye.
She laid her hand caressingly on the boy's hair. It was cut, Florentine fashion, to the ears, and the ends, outsweeping in a gentle curve were sun-burned browner than the rest of the dark head. He was a bold, brave man, was my lord, and like all bold, brave ones, he fought sometimes and won, and sometimes he fought and lost.
Zahir-ud-din Mahomed! And once when he lost, his women--I was one--fell into the hands of Jaimal Shaikh, his enemy. And he--low-bred hound who knew not the first principles of politeness! Wherefore not? But when that was over, and we withdrew smiling to the inner room, my maids locked the door by my orders, stabbed the silly rake to death and flung his be-scented body through the window to the gutter.
The old voice which had gained strength and fire in the recital, dropped to cold, hard finality. Therefore I slew him. Slay me also, if so it pleases thee. They are one flesh indeed. Now, get thee to thy bed, child, and see thou take the draught without demur. Remember 'God is no maker of the promise breaker. Babar made a wry face and laughed. I can see thy would-be lover in the gutter and my esteemed grandmother, all beautiful as a bride, peeking through the lattice for a glimpse of his corpse--".
And that night Zahir-ud-din Mahomed commonly called Babar, forgot that he was King in sound, dreamless, boyish sleep. The former, bluff, honest, facetious, a pious, faithful, religious Moslem who carefully abstained from forbidden meats and drinks, and whose judgment and talents were uncommonly good though he could neither read nor write, was for the forward policy. Hussan, polished, active, a man of courage who wrote excellent verses and was remarkable for his skill in playing polo and leap-frog, was for diplomacy.
At least in young Babar's judgment. Is a man the worse for doing all things well? It was green and violet, his favourite colours, and she was scrolling a text on it in crinkled gold. As she sat in the sunshine on the flat roof of the citadel, her bare head gleaming brown in the glare of light, her mourning garment of dark blue short in the sleeves and low at the neck showing her wheat-coloured skin, she was a pretty creature, though her nose was too long, her chin too short for real beauty: that lay in her eyes, amber-tinted like her brother's.
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