Charles Montgomery Overview. Publication Timeline. Most widely held works about Charles M Skinner. Most widely held works by Charles M Skinner.
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Myths and legends of our own land by Charles M Skinner Book 27 editions published between and in English and Undetermined and held by WorldCat member libraries worldwide A collection of folktales from different regions of the United States. Myths and legends of flowers, trees, fruits, and plants, in all ages and in all climes by Charles M Skinner Book 26 editions published between and in 3 languages and held by WorldCat member libraries worldwide.
The little rafts bearing that name are thick enough to nourish trees, and a man or a deer may walk on them without breaking through. Far different were those wandering Edens of the sea, for they had mountains, volcanoes, cities, and gardens; men of might and women lovelier than the dawn lived there in brotherly and sisterly esteem; birds as bright as flowers, and with throats like flutes, peopled the groves, where luscious fruit hung ready for the gathering, and the very skies above these places of enchantment were more serene and deep than those of the storm-swept continents.
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Where the surges creamed against the coral beaches and cliffs of jasper and marble, the mer-people arose to view and called to the land men in song, while the fish in the shallows were like wisps of rainbow. Somewhere - anywhere - in the Atlantic, islands drifted like those tissues of root and sedge that break from the edges of northern lakes and are sent to and fro by the gales: floating islands. Myths and legends of our own land by Charles M Skinner 14 editions published between and in English and held by WorldCat member libraries worldwide When one thinks of classic fairy tales and folklore, it's usually the enchanted forests of Europe that spring to mind.
But in Charles M. Skinner's Myths and Legends of Our Own Land, the author proves that scrappy upstart America is an equally rich source of myths and legends. Weller and other premature eulogizers underestimated the extent to which racial anxiety and isolation are self-reinforcing. After more than a mile of steep, winding incline, of the sort that strains an old Honda Civic, I had to slow to let a family of wild turkeys pass.
The ground levelled off at a baseball diamond, the spot where the helicopter had landed for the medevac. I continued on as far as the road would take me, another mile or so, passing dead-end side streets and, on the left, a spread of shanties and tarps, overlooking a lake. Eventually, I pulled into the driveway of a modest nineteenth-century house that had been painted white. His aunt Phyllis, a retired school-bus driver, lived in back.
Her grandson Jason, who appeared to be in his teens, sat in the living room, which doubled as her bedroom, watching a video on a laptop. It was early fall, and the leaves on the mountaintop had begun to turn. A light breeze rustled the wind chimes on the porch, adding to the soundtrack of crowing roosters and roaring A. This was the house Phyllis had grown up in, along with four brothers and five sisters. They call it progress. The township had designated much of the area surrounding the lake as a protected watershed.
The property with the shanties, a game-fowl farm, was facing zoning and health-code violations. She said grace, and reminisced about hunting for crayfish and mushrooms, and spending her afternoons in the upper branches of the pine trees, many of them now felled, along the invisible state line. The Ramapough Mountain Indians incorporated in His subjects did not welcome the intrusion. Taking charge of their public identity for the first time, they cited stories, passed down by their ancestors, about retreating into the woods to dance around fires on a flat rock, and sacred traditions like sprinkling tobacco on pigs before a slaughter.
When I first met him, he was standing outside the entrance to the tribal lodge, a one-story cinderblock building across the street from the Stag Hill ball field, and was using an eagle feather to waft smoke from a frying pan of burning sage and cedar, as part of a cleansing ceremony called smudging. Perry has weathered light-brown skin, hazel eyes, and a goatee, and wears his hair in a long, braided ponytail.
But, inside the lodge, a sun dancer from Montauk and elders from the Tutelo and Cherokee nations had come to pay their respects to the memory of Emil Mann, as had representatives of the Justice Department and the local N. Not all of the recent strangers on the mountain were typical suburbanites. We told a couple of friends. So the story goes, they are a mixture of white, black, and British prostitutes. Then I learned they are Ramapough Indians—very violent people, they are always shooting up here. No regular recycling or garbage. So I called the town to request a recycling schedule.
She dropped by the tribal lodge and introduced herself. Gradually, Mihri befriended a number of the Ramapough women. Mihri is an anthropologist, and had done work with the Kurds, with whom she saw a number of parallels to her new neighbors, but the women told her about their unhappy experience with David Cohen, the Rutgers professor, so she confined her efforts to helping out with an after-school program.
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She found the boys threatening, but got along well with the girls, and conducted weekly reading lessons at her house. I have all the reasons not to like her. A grand jury in Hackensack eventually indicted Chad Walder, the park ranger who shot Emil Mann, for reckless manslaughter—the first time an officer of the law had faced such a serious charge in Bergen County since You walk up to people, you have to do it right.
De Groat is a tall, genial, sixty-year-old man with silver hair and a prominent nose. He lives more than half a mile from the closest main road, near a concrete remnant of the hoist house from the Peters Mine, which was first dug around and eventually grew to seventeen levels, extending nearly two thousand feet below the ground. There was a high fence around his front yard, which appeared overgrown with weeds. The E. The mine area is clearly not at risk of gentrification, but displacement, for safety and other reasons, is nevertheless an ongoing concern.
Seventeen months after De Groat lost his lawn furniture, the earth threatened to claim a pair of houses on Van Dunk Lane, across the street from where his twin brother, Bob, lives, and two dozen residents were forced to evacuate.
Skinner, Charles M. (Charles Montgomery) 1852-1907
Back when the dumping was going on, forty years ago, the De Groat boys used to scavenge the freshly discarded piles of junk for carburetors and copper snakes to sell on the side of the road. They called it Sludge Hill. Here, it seemed, was a man at peace with the fallen world.
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De Groat stood near his back door and surveyed his surroundings. And I know better than that. But throughout the three weeks of testimony no real attempt was made to explain the nature of that association. Instead, the woods themselves seemed to be the central subject of the trial—contrasting notions of a sanctuary despoiled. He transferred to the parks service, where his wife, Lorna, also worked, less than a year before the shooting; Lorna was the frantic woman whom the utility workers had encountered at the trailhead, urging them to make way for an ambulance.
Now forty-five, Chad had close-cropped gray hair and a pallid complexion that suggested a life undone. The prosecution countered the defense narrative of lawless disrespect with one of forensics.
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Assistant Prosecutor James Santulli wheeled a painstakingly rendered diorama of the mountain around the courtroom, and called as a witness Dr. Henry Lee, a veteran of the O. Once the jury began deliberating, a rumor spread through the courthouse, and onto the Internet, that the tribe was planning a riot in anticipation of bad news. There was no riot, only retreat, and when a reporter from the Record drove up Stag Hill looking for reaction, she was met with slammed doors. In September, the details of a settlement in the dumping case were leaked: a reported ten million dollars in damages, with no admission of liability by the defendants.
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Ford does not deny dumping, but contends that it was far from alone in doing so, and that, moreover, whatever toxins remain in the soil may be related to leftover tailings from the mine operations. How could you be happy or glad about any part of this? But the cleanup, in the interim, had stalled, as officials debated the merits of capping the mine holes rather than continuing to excavate, and with the delay came a creeping cynicism.
So who did you mean? It was now eighty feet deep. But De Groat did have one bit of good news to report: he and his girlfriend had just had a baby girl.