OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 2/March 1873/To A P Barnard

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* TO FREDERICK A. P. BARNARD.
The years are many since, in youth and hope, Under the Charter Oak, our horoscope We drew thick-studded with all-favoring stars. Now, with gray beards, and faces seamed with scars From life's hard battle, meeting once again, We smile, half sadly, over dreams so vain; Knowing, at last, that it is not in man Who walketh to direct his steps, or plan His permanent house of life. Alike we loved The Muses' haunts, and all our fancies moved To measures of old song. How, since that day, Our feet have parted from the path that lay So fair before us! Rich, from life-long search Of truth, within thy academic porch Thou sittest now, lord of a realm of fact, Thy servitors the sciences exact; Still listening, with thy hand on Nature's keys, To hear the Samian's spheral harmonies And rhythm of law. I, called from dream and song, Thank God! so early to a strife so long That, ere it closed, the black, abundant hair Of boyhood rested silver-sown and spare On manhood's temples, now at sunset chime Tread with fond feet the path of morning-time. And if perchance too late I linger where The flowers have ceased to blow, and trees are bare, Thou, wiser in thy choice, wilt scarcely blame The friend who shields his folly with thy name.
Amesbury, Mass., Tenth Month, 1870.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Jeäne

JEÄNE.
We now mid hope vor better cheer, My smilèn wife o’ twice vive year. Let others frown, if thou bist near  Wi’ hope upon thy brow, Jeäne; ​Vor I vu’st lov’d thee when thy light Young sheäpe vu’st grew to woman’s height; I loved thee near, an’ out o’ zight,  An’ I do love thee now, Jeäne.
An’ we’ve a-trod the sheenèn bleäde Ov eegrass in the zummer sheäde, An’ when the leäves begun to feäde  Wi’ zummer in the weäne, Jeäne; An’ we’ve a-wander’d drough the groun’ O’ swaÿèn wheat a-turnèn brown, An’ we’ve a-stroll’d together roun’  The brook an’ drough the leäne, Jeäne.
An’ nwone but I can ever tell Ov all thy tears that have a-vell When trials meäde thy bosom zwell,  An’ nwone but thou o’ mine, Jeäne; An’ now my heart, that heav’d wi’ pride Back then to have thee at my zide, Do love thee mwore as years do slide,  An’ leäve them times behine, Jeäne.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Jenny out vrom Hwome

JENNY OUT VROM HWOME.
O wild-reävèn west winds; as you do roar on,  The elems do rock an’ the poplars do ply, An’ weäve do dreve weäve in the dark-water’d pon’,—  Oh! where do ye rise vrom, an’ where do ye die?
O wild-reävèn winds I do wish I could vlee  Wi’ you, lik’ a bird o’ the clouds, up above The ridge o’ the hill an’ the top o’ the tree,  To where I do long vor, an’ vo’k I do love.
Or else that in under theäse rock I could hear,  In the soft-zwellèn sounds you do leäve in your road, Zome words you mid bring me, vrom tongues that be dear,  Vrom friends that do love me, all scatter’d abrode.
O wild-reävèn winds! if you ever do roar  By the house an’ the elems vrom where I’m a-come, Breathe up at the window, or call at the door,  An’ tell you’ve a-voun’ me a-thinkèn o’ hwome.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/John Bleäke at Hwome

JOHN BLEÄKE AT HWOME AT NIGHT.
No: where the woak do overspread, The grass begloom’d below his head, An’ water, under bowèn zedge, A-springèn vrom the river’s edge, Do ripple, as the win’ do blow, An’ sparkle, as the sky do glow; An’ grey-leav’d withy-boughs do cool, Wi’ darksome sheädes, the clear-feäced pool, ​My chimny smoke, ’ithin the lew O’ trees is there arisèn blue; Avore the night do dim our zight, Or candle-light, a-sheenèn bright, Do sparkle drough the window.
When crumpled leaves o’ Fall do bound Avore the wind, along the ground, An’ wither’d bennet-stems do stand A-quiv’rèn on the chilly land; The while the zun, wi’ zettèn rim, Do leave the workman’s pathway dim; An’ sweet-breath’d childern’s hangèn heads Be laid wi’ kisses, on their beds; Then I do seek my woodland nest, An’ zit bezide my vier at rest, While night’s a-spread, where day’s a-vled, An’ lights do shed their beams o’ red, A-sparklèn drough the window.
If winter’s whistlèn winds do vreeze The snow a-gather’d on the trees, An’ sheädes o’ poplar stems do vall In moonlight up athirt the wall; An’ icicles do hang below The oves, a-glitt’rèn in a row, An’ risèn stars do slowly ride Above the ruf’s upslantèn zide; Then I do lay my weary head Asleep upon my peaceful bed, When middle-night ha’ quench’d the light Ov embers bright, an’ candles white A-beamèn drough the window.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/In the Spring

Set to music by Ralph Vaughan Williams as “In the Spring”
IN THE SPRING.
My love is the maïd ov all maïdens,  Though all mid be comely, Her skin’s lik’ the jessamy blossom  A-spread in the Spring.
Her smile is so sweet as a beäby’s  Young smile on his mother, Her eyes be as bright as the dew drop  A-shed in the Spring.
O grey-leafy pinks o’ the geärden,  Now bear her sweet blossoms; Now deck wi’ a rwose-bud, O briar,  Her head in the Spring.
​O light-rollèn wind blow me hither,  The vaïce ov her talkèn, Or bring vrom her veet the light doust,  She do tread in the Spring.
O zun, meäke the gil’cups all glitter,  In goold all around her; An’ meäke o’ the deäisys’ white flowers  A bed in the Spring.
O whissle gaÿ birds, up bezide her,  In drong-waÿ, an’ woodlands, O zing, swingèn lark, now the clouds,  Be a-vled in the Spring.
An’ who, you mid ax, be my praïses  A-meäkèn so much o’, An’ oh! ’tis the maïd I’m a-hopèn  To wed in the Spring.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Ivy Hall

IVY HALL.
If I’ve a-stream’d below a storm,  An’ not a-velt the raïn, An’ if I ever velt me warm,  In snow upon the plaïn, ’Twer when, as evenèn skies wer dim, An’ vields below my eyes wer dim, I went alwone at evenèn-fall, Athirt the vields to Ivy Hall.
I voun’ the wind upon the hill,  Last night, a-roarèn loud, An’ rubbèn boughs a-creakèn sh’ill  Upon the ashes’ sh’oud; But oh! the reelèn copse mid groan; An’ timber’s lofty tops mid groan; The hufflèn winds be music all, Bezide my road to Ivy Hall.
A sheädy grove o’ ribbèd woaks,  Is Wootton’s shelter’d nest, An’ woaks do keep the winter’s strokes  Vrom Knapton’s evenèn rest. An’ woaks ageän wi’ bossy stems, An’ elems wi’ their mossy stems, Do rise to screen the leafy wall An’ stwonèn ruf ov Ivy Hall.
The darksome clouds mid fling their sleet,  An’ vrost mid pinch me blue, Or snow mid cling below my veet,  An’ hide my road vrom view. The winter’s only jaÿ ov heart, An’ storms do meäke me gaÿ ov heart, ​When I do rest, at evenèn-fall, Bezide the he’th ov Ivy Hall.
There leafy stems do clim’ around  The mossy stwonèn eaves; An’ there be window-zides a-bound  Wi’ quiv’rfen ivy-leaves. But though the sky is dim ’ithout, An’ feäces mid be grim ’ithout, Still I ha’ smiles when I do call, At evenèn-tide, at Ivy Hall.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Jenny's Ribbons

JENNY’S RIBBONS.
Jean ax’d what ribbon she should wear ’Ithin her bonnet to the feäir? She had woone white, a-gi’ed her when She stood at Meäry’s chrissenèn; She had woone brown, she had woone red, A keepseäke vrom her brother dead, ​That she did like to wear, to goo To zee his greäve below the yew.
She had woone green among her stock, That I’d a-bought to match her frock; She had woone blue to match her eyes, The colour o’ the zummer skies, An’ thik, though I do like the rest, Is he that I do like the best, Because she had en in her heäir When vu’st I walk’d wi’ her at feäir
The brown, I zaid, would do to deck Thy heäir; the white would match thy neck; The red would meäke thy red cheäk wan A-thinkèn o’ the gi’er gone; The green would show thee to be true; But still I’d sooner zee the blue, Because ’twer he that deck’d thy heäir When vu’st I walk’d wi’ thee at feäir.
Zoo, when she had en on, I took Her han’ ’ithin my elbow’s crook. An’ off we went athirt the weir An’ up the meäd toward the feäir; The while her mother, at the geäte, Call’d out an’ bid her not staÿ leäte, An’ she, a-smilèn wi’ her bow O’ blue, look’d roun’ and nodded, No.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Jessie Lee

JESSIE LEE.
Above the timber’s bendèn sh’ouds,  The western wind did softly blow; An’ up avore the knap, the clouds  Did ride as white as driven snow. Vrom west to east the clouds did zwim Wi’ wind that plied the elem’s lim’; Vrom west to east the stream did glide, A-sheenèn wide, wi’ windèn brim.
How feäir, I thought, avore the sky  The slowly-zwimmfen clouds do look; How soft the win’s a-streamèn by;  How bright do roll the weävy brook: When there, a-passèn on my right, A-walkèn slow, an’ treadèn light, Young Jessie Lee come by, an’ there Took all my ceäre, an’ all my zight.
Vor lovely wer the looks her feäce  Held up avore the western sky: An’ comely wer the steps her peäce  Did meäke a-walkèn slowly by: But I went east, wi’ beätèn breast, Wi’ wind, an’ cloud, an’ brook, vor rest, Wi’ rest a-lost, vor Jessie gone So lovely on, toward the west.
​Blow on, O winds, athirt the hill;  Zwim on, O clouds; O waters vall, Down mæshy rocks, vrom mill to mill;  I now can overlook ye all. But roll, O zun, an’ bring to me My day, if such a day there be, When zome dear path to my abode Shall be the road o’ Jessie Lee.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/In the Stillness o' the Night

IN THE STILLNESS O’ THE NIGHT.
Ov all the housen o’ the pleäce,  There ’s woone where I do like to call  By day or night the best ov all, To zee my Fanny’s smilèn feäce; An’ there the steätely trees do grow, A-rockèn as the win’ do blow, While she do sweetly sleep below,  In the stillness o’ the night.
An’ there, at evenèn, I do goo  A-hoppèn over geätes an’ bars,  By twinklèn light o’ winter stars, When snow do clumper to my shoe; An’ zometimes we do slyly catch A chat an hour upon the stratch, An’ peärt wi’ whispers at the hatch  In the stillness o’ the night.
An’ zometimes she do goo to zome  Young naïghbours’ housen down the pleäce,  An’ I do get a clue to treäce Her out, an’ goo to zee her hwome; An’ I do wish a vield a mile, As she do sweetly chat an’ smile Along the drove, or at the stile,  In the stillness o’ the night.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Jeäne's Weddèn Day in Mornèn

JEANE’S WEDDEN DAY IN MORNEN.
At last Jeäne come down stairs, a-drest Wi’ weddèn knots upon her breast, A-blushèn, while a tear did lie Upon her burnèn cheäk half dry; An’ then her Robert, drawèn nigh Wi’ tothers, took her han’ wi’ pride, To meäke her at the church his bride,  Her weddèn day in mornèn.
​Wi’ litty voot an’ beätèn heart She stepp’d up in the new light cart, An’ took her bridemaïd up to ride Along wi’ Robert at her zide: An’ uncle’s meäre look’d roun’ wi’ pride To zee that, if the cart wer vull, ’Twer Jenny that he had to pull,  Her weddèn day in mornèn.
An’ aunt an’ uncle stood stock-still, An’ watch’d em trottèn down the hill; An’ when they turn’d off out o’ groun’ Down into leäne, two tears run down Aunt’s feäce; an’ uncle, turnèn roun’, Sigh’d woonce, an’ stump’d off wi’ his stick, Because did touch en to the quick  To peärt wi’ Jeane thik mornèn.
“Now Jeäne’s agone,” Tom mutter’d, “we Shall mwope lik’ owls ’ithin a tree; Vor she did zet us all agog Vor fun, avore the burnèn log.” An’ as he zot an’ talk’d, the dog Put up his nose athirt his thighs, But coulden meäke en turn his eyes,  Jeäne’s weddèn day in mornèn.
An’ then the naïghbours round us, all By woones an’ twos begun to call, To meet the young vo’k, when the meäre Mid bring em back a married peäir: An’ all o’m zaid, to Robert’s sheäre, There had a-vell the feärest feäce, An’ kindest heart in all the pleäce,  Jeäne’s weddèn day in mornèn.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Jeäne o' Grenley Mill

JEÄNE O’ GRENLEY MILL.
When in happy times we met,  Then by look an’ deed I show’d, How my love wer all a-zet  In the smiles that she bestow’d. She mid have, o’ left an’ right, Maïdens feäirest to the zight; I’d a-chose among em still, Pretty Jeäne o’ Grenley Mill.
She wer feäirer, by her cows  In her work-day frock a-drest, Than the rest wi’ scornvul brows  All a-flantèn in their best. Gaÿ did seem, at feäst or feäir, Zights that I had her to sheäre; Gaÿ would be my own heart still, But vor Jeäne o’ Grenley Mill.
Jeäne—a-checkèn ov her love—  Leän’d to woone that, as she guess’d, Stood in worldly wealth above  Me she know’d she lik’d the best. He wer wild, an’ soon run drough All that he’d a-come into, Heartlessly a-treatèn ill Pretty Jeäne o’ Grenley Mill.
Oh! poor Jenny! thou’st a-tore  Hopèn love vrom my poor heart, Losèn vrom thy own small store,  All the better, sweeter peärt. Hearts a-slighted must vorseäke Slighters, though a-doom’d to break; I must scorn, but love thee still, Pretty Jeäne o’ Grenley Mill.
​Oh! if ever thy soft eyes  Could ha’ turn’d vrom outward show, To a lover born to rise  When a higher woone wer low; If thy love, when zoo a-tried, Could ha’ stood ageän thy pride, How should I ha’ lov’d thee still, Pretty Jeäne o’ Grenley Mill.
# Poems (Toke)/Sonnet (The earliest flower that comes the Spring to cheer)

March 1, 1842.
# Poems (Toke)/Sonnet (Mine own beloved, on this auspicious day)

Dover, October 6, 1843.
# Poems (Toke)/Sonnet (My children! as I watch from year to year)

March 19, 1843.
# Poems (Toke)/Sonnet (Oh! doubly hallowed was thy natal morn)

March 25, 1850.
# Poems (Toke)/Sonnet (Another birthday! oh, how fast each year)

October 6, 1845.
# Poems (Toke)/Sonnet (As from her grassy nest the skylark springs)

July 4, 1842,
# Poems (Toke)/Sonnet (Oh! gently breathe upon my languid brow)

April 11, 1850.
# Poems (Toke)/Sonnet (Our wedding day! how swift that sound can bring)

July 4, 1845.
# Poems (Toke)/Sonnet (The holiest name to woman's lot can fall)

February 28, 1837.
# Poems (Toke)/Sonnet (In health, or when beneath the feebleness)

October 6, 1847.
# Poetical Works of John Oldham/On the Death of Mrs. Katharine Kingscourt

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. KATHARINE KINGSCOURT,
A CHILD OF EXCELLENT PARTS AND PIETY.
SHE did, she did—I saw her mount the sky, And with new whiteness paint the galaxy.
Heaven her methought with all its eyes did view,
And yet acknowledged all its eyes too few.
Methought I saw in crowds blessed spirits meet,
And with loud welcomes her arrival greet,
Which, could they grieve, had gone with grief away,
To see a soul more white, more pure than they.
Earth was unworthy such a prize as this,
Only a while Heaven let us share the bliss;
In vain her stay with fruitless tears we'd woo,
In vain we'd court, when that our rival grew.
Thanks, ye kind powers! who did so long dispense
(Since you so wished her) with her absence thence:
We now resign, to you alone we grant
The sweet monopoly of such a saint;
So pure a saint, I scarce dare call her so,
For fear to wrong her with a name too low;
Such a seraphic brightness in her shined,
I hardly can believe her womankind.
'Twas sure some noble being left the sphere,
Which deigned a little to inhabit here,
And can't be said to die, but disappear.
Or if she mortal was, and meant to show
The greater skill by being made below,
Sure Heaven preserved her by the fell uncursed,
To tell how all the sex were formed at first.
Never did yet so much divinity
In such a small compendium crowded lie.
By her we credit what the learnèd tell,
That many angels on one point can dwell.
More damnèd fiends did not in Mary rest,
Than lodged of blessed spirits in her breast;
Religion dawned so early in her mind,
You'd think her saint whilst in the womb enshrined;
Nay, that bright ray which did her temples paint,
Proclaimed her clearly, while alive, a saint.
Scarce had she learned to lisp religion's name,
Ere she by her example preached the same,
And taught her cradle like the pulpit to reclaim.
No action did within her practice fall
Which for the atonement of a blush could call;
No words of hers e'er greeted any ear,
But what a dying saint, confessed, might hear.
Her thoughts had scarcely ever sullied been
By the least footsteps of original sin.
Her life did still as much devotion breathe,
As others do at their last gasp in death.
Hence, on her tomb, of her let not be said,
So long she lived, but thus—So long she prayed!
# Poetical Works of John Oldham/Paraphrase upon Horace—Book I Ode XXXI

PARAPHRASE UPON HORACE.
BOOK I. — ODE XXXI.
Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem Vates? &c.
1
WHAT does the poet's modest wish require?
What boon does he of gracious heaven desire?
Not the large crops of Esham's goodly soil,
Which tire the mower's and the reaper's toil;
Not the soft flocks on hilly Cotswold fed,
Nor Lempster fields with living fleeces clad;
He does not ask the grounds, where gentle Thames,
Or swifter Severn, spread their fattening streams,
Where they with wanton windings play,
And eat their widened banks insensibly away;
He does not ask the wealth of Lombard-street,
Which consciences and souls are pawned to get;
Nor those exhaustless mines of gold, Which Guinea and Peru in their rich bosoms hold.
2
On which indidgent nature ever smiles,
Take pleasure in their plenteous vintages,
And from the juicy grape its racy liquor press;
Let wealthy merchants, when they dine,
Run o'er their costly names of wine,
Their chests of Florence, and their Mont-Alchine,
Their Mants, Champagnes, Chablis, Frontiniacs tell,
Their aumes of Hock, of Backrach, and Moselle;
He envies not their luxury,
Which they with so much pains and danger buy;
For which so many storms and wrecks they bear, For which they pass the Straits so oft each year,
And 'scape so narrowly the bondage of Algier.
3
Nor dainties fetched from far to please his sense;
Cheap wholesome herbs content his frugal board,
The food of unfallen innocence,
Which the meanest village garden does afford;
Grant him, kind heaven, the sum of his desires,
What nature, not what luxury requires;
He only does a competency claim,
And, when he has it, wit to use the same.
Grant him sound health, impaired by no disease,
Nor by his own excess;
Let him in strength of mind and body live,
But not his reason, nor his sense survive;
His age (if age he e*er must live to see)
Let it from want, contempt, and care be free,
But not from mirth, and the delights of poetry.
Grant him but this, he's amply satisfied,
And scorns whatever fate can give beside.
# Poetical Works of John Oldham/Promising a Visit

PROMISING A VISIT.
SOONER may art, and easier far, divide
The soft embracing waters of the tide,
Which with united friendship still rejoin,
Than part my eyes, my arms, or lips from thine:
Sooner it may time's headlong motion force,
In which it marches with unaltered course,
Or sever this from the succeeding day,
Than from thy happy presence force my stay.
Not the touched needle (emblem of my soul)
With greater reverence trembles to its pole,
Nor flames with surer instinct upwards go,
Than mine, and all their motives tend to you.
Fly swift, ye minutes, and contract the space
Of time, which holds me from her dear embrace:
When I am there I'll bid you kindly stay,
I'll bid you rest, and never glide away.
Thither, when business gives me a release
To lose my cares in soft and gentle ease,
I'll come, and all arrears of kindness pay,
And live o'er my whole absence in one day.
Not souls, released from human bodies, move
With quicker haste to meet their bliss above,
Than I, when freed from clogs that bind me now,
Eager to seize my happiness, will go.
Should a fierce angel armed with thunder stand,
And threaten vengeance with his brandished hand,
To stop the entrance to my paradise,
I'll venture, and his slighted bolts despise.
Swift as the wings of fear shall be my love,
And me to her with equal speed remove;
Swift as the motions of the eye or mind,
I’ll thither fly, and leave slow thought behind!
# Poetical Works of John Oldham/Paraphrase upon Horace—Book II Ode XIV

PARAPHRASE UPON HORACE.
BOOK II. — ODE XIV.
Eheu fugaces Posthume, Posthume, Labuntur anni, &c.
1
ALAS! dear friend, alas! time hastes away,
Nor is it in our power to bribe its stay;
The rolling years with constant motion run,
Lo! while I speak, the present minute's gone,
And following hours still urge the foregoing on.
'Tis not thy wealth, 'tis not thy power,
'Tis not thy piety can thee secure;
They're all too feeble to withstand
Grey hairs, approaching age, and thy avoidless end. When once thy glass is run,
When once thy utmost thread is spun,
'Twill then be fruitless to expect reprieve;
Couldst thou ten thousand Kingdoms give
In purchase for each hour of longer life, They would not buy one gasp of breath, Not move one jot inexorable death.
2
Which now, like swarms of insects, crawl
Upon the surface of earth's spacious ball,
Must quit this hillock of mortality, And in its bowels buried lie.
The mightiest king, and proudest potentate
In spite of all his pomp, and all his state, Must pay this necessary tribute unto fate.
The busy, restless monarch of the world, which now
Keeps such a pother, and so much ado
To fill gazettes alive, And after in some lying annal to survive,
Even he, even that great mortal man must die,
And stink, and rot, as well as thou and I,
As well as the poor tattered wretch that begs his bread,
And is with scraps out of the common basket fed.
3
In vain do we escape
The sultry Line, and stormy Cape,
And all the treacheries of the faithless deep;
In vain for health to foreign countries we repair,
And change our English for Montpellier air,
In hope to leave our fears of dying there;
In vain with costly far-fetched drugs we strive
To keep the wasting vital lamp alive;
In vain on doctor's feeble art rely;
Against resistless death there is no remedy.
Both we and they, for all their skill, must die,
And fill alike the bead-rolls of mortality.
4
And leave thy house, thy wife, and family behind;
Thou must thy fair and goodly manors leave,
Of these thy trees thou shalt not with thee take,
Save just as much as will thy coffin make;
Nor wilt thou be allowed of all thy land, to have
But the small pittance of a six-foot grave.
Then shall thy prodigal young heir
Lavish the wealth, which thou for many a year
Hast hoarded up with so much pains and care;
Then shall he drain thy cellars of their stores,
Kept sacred now as vaults of buried ancestors;
Shall set the enlargèd butts at liberty,
Which there close prisoners under durance lie, And wash these stately floors with better wine Than that of consecrated prelates when they dine.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 24

Scans
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# Popular Mechanics/Volume 49/Issue 2

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Nothing from this particular issue has been transcribed yet - you can help by proofreading some pages! (transcription project)
* Battling for Life in a Blue-Black Sky
* Cooking a Steak in Thirty Seconds
* When Radio Comes by Wire
* The Bottom of the World by J. Olin Howe
* True Stories of Sea Tragedies by Harold T. Wilkins
* Thrilling Dog Races of the North by Earle W. Gage
* Guardians of the Ghost Camps by Kathleen Caesar
* The Flea Circus by Earl Chapin May
* Man Made Wings Change World's Face by J. Earle Miller
* The Ways of a Waterspout by Calvin Frazer
* Digging for Diamonds by Rene Bache
* Unveiling of the Mysteries of Pagan Magic by W. T. Harold
* Fame and Fortune Awaiting Inventors
* Leather from the Sea by Hamilton M. Wright
* Tricks and Twists with Paper by Sam Brown
* Simple B-Eliminator for Direct Current
* Popular Mechanics Screen-Grid Special by Frank L. Brittin
* Helpful Hints from Radio Experts
* Fun on the Ice with a Motor Wheel by Lawrence B. Robbins
* Build This Model of Flying Cloud by James Tate
* Artistic Homemade Vases by Dick Hutchinson
* How to Burn Coke in Stove or Furnace by J. S. Hagans
* You Can Make This Colonial Spinning Wheel by E. M. Love
* Repairing Broken Laundry Tubs by R. H. Kasper
* Is This Your Home?
Popular Mechanics also includes many small articles. These are included at the end of each of the above featured articles.