Today's Stichomancy for B. F. Skinner

be insensible to the voice of a reproving conscience. He was, of all the overseers, the most dreaded by the slaves. His presence was painful; his eye flashed confusion; and seldom was his sharp, shrill voice heard, without producing horror and trembling in their ranks. Mr. Gore was a grave man, and, though a young man, he indulged in no jokes, said no funny words, seldom smiled. His words were in perfect keeping with his looks, and his looks were in perfect keeping

The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass: An American Slave

IX

Villa Serbelloni, Bellaggio

The fountain shivers lightly in the rain, The laurels drip, the fading roses fall,

RIVERS TO THE SEA

The marble satyr plays a mournful strain That leaves the rainy fragrance musical.

Oh dripping laurel, Phoebus sacred tree, Would that swift Daphne's lot might come to me, Then would I still my soul and for an hour Change to a laurel in the glancing shower.

and the Colonel for three years past. I ascribed this unconcern to Italian manners, or to some domestic secret; yet there was in the man's countenance one feature which always filled me with involuntary distrust. His under lip, which was thin and very restless, turned down at the corners instead of turning up, and this, as I thought, betrayed a streak of cruelty in a character which seemed so phlegmatic and indolent.

"As you may suppose the conversation was not very sparkling when I went in. My weary comrades ate in silence; of course, they asked me some questions, and we related our misadventures, mingled with reflections on the campaign, the generals, their mistakes, the