bluuebunny/crossref_metadata_2025_split huggingface dataset:
Conquest
Authors: Kenny Kevin 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
The great Easton conference opened on October 8, 1758, with more than 500 representatives from thirteen Indian nations, including each of the Six Nations, in attendance. George Croghan represented Sir William Johnson, and Conrad Weiser and Henry Montour were the principal interpreters for Pennsylvania. Teedyuscung was there with his Wyoming Delawares, supported by Israel Pemberton Jr. and other members of the Friendly Association. More significantly, the western Delawares were represented by Pisquetomen and an Indian named Thomas Hickman, who had joined the return party from Kushkushkee after the negotiations there.
Under the Tyrant’s Foot
Authors: Kenny Kevin 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
“To govern is absolutely repugnant to the avowed principles of Quakers,” wrote the author of a minor pamphlet in 1764. “To be govern’d is absolutely repugnant to the avowed principles of Pr[esbyteria]ns.” What hope was left, then, for Pennsylvania? Supporters of the Paxton Boys blamed the Conestoga massacres on the Quaker party’s inability or unwillingness to provide adequate defense, an elementary obligation of any government. Critics of the Paxton Boys, by contrast, saw the massacres and the march on Philadelphia as proof of proprietary incompetence and Presbyterian fanaticism. For Benjamin Franklin and his allies the solution was to place Pennsylvania under direct royal government. The stage was set for a political showdown.1
The Velvet Glove
Authors: Thompson Gordon 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Our experiences as listeners shape our expectations of the “authentic” such that the aural environment of a recording constitutes a constructed acoustic space. Producers sculpt this reality. At the height of the beat boom, two broad types of record producers ruled Britannia’s wave of recordings. On the one hand, salaried corporate producers labored for Decca, EMI, and Pye. On the other, independent producers licensed recordings to the corporations. The term “producer” was also relatively new in late 1950s London, such that journalist Tony Brown (1958: 3) described them as the “men who manipulate the vocal puppets on the record scene.” Moreover, he asserted, “their influence cannot be doubted. The Artists and Repertoire Manager is the most consulted—and the most insulted—man in pop music.” Through much of the era, the first wave of professionals tended to use “artists and repertoire manager” to describe what they did, with “producer” coming to predominate by the late sixties. Independents tended to call themselves producers, as distinct from the corporate “managers” who preceded them. Here, we will use “producers” broadly to describe the role in the sixties and “artists and repertoire managers” when referencing their historical origins.
The Write Stuff
Authors: Thompson Gordon 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
The songwriters who gravitated to London’s Denmark Street in the sixties differed from the previous generation in that many primarily intended their songs for recording rather than for the theater. Indeed, one of the remarkable changes to take place in this era—the demise of sheet music as an important measure of a song’s popularity—represented only a symptom of deeper differences. In the early 1950s, the New Musical Express routinely printed a ranking of sheet music sales, but by the mid-sixties, the weekly paper had dropped this measure of success. As the decade lurched forward, the paper’s list of the top-selling singles grew longer and eventually a ranking of long-playing records (LPs) joined it.
Please Please Me
Authors: Thompson Gordon 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
On 11 September 1962, when Andy White set up his drum kit in EMI’s studio two, he had heard of the band he was about to assist, knew of their popularity in Liverpool, and had an inkling that the session might be interesting, if routine. His real musical loves lay in jazz and in the traditional rhythms of Scottish pipe bands, but he had also developed an instinctual feel for pop music, which made him a natural for this session.
Mary Barber (1685–1755)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
On seeing an Officer’s Widow distracted, who had been driven to Despair by a long and fruitless Solicitation for the Arrears of her Pension
O wretch! Hath madness cured thy dire despair? Yes—All thy sorrows now are light as air:
No more you mourn your once loved husband’s fate, Who bravely perished for a thankless state.
For rolling years thy piety prevailed;
At length, quite sunk—thy hope, thy patience failed. Distracted now you tread on life’s last stage,
Nor feel the weight of poverty and age:
How blest in this, compared with those whose lot Dooms them to miseries, by you forgot!
Now, wild as winds, you from your offspring fly, Or fright them from you with distracted eye; Rove through the streets; or sing, devoid of care, With tattered garments and dishevelled hair;
By hooting boys to higher frenzy fired,
At length you sink, by cruel treatment tired, Sink into sleep, an emblem of the dead,
A stone thy pillow, the cold earth thy bed.
O tell it not; let none the story hear,
Lest Britain’s martial sons should learn to fear: And when they next the hostile wall attack, Feel the heart fail, the lifted arm grow slack;
And pausing cry—’Though death we scorn to dread, Our orphan offspring, must they pine for bread?
See their loved mothers into prisons thrown, And, unrelieved, in iron bondage groan?’
Britain, for this impending ruin dread;
Their woes call loud for vengeance on thy head: Nor wonder, if disasters wait your fleets;
Nor wonder at complainings in your streets. Be timely wise; arrest th’ uplifted hand,
Ere pestilence or famine sweep the land.
Matthew Green (1696–1737)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
from “The Spleen. An Epistle to Mr. C J
First know, my friend, I do not mean To write a treatise on the Spleen;
Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse; Nor mend th’alarum watch, you pulse. If I am right, your question lay,
What course I take to drive away
The day-mare Spleen, by whose false pleas Men prove mere suicides in ease;
And how I do myself demean In stormy world to live serene.
When by its magick lantern Spleen
With frightful figures spreads life’s scene, And threat’ning prospects urg’d my fears, A stranger to the luck of heirs;
Reason, some quiet to restore,
Shew’d part was substance, shadow more; With Spleen’s dead weight tho’ heavy grown, In life’s rough tide I sunk not down,
But swam, till Fortune threw a rope, Buoyant on bladders fill’d with hope.
I always choose the plainest food To mend viscidity of blood.
Hail! water-gruel, healing power, Of easy access to the poor;
Thy help love’s confessors implore, And doctors secretly adore;
To thee I fly, by thee dilute—
Thro’ veins my blood doth quicker shoot, And by swift current throws off clean Prolifick particles of Spleen.
Anonymous (published 1751)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Strip Me Naked, or Royal Gin for Ever. A Picture
I must, I will have gin!–that skillet take, Pawn it.—No more I’ll roast, or boil or bake. This juice immortal will each want supply; Starve on, ye brats! So I but bung my eye.
Starve? No! This gin ev’n mother’s milk excels, Paints the pale cheeks, and hunger’s darts repels. The skillet’s pawned already? Take this cap; Round my bare head I’ll yon brown paper wrap. Ha! Half my petticoat was torn away
By dogs (I fancy) as I maudlin lay.
How the wind whistles through each broken pane! Through the wide-yawning roof how pours the rain! My bedstead’s cracked; the table goes hip-hop.— But see! The gin! Come, come, thou cordial drop!
Thou sovereign balsam to my longing heart! Thou husband, children, all! We must not part!
Drinks Delicious! O! Down the red lane it goes; Now I’m a queen, and trample on my woes.
Inspired by gin, I’m ready for the road;
Could shoot my man, or fire the King’s abode.
Ha! My brain’s cracked.—The room turns round and round; Down drop the platters, pans: I’m on the ground.
My tattered gown slips from me.—What care I? I was born naked, and I’ll naked die.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
The Suicide’s Argument
Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no No question was asked me—it could not be so! If the life was the question, a thing sent to try And to live on be YES; what can NO be? to die.
Nature’s Answer:
Is’t returned, as ‘twas sent? Is’t no worse for the wear? Think first, what you ARE! Call to mind what you WERE! I gave you innocence, I gave you hope,
Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope, Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair?
Make out the invent’ry; inspect, compare! Then die—if die you dare!
The Pains of Sleep
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, It hath not been my use to pray
With moving lips or bended knees; But silently, by slow degrees,
My spirit I to Love compose,
In humble trust mine eye-lids close, With reverential resignation,
No wish conceived, no thought exprest, Only a sense of supplication;
A. Mary F. Robinson (1857–1944)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Neurasthenia
I watch the happier people of the house
Come in and out, and talk, and go their ways; I sit and gaze at them; I cannot rouse
My heavy mind to share their busy days.
I watch them glide, like skaters on a stream, Across the brilliant surface of the world.
But I am underneath: they do not dream
How deep below the eddying flood is whirl’d.
They cannot come to me, nor I to them;
But, if a mightier arm could reach and save, Should I forget the tide I had to stem?
Should I, like these, ignore the abysmal wave?
Yes! in the radiant air how could I know How black it is, how fast it is, below?
Edward Thomas (1878–1917) Melancholy
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Melancholy
The rain and wind, the rain and wind, raved endlessly. On me the Summer storm, and fever, and melancholy Wrought magic, so that if I feared the solitude
Far more I feared all company: too sharp, too rude, Had been the wisest or the dearest human voice. What I desired I knew not, but whate’er my choice Vain it must be, I knew. Yet naught did my despair
But sweeten the strange sweetness, while through the wild air All day long I heard a distant cuckoo calling
And, soft as dulcimers, sounds of near water falling, And, softer, and remote as if in history,
Rumours of what had touched my friends, my foes, or me.
Rain
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks For washing me cleaner than I have been Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon: But here I pray that none whom once I loved Is dying to-night or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Sorrow
Sorrow like a ceaseless rain Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain,— Dawn will find them still again; This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.
People dress and go to town; I sit in my chair.
All my thoughts are slow and brown: Standing up or sitting down
Little matters, or what gown Or what shoes I wear.
“I know a hundred ways to die”
I know a hundred ways to die. I’ve often thought I’d try one: Lie down beneath a motor truck
Some day when standing by one.
Or throw myself from off a bridge— Except such things must be
So hard upon the scavengers And men that clean the sea.
Robert Edward Duncan (1919–1988)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Songs of An Other
If there were another . . .
if there were an other person I am he would be heavy as the shadow
in a dying tree. The light thickens into water welling up to liven
whose eyes? who hides his mother behind him mirrord in his
bride’s gaze when the flame
darkens the music as he plays?
for I am here the Master of a Sonata meant for the early evening
when in late Spring
the day begins to linger on
and we do not listen to the news
but let the wars and crises go revering strife in a sound of our own, a momentary leading of a tone
toward a conflicting possibility and then fury so slowd down it lapses
into the sweetening melancholy of
a minor key, hovering toward refrain it yet refrains from, I come into the being of this other me,
Jane Kenyon (1947–1995)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Having it Out with Melancholy
FROM THE NURSERY When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery, and when we were alone, you lay down on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.
And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon made me sad—even the yellow wooden beads that slid and spun along a spindle on my crib.
You taught me to exist without gratitude. You ruined my manners toward God: “We’re here simply to wait for death;
the pleasures of earth are overrated.”
I only appeared to belong to my mother,
to live among blocks and cotton undershirts with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes
and report cards in ugly brown slipcases. I was already yours—the anti-urge,
the mutilator of souls.
BOTTLES
Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin, Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax, Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft. The coated ones smell sweet or have no smell; the powdery ones smell like the chemistry lab at school
that made me hold my breath.
(John G. H. Oakes, editor) (published 1991)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Nicol
By My Own Hand
I watched these cold stiff fingers reach in searching the sacred edge the sharp undoing
and I didn’t struggle against them
as a long thin line appeared
above the throbbing and the sweet red wine spilled over
and mixed itself together with the bitter
of salty tears
and once again I lay in this frothy soup never knowing what’s to come of it because I was unable to bear the best of it.
Jeff Holt (1971– )
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Imbalance
Echoing threats drown out the quiet roar Of lattes, strangers laughing easily.
My thoughts are flopping fishes, cold, not sure That water will return. I barely see
Past trembling fingers I still recognize
By bitten nails, that scab. Wait. Did I speak? My limbs are clown balloons. I need to rise, Smile as I leave. Today I will not break.
I will not brake once I am out that door;
I’ll race across charred ruins, fly through Hell— Slow down. I am a paying customer
At Border’s; so what if I’m not feeling well? Strangers can’t hear the threats, that doctor said.
I rise, cling to his words, stalk through these dead.
The Patient
The doctors know I dream when I’m awake. I’ve smoked until my fingertips are brown. Watching the door, I sit alone and shake.
My sister and her kids, Kelly and Jake,
Played games with me when I’d sink this far down Until they knew I dream when I’m awake.
The Death of a Vagrant Bird
Authors: Beauchamp Tom L , Orlans F Barbara , Dresser Rebecca , Morton David B , Gluck John P 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
On a hot August day in 1991, several amateur bird watchers were encamped in southern New Mexico at a place called Rattlesnake Springs, just inside Carlsbad Caverns National Park. This small oasis, located in the midst of the parched Chihuahuan desert, attracts a large number of bird species and had become a popular observational area. For some time the attention of many members of a bird-watching group had been drawn to the sight and song of a lone, small olive and yellow bird about six inches long that seemed oddly out of place. Descriptions and taped recordings of its song strongly suggested that the bird was a Yellow-green Vireo. As far as anyone knew, the established range of this species was from Central America to Mexico. In an arresting use of language, individual birds sighted out of their established geographical context are referred to as “vagrants.” One common use of the noun “vagrant” is meant to designate someone who travels “idly with no means of support, such as a drunkard,”1 but the usage here is a direct derivation from the Latin root vagari, meaning “to wander.” Many circumstances lead vagrant birds to be out of place, and they are associated with different degrees of scientific importance. For example, the bird may have overshot its migration target, been blown off course by a chance encounter with a storm, hitched an unintended ride on a boat or plane, or be in an active search for a new habitat.
Should Frog Dissection Continue?
Authors: Beauchamp Tom L , Orlans F Barbara , Dresser Rebecca , Morton David B , Gluck John P 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Clear and reliable national data on the number of frogs killed for dissection in middle schools and high schools are lacking, but some data do exist. There are roughly 30 million students in grades 7−12 in the United States. About 80% of teachers who responded in a 2004 survey reported that they use dissection to teach biology. There is therefore no doubt that over a million frogs are killed each year for this purpose.
Becoming Faulkner
Authors: Weinstein Philip 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
William Faulkner was the greatest American novelist of the 20th century, yet he lived a life marked by a pervasive sense of failure. In this imaginative biography, Philip M. Weinstein-a leading authority on Faulkner-targets this disjunction as one among a number of paradoxes that defined Faulkner's experience of the world. Weinstein conjures the forces at play as Faulkner came of age--a racially divided country, a separatist family legacy, a susceptibility to mythology and to alcohol--and considers the ways these factors informed his often turbulent circumstances. He suggests that Faulkner's troubled interactions with time, place, and history become fully understandable only when traced out into his writing, which took the charged material of personal frustrations and translated it into a singular language that captured human consciousness as never before. Juxtaposing Faulkner's personal story with the remarkable representation of Southern life in his novels, Weinstein has produced a sharp, fresh biography. Featuring 20 black-and-white images, Becoming Faulkner testifies to the singular psychology of a man whose world unfolded somewhere between art and life.
Bad Girls Go Everywhere
Authors: Scanlon Jennifer 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Born in Arkansas to a family of modest means, Helen Gurley Brown worked at countless secretarial jobs and was an advertising executive before writing the 1962 international bestseller Sex and the Single Girl, marrying the love of her life, becoming the diva of the New York magazine world, and editing Cosmopolitan magazine for 32 years. In her farewell column in 1997, Brown offered her Cosmo readers three pieces of advice: every woman has something that makes her unique and gifted; men are not the enemy; and sex is among the best things in life. With these brief directives Brown summarized the philosophy that made her such an important and contested figure throughout the second half of the twentieth century. Imagine the life of a single woman in 1962. Women were encouraged to attend college primarily to obtain an Mrs. degree, newspaper ads listed jobs by sex, women could only obtain credit through their husbands, and unmarried women became suspect by the time they reached their mid-twenties. Along came a firebrand named Helen Gurley Brown, who had remained single into her late thirties and who had the audacity to encourage her unmarried sisters not to grab a husband, or to hide their single status, but to live, instead, in what she called "superlative style." Her 1962 book, Sex and the Single Girl, became an overnight and international sensation for its frank look at single women's work lives, financial lives, and, of course, sex lives. To conservatives, Brown's books and magazine released the single woman from all social and sexual constraints, making her a threat to the institution of marriage. To many in the women's liberation movement, Brown's views enhanced men's rather than women's lives by turning women into sexually available playmates rather than making them powerful in their own right. For her legion of fans, however, Helen Gurley Brown represented another path, one that let women pursue heterosexual relationships yet remain independent, work at being beautiful yet call themselves feminists. Jennifer Scanlon's book is the first biography of Helen Gurley Brown, an icon of contemporary women's history and popular culture. Brown's irreverent and daring life and work challenge the stereotype of second-wave feminists as frumpy and humorless, while foreshadowing the sex-positive, lipstick-wearing--Cosmo-reading--third wave. Because Brown both bought into and utterly transformed advertising and consumer culture, this book will interest not only a female trade audience, but scholars in women's studies, American studies, popular culture studies, sociology, and history.
Growing Up Gurley, And a Girl
Authors: Scanlon Jennifer 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Before it became famous as the birthplace of Helen Gurley Brown, Green Forest, Arkansas, a tiny town in the Ozarks, was known principally for two things: its individualistic traditions and its bawdy folklore. It seems a fitting place, then, for Helen Marie Gurley to have entered the world on February 18, 1922. Years later, as a young adult struggling to survive financially on a secretary’s salary and then, even later, as a successful writer and editor enjoying financial security, Brown largely denied any connection to the place of her birth. Green Forest lacked the cachet claimed by many of her equally successful contemporaries who hailed from cities like New York, Chicago, or Los Angeles. And her own Horatio Alger–like approach to success left little room or incentive for her to delve too deeply into the significance of her life as an Arkansan.
Nevertheless, reflective or not, in her appreciation for individual accomplishment and in her celebration of sexuality, Helen Gurley carried forward some of the traditions she hardly realized she had inherited. In her conscious mind she remained haunted by certain aspects of her young life.
Good Girls Go To Heaven—Bad Girls Go Everywhere: Helen Gurley Brown’s Cosmopolitan
Authors: Scanlon Jennifer 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
In the aftermath of the 1962 publication of Sex and the Single Girl, Helen Gurley Brown’s fans sent her so much mail that the post office in Pacific Palisades, California, informed Brown that they would no longer deliver it to her home. If she wanted her mail, she would have to pick it up. Helen’s fan mail followed her on her move to New York City in 1963 and continued to arrive even into 1964. “It seemed to me that Helen was developing a constituency, if not a cult,” David remembered with appropriate awe years later, adding, “The women who read her stuff felt they knew her personally.” For her part, Helen, too, felt a personal connection with each correspondent and pounded out individual responses on her trusty Royal 440 typewriter. Although she had taken on the newspaper column hoping to reach her audience collectively rather than individually, she still received a great deal of mail—and felt a need to respond to it. Eventually, though, even the intrepid Helen Gurley Brown became exhausted by the volume of the mail and the effort required to reply in anything other than routine fashion.