Today's Stichomancy for Italo Calvino

had appeared in modern times. He was never tired of looking at it, and even held a council with Eva on the expediency of getting it framed, to hang up in his room. Nothing but the difficulty of arranging it so that both sides of the page would show at once stood in the way of this undertaking.

The friendship between Tom and Eva had grown with the child's growth. It would be hard to say what place she held in the soft, impressible heart of her faithful attendant. He loved her as something frail and earthly, yet almost worshipped her as something heavenly and divine. He gazed on her as the Italian sailor gazes on his image of the child Jesus,--with a mixture of

Uncle Tom's Cabin

door, and sat down. He was horribly afraid of rats, so he did not try to sleep, but sat looking distrustfully at the dark, still terrified lest he might have awakened his father. In such reactions, after one of the experiences which made days and nights out of the dreary blanks of the calendar, when his senses were deadened, Paul's head was always singularly clear. Suppose his father had heard him getting in at the window and had come down and shot him for a burglar? Then, again, suppose his father had come down, pistol in hand, and he had cried out in time to save himself, and his father had been horrified to think how nearly he had killed him? Then, again, suppose a day should come

The Troll Garden and Selected Stories

The last alive of Vaiau; and the son borne by the sire. The post glowed in the grain with ulcers of eating fire, And the fire bit to the blood and mangled his hands and thighs; And the fumes sang in his head like wine and stung in his eyes; And still he climbed, and came to the top, the place of proof, And thrust a hand through the flame, and clambered alive on the roof. But even as he did so, the wind, in a garment of flames and pain, Wrapped him from head to heel; and the waistcloth parted in twain; And the living fruit of his loins dropped in the fire below.

About the blazing feast-house clustered the eyes of the foe, Watching, hand upon weapon, lest ever a soul should flee,

Ballads

"Some water and broth." "How use the water?" "I'll wash some cloth. "What will you make?" "I'll make a bag." "And what put in it?" "A knife and a rag." "What is the knife for?" "To kill your lambs." "What have they done?" "They've eaten my yams."