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# The Best Of Friends Must Part

* information about this edition.
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[1st verse:] What's that you say? No work today? Done lost your job? Where is your pay? Been shooting dice? That's very nice Needn't apologize, I'm cold as ice Pack up your clothes Lord only knows You've been the cause of my troubles and woes Don't ask me why Too late to cry Just bid yourself goodbye
[Refrain:] A friend in need is a friend indeed That's just the kind of friend I've been to you When poverty smiled down on thee I hung around and stuck like glue It's a long long lane that has no turn You can never tell your finish when you start But when you find you can't make both ends meet Then the best of friends must part
[2nd verse:] Don't talk of love Just like a dove Can't eat the stars That shine above That stuff don't go You'd better blow Can't buy a meal with that lovin' you know I know it's hard On your old pard But I can't help that you played your last card Don't hesitate Evaporate Hunt up another mate
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1989, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 34 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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# The Best Shots

Extracted from Adventure magazine, June 10 1925, pg. 148
THE BEST SHOTS
by Raymond S. Spears
OF ALL rough-and-ready marksmen, I suggest that the Missouri Ozark mountaineers were the best in the United States. I speak especially of those in Taney, Christian and adjacent counties. Down to within twenty years, and probably to this day, the shooters there handled their revolvers better than any other district's gunmen that I ever heard of, individually and collectively.
From Missouri, probably, came the best marksmen of the West, from Kit Carson's boyhood onward. Kentuckians salted the Missouri wilderness with their own skill.
In that particular district, the one covered by the Bald Knobber clan, the shooting was with meticulous accuracy. Two men fought; one put his bullet through the other's head, and followed that bullet with two others so close together that a dollar covered them; this, while the victim was falling.
Courage was at the base of the accuracy. They never shot from ambush. No bushwhacker, acting the coward, could shoot as well as the brave man who faced his enemy in the open. When, at a church one night, two enemies met, one, who had the advantage of being in the shadow cast by the moon, sprang forth into the bright light before he drew his gun and thus, all fair and square and in the open, the two fought—and the man who would not shoot even from a shadow was killed.
The practise in that land was to ride past trees at top speed, and then shoot the trifling marks on the bark. Quantrill's riders, and the upshoot bands of James, Younger and Cook—general terms, covering most Indian Territory desperadoes—and other badmen, had shooting characteristics of the Ozarks.
Sporadic marksmanship appeared elsewhere; a few good men gave a whole lot of mediocre shooters fame. Occasional good or lucky shots made the reputation of second-rate marksmen, but, as a region, with revolvers and derringers, the Ozarks were as great as Kentucky riflemen at their best.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1950, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 73 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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# The Best Hundred Books/Sir John Lubbock's First List

I.—SIR JOHN LUBBOCK'S FIRST LIST.
(As Classified by the Pall Mall Gazette, Jan. 11, 1886.)
WE must begin by giving the list which we originally compiled from the report of Sir John Lubbock's lecture, and which formed the basis of the inquiries we addressed to our contributors. It is right, however, to say at once that Sir John Lubbock (to whose uniform courtesy we have been greatly indebted) wrote soon after our list had been published that he did not in his lecture mention quite the whole Hundred Best Books, of which he subsequently gave a complete list in the Contemporary Review. "I did, however," he added, "recommend 'Don Quixote' and Epictetus. I shall be glad also if you will allow me to observe that I excluded (1) works by living authors, (2) science, and (3) history, with a very few exceptions which I mentioned rather in their literary aspect."
Non-Christian Moralists.
Theology and Devotion
Classics.
Lucretius. Plutarch. Horace.
Epic Poetry.
Hesiod. Virgil. Niebelungenlied.
Eastern Poetry.
"Sheking" (Chinese Odes).
Greek Dramatists
History.
Herodotus.
Thucydides.
Philosophy.
Travels
Poetry and General Literature.
Shakespeare. Milton. Dante. Spenser. Scott. Wordsworth. Pope. Southey. Longfellow.
"The Arabian Nights."
Essayists:— Addison. Hume. Montaigne. Macaulay. Emerson.
Molière. Sheridan.
Modern Fiction.
Selections from— Thackeray. Dickens. George Eliot. Kingsley. Scott. Bulwer Lytton.
# The Best Thing in the World

What's the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Love, when, so, you're loved again. What's the best thing in the world? --Something out of it, I think.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Seeking of Content

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE SEEKING OF CONTENT
Sweet Content, at the rich man's gate, Called, “Wilt thou let me in?” “No! thou art poor and thou art not great, Hast nothing thy way to win. Here love is little and mighty is power; Fate may change in a wayward hour, A monarch's heart may grow weary of thought. What if his gold-bringing bees be caught, Or wake to the fact of their sting? He has all to lose, if nothing to gain, And his throne doth lean for support in the main On the different minds that have crowned him king In their summer of thinking: so, sorrow And winter may come with the morrow.”
Sweet Content, at the poor man's door. Called, “May I enter here?” “No! we bees of the golden store Are smothered with cold and fear. We rise ere the sun to delve and moil. We give our eyes with the midnight oil, Till the sight burns dim, till the wick's no more. To buy our masters a coach-and-four, To spatter us with the mire. If nothing to lose, we have all to win, To a heart's despair sin scarce seems sin— When hope dies out, maybe crime steals in. And patience may sometime grow sick and tire. The wearied bee may die on the wing, Or—God has given to each his sting.”
Sweet Content, at Death's black gates, Called, “Wilt thou take me in?” “Enter into the home of peace, Close my gates on good and sin. Shut on the poor man's rags my door, Shut on the rich man's coach-and-four. Nothing had man when life gave him breath. Nothing he takes past the gates of death Of the world's unequal paying. Save only the joys he fought self to resign. Only the sorrows, he did not repine. The sins that he stooped for, or passed, and Divine Is the justice that judges the weighing. What better reward for a tired life spent, Than thee for his bride, Content?”
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Rape of the Baron's Wine

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE RAPE OF THE BARON'S WINE
Who was stealing the Baron's wine, Golden sherry and port so old, Precious, I wot, as drops of gold? Lone to-night he came to dine,
Flung himself in his oaken chair, Kicked the hound that whined for bread; “God I the thief shall swing!” he said, Thrust his hand through his ruffled hair.
Bolt and bar and double chain Held secure the cellar door; And the watchman placed before, Kept a faithful watch in vain.
Every day the story came, “Master, come! I hear it drip!” The wine is wet on the robber's lip, Who the robber, none could name.
All the folk in County Clare Found a task for every day By the Baron's gate to stray. Came to gossip, stayed to stare.
Nothing here to satisfy Souls for tragedy awake; Just the castle by the lake. Calmest spot beneath the sky.
But the whispered story grew, When the Baron went to dine, That a devil shared his wine, Had his soul in danger too.
Every morn the Baron rose More morose and full of age; Passed the day in sullen rage, Barred his gates on friends or foes.
Lone to-night he came to dine, Struck the hound that asked a share, Heard a step upon the stair— “Come, the thief is at your wine!”
Baron of Killowen keep Running down the vaulted way. To the cellar dark by day, Took the ten steps at a leap.
There he listened with the throng Of frighted servants at the door, He heard the wine drip on the floor. And sea-mew's laughter loud and long.
Of oaken beam, of bolt and chain They freed the door, and crowded through, Their eyes a horror claimed in vain, Nor ghost nor devil met their view.
They searched behind the hogshead, where The watchful spider spied and span; They sighed to see the wine that ran A crimson torrent, wasting there.
They even searched the gloomy well That legend said rose from the lake; They saw bright bubbles rise and break, But nothing stranger here befell.
The Baron swore—the Baron said,
“Now all be gone, alone I'll stay,
There shall not rise another day
Without this thief, alive or dead.”
So still he stood, no sound was there.
But wasting wine fell drop and drip;
Save that, the silence seemed to slip
Its threatening fingers through his hair.
And then at last an echo flew,
The splash of waters thrown apart;
He cursed the beating of his heart
Because the thief was listening too.
The slipping scrape of scales he hears.
And sea-mew laughter, loud and sweet;
He dares not move his frightened feet.
His pulse beats with a thousand fears.
At that strange monster in the gloom
He points his pistol quick, and fires;
Before the powder spark expires
He hears a sea-bird's scream of doom.
He saw one gleam of foam-white arms.
Of sea-green eyes, of sloak brown hair;
He had a glance to find her fair.
When he had slain her thousand charms.
The Baron of Killowen slew
A strange sea-maiden, young and fair;
And all the folk in county Clare
Will tell you that the tale is true.
And when the Baron came to dine,
His guests could never understand.
That he should say, with glass in hand,
“I would the thief were at my wine!”
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Priest's Brother

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE PRIEST'S BROTHER
Thrice in the night the priest arose From broken sleep to kneel and pray. “Hush, poor ghost, till the red cock crows, And I a Mass for your soul may say.”
Thrice he went to the chamber cold, Where, stiff and still uncoffined, His brother lay, his beads he told, And “Rest, poor spirit, rest,” he said.
Thrice lay the old priest down to sleep Before the morning bell should toll; But still he heard—and woke to weep— The crying of his brother's soul.
All through the dark, till dawn was pale, The priest tossed in his misery, With muffled ears to hide the wail. The voice of that ghost's agony.
At last the red cock flaps his wings To trumpet of a day new-born. The lark, awaking, soaring sings Into the bosom of the morn.
The priest before the altar stands, He hears the spirit call for peace; He beats his breast with shaking hands. “O Father, grant this soul's release.
“Most Just and Merciful, set free From Purgatory's awful night This sinner's soul, to fly to Thee, And rest for ever in Thy sight.”
The Mass is over—still the clerk Kneels pallid in the morning glow. He said, “From evils of the dark Oh, bless me, father, ere you go.
“Benediction, that I may rest. For all night did the banshee weep.” The priest raised up his hands and blest— “Go now, my child, and you will sleep.”
The priest went down the vestry stair, He laid his vestments in their place, And turned—a pale ghost met him there, With beads of pain upon his face.
“Brother,” he said, “you have gained me peace. But why so long did you know my tears, And say no Mass for my soul's release. To save the torture of all those years?”
“God rest you, brother,” the good priest said, “No years have passed—but a single night.” He showed the body uncoffinèd. And the six wax candles still alight.
The living flowers on the dead man's breast Blew out a perfume sweet and strong. The spirit paused ere he passed to rest— “God save your soul from a night so long.”
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Rain

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE RAIN
This is the rhyme of the rain on the roof, Tears, all tears, slow falling tears— If this is the warp, then what is the woof? Flesh that sorrows and flesh that fears.
Ah! poor humanity, weeping sore, Guilt and sorrow, anger and shame. Oh I who could peace on this earth restore? Who shall punish and who shall blame?
Here where a God, loved much, was slain. Since He hath failed, then who can win? On the thirsting ground let them fall again, Tears of sorrow and tears of sin.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Scallop Shell

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE SCALLOP SHELL
A scallop shell, loosed by the lifting tide,
Had left a friendly shore, the seas to brave;
Its lips of pink and snowy hollow shone
Pure in the sun, a pearl upon the wave.
It gleamed and passed—you burdened it with love,
with sweet long futures, new and dreamy days:
And named for me—because I held your hopes.
I bid you hush—not meriting your praise.
I pointed, as your vessel came to shore,
Wrecked where the tiny breakers rose and fell;
And bid your voyagers not put to sea
So frail a craft as this poor scallop shell.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Skeleton in the Cupboard

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD
Just this one day in all the year Let all be one. let all be dear; Wife, husband, child in fond embrace, And thrust the phantom from its place. No bitter words, no frowning brow, Disturb the Christmas festal, now The skeleton's behind the door.
Nor let the child, with looks askance, Find out its sad inheritance From souls that held no happiness Of home, where love is seldom guest; But in his coming years retain This one sweet night that had no pain; The skeleton's behind the door.
In vain you raise the wassail bowl, And pledge your passion, soul to soul You hear the sweet bells ring in rhyme. You wreathe the room for Christmas-time In vain. The solemn silence falls, The death-watch ticks within the walls; The skeleton taps on the door.
Then let him back into his place, Let us sit out the old disgrace; Nor seek the phantom now to lay That haunted us through every day; For plainer is the ghost; useless Is this pretence of happiness; The skeleton taps on the door.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Question

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE QUESTION
Now here is where I fail to understand, And put my question in all reverence, On bended Imee with head most lowly bent, To the All-High, All-Knowing Providence.
A girl whose fate had left her widowed poor, with three small babes to shelter and direct. Rose to the burden, glad in her own strength, Of those young minds to be sole architect:
Up with the lark and singing with his song, Of hope and love, watched by her helpless brood, Toiled in the night when sdl but she had slept. And wore her soft hands rough to bring them food.
At each sweet morn she opened wide the door All to the sun, so that a golden ray Would pierce the gloom, and like a torch of flame Light up the bed where her three treasures lay.
Soft would she say, “See God's bright angel come To bless my babes and chase away the night”: Then would she bend, all hungry in her love. To kiss each waking child with new delight.
Each tender body she would robe with pride And awe unceasing at the beauties shown, In dimpled limb and cheek and silken hair, In all the loveliness she called her own.
Then with much laughter would she drive them forth From her small room until her work was done; Where she could watch from out the open door, And smile upon them playing in the sun.
One golden morn as she drove forth her brood Of pretty chicks to meet the coming day, She pointed where a mother throstle clung With three young birds upon a flow'ry spray.
And as she watched, from the blue air swept down A hawk, who for a dreadful moment still Swung in the air, as counting, one, two, three, Which frightened fledgling he would pounce to kill,
Then struck. She heard the mother's scream of rage, Who in her wild despair went flying high, Then dropt again beside the cowering two That still remained, with sad and piteous cry.
“So death might swoop,” the woman said, “on mine.” She kissed each babe and there let fall a tear: “My little ones, so tender and so weak.” Into her heart there came an endless fear.
Was Hugh too pale, was Una's cheek too red, Was Kathleen languid in her pretty play? “O Lord! O Father! keep my darlings safe,” She held the baby in her arms to pray.
And as she bent her down all full of prayer, Above the nest that held her pretty brood: To fold them close with her great mother's love And fill each little mouth that called for food,
Then did the Hawk a moment hover high Above the house, and swooping strike to kill No tender fledgling—ah! less easy spared, The mother fell to whet his cruel bill.
And I who passed and found the nest destroyed, And heard the hungry and affrighted cry Of each poor babe, beneath Death's cunning blow, Who struck the whole because the one did die:
“Wherefore this strange destruction having made, This contradiction of all Nature's ways?” I put my question to High Providence, And sUent knelt in pity and amaze.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Tempest

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE TEMPEST
Come, teasing wind, we will fly, Seek our heart's desire, you and I; Fit comrade for me, Thou breath of liberty, I sigh for the freedom of your wings. The sea will make us horses for our speed, The fields will give the perfume of their seed, In the woods a sweet rose blowing, We will scatter it in going, And bear the lark up sunward as he sings.
Go! we must part, you and I; Not this my heart's desire, so goodbye! Had I thought a moment's madness Had wrought so dire a sadness, My soul had never sorrowed for thy wings. What have the tossing waves found for their play? Have mercy, let the white face hide away! In the fields a harvest dead, In the woods life's promise fled. And the lark is blown seaward as he sings.
Far better you were sleeping, O my soul. Than that your coming forth a moment stole From another's heart its rest. Die you silent in my breast And seek in death that answer life denied: Lest a dying voice should curse instead of pray, Lest a heart should shadow, blighted of its May, Lest a soul glad of its night Should be plunged in gloom of night. Be in the World's seeing satisfied.
# The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter/The Storm

From The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter (1907).
THE STORM
They say it is the wind in midnight skies Loud shrieking past the window, that doth make Each casement shudder with its storm of cries, And the barred door with pushing shoulder shake.
Ah, no! ah, no! It is the souls pass by Their lot to run from earth to God's high place, Pursued by each black sin that death let fly From their sad flesh, to break them in their chase.
They say it is the rain from leaf to leaf Doth slip, and roll into the thirsting ground, That where the corn is trampled sheaf by sheaf The heavy sorrow of the storm is found.
Ah, no! ah, no! It is repentant tears By those let fall who make their direful flight, And drop by drop the anguish of their fears Comes down around us all the awful night.
They say that in the lightning-flash and roar Of clashing clouds the tempest is about, And draw their chairs the glowing hearth before, The casement close to shut the danger out.
Ah, no! The doors of Paradise, they swing A moment open for a soul nigh spent, Then come together till the thunder's ring Leaves us half blinded by God's element.
# The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night/El Feth Ben Khacan and The Khalif El Mutawekkil

First-level story, told by Shehrzad
EL FETH BEN KHACAN AND THE KHALIF EL MUTAWEKKIL.
The Khalif El Mutawekkil was once again taking medicine, and folk sent him all manner of presents and rarities. Amongst others, El Feth ben Khacan sent him a virgin slave, high-bosomed, of the fairest of women of her time, and with her a vase of crystal, containing red wine, and a goblet of red gold, whereon were graven in black the following verses:
When th’ Imam’s made an end of taking medicine And health and strength ensue to him thereon, in fine, There’s no medicament befits him but to drink, From out this cup, a draught of this decocted wine. And break the seal reserved to him, for this, indeed, Right salutary is, hard after medicine.
​Now the physician Youhenna was with the Khalif, when the damsel entered; and when he read the above verses, he smiled and said, ‘By Allah, O Commander of the Faithful, Feth is better versed than I in the art of medicine: so let not the Commander of the Faithful gainsay his prescription.’ Accordingly, the Khalif followed El Feth’s prescription and was made whole by the blessing of God.
* ↑ Tenth Abbaside Khalif, A.D. 849–861.
* ↑ Vizier and favourite of El Mutawekkil, killed A.D. 861 whilst endeavouring to defend the Khalif against the parricide El Muntesir.
* ↑ Virginitatem tollere.
* ↑ Johannes, a Greek physician in high favour with El Mutawekkil and others of the Abbaside Khalifs.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.