This book reveals a major Turning Point of Freedom in America and how to bring about a new Turning Point that will reverse the trend and restore lost freedom and prosperity. Freedom in America has decreased over the last century and seems to be diminishing more rapidly as time goes on. Many are concerned for the future of the nation and wonder where things went wrong and how to repair the damage. In the book 1913, Oliver DeMille answers these questions by illuminating three critical events of 1913 which, combined with a corresponding event in 1936, constituted a Turning Point away from freedom and by detailing three practical solutions for restoring America's freedom and revitalizing her prosperity. With the implementation of these solutions, the future of America is still very bright.
The Coming Aristocracy is a book for anyone concerned about the decline of America and the steady loss of freedom. More precisely, it is for those dedicated to reversing those trends through education and entrepreneurship.Drawing from years of intense and exhaustive research, Oliver DeMille demonstrates why social, economic, and political equality are being steadily eroded.He highlights crucial constitutional changes, analyzes the current economic crisis, explains why both liberals and conservatives promote aristocracy, and articulates a comprehensive formula for restoring the American republic.
The Next Step in TJEd.Often cited by the DeMilles as their favorite work to date, this inspirational manual picks up where the primer/overview work, A Thomas Jefferson Education leaves off. It develops in depth not only the philosophy but also the nuts-and-bolts application of each individual Phase, the critical Transitions between Phases and the "big-picture" vision to begin with the end in mind. Those who master the content in this book leave behind the question, "But how do you actually DO it?" A Crisis of Leadership The world's problems can be summed up in just a few words: lack of leadership. While the world is in desperate need of leaders, very few people have the tools to become one. Oliver and Rachel DeMille's Leadership Education: The Phases of Learning is the manual that every person who aspires to be an effective leader, or to raise one, needs. Principled decision-making, the cultivation of character, studying the classics, and using critical thinking skills are just a few of the lost educational virtues of today restored by this book. An in-depth look at the philosophy and phases of education is indispensable when creating leaders. This book will help any family find the direction they are looking for when pursuing leadership education. This book teaches not only the theories behind Thomas Jefferson Education but also the practical application of these theories for you and your children, with great detail on the features of Thomas Jefferson Education-modeled home, parenting, family, education, leadership and life's mission. As we apply the philosophy contained in Leadership Education: The Phases of Learning we will transform not only our families and our classrooms, but the world.
A most provocative business parable for our troubled times, LeaderShift is the story of how David Mersher, the successful CEO of IndyTech, sets out to discover why the United States is losing its leadership edge and what he can do to turn things around. In the process, Mersher and his team learn how the Five Laws of Decline are eroding the nation's economy-quietly ruining businesses and big institutions-and what American executives and citizens need to do to put a stop to this. Above all, Mersher and his colleagues discover something few business leaders or citizens of free nations have yet to realize: Our world today is on the verge of a momentous LeaderShift, one which will reframe the twenty-first century and significantly alter the way we govern, lead, and do business. When Mersher and his team get help from a surprising source, the result is stunning and unexpected-and it's one that concerned Americans will certainly reflect upon for decades to come. The next LeaderShift is almost here. Are you ready?
A most provocative business parable for our troubled times, LeaderShift is the story of how David Mersher, the successful CEO of IndyTech, sets out to discover why the United States is losing its leadership edge and what he can do to turn things around. In the process, Mersher and his team learn how the Five Laws of Decline are eroding the nation's economy-quietly ruining businesses and big institutions-and what American executives and citizens need to do to put a stop to this. Above all, Mersher and his colleagues discover something few business leaders or citizens of free nations have yet to realize: Our world today is on the verge of a momentous LeaderShift, one which will reframe the twenty-first century and significantly alter the way we govern, lead, and do business. When Mersher and his team get help from a surprising source, the result is stunning and unexpected-and it's one that concerned Americans will certainly reflect upon for decades to come. The next LeaderShift is almost here. Are you ready?
Espionage in British Fiction and Film Since 1900 traces the history and development of the British spy novel from its emergence in the early twentieth century, through its growth as a popular genre during the Cold War, to its resurgence in the early twenty-first century. Using an innovative structure, the chapters focus on specific categories of fictional spying (such as the accidental spy or the professional) and identify each type with a vital period in the evolution of the spy novel and film. A central section of the book considers how, with the creation of James Bond by Ian Fleming in the 1950s, the professional spy was launched on a new career of global popularity, enhanced by the Bond film franchise. In the realm of fiction, a glance at the fiction bestseller list will reveal the continuing appeal of novelists such as John le Carré, Frederick Forsyth, Charles Cumming, Stella Rimington, Daniel Silva, Alec Berenson, Christopher Reich—to name but a few—and illustrates the continued fascination with the spy novel into the twenty-first century, decades after the end of the Cold War. There is also a burgeoning critical interest in spy fiction, with a number of new studies appearing in recent years. A genre that many believed would falter and disappear after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet empire has shown, if anything, increased signs of vitality. While exploring the origins of the British spy, tracing it through cultural and historical events, Espionage in British Fiction and Film Since 1900 also keeps in focus the essential role of the “changing enemy”—the chief adversary of and threat to Britain and its allies—in the evolution of spy fiction and cinema. The book concludes by analyzing examples of the enduring vitality of the British spy novel and film in the decades since the end of the Cold War.
Freaks of Fortune" is the fourth of the serial stories published in "Our Boys and Girls." It was written in response to a great number of calls for a sequel to "The Starry Flag." The author was pleased to learn that Levi Fairfield had made so pleasant an impression upon his young friends, and the gratifying reception extended to him in the present story, as it appeared in the Magazine, was quite as flattering to the writer as to Levi himself. When a good boy, like the hero of "The Starry Flag," is regarded with so much kindly interest by our boys and girls, it is convincing evidence that they have the capacity to appreciate noble conduct, daring deeds, and a true life. The author is not disposed to apologize for the "exciting" element—as some have been pleased to denominate it—of this and others of his stories. If goodness and truth have been cast down, if vice and sin have been raised up, in the story, an explanation would not, and ought not to, atone for the crime. The writer degrades no saints, he canonizes no villains. He believes that his young friends admire and love the youthful heroes of the story because they are good and true, because they are noble and self-sacrificing, and because they are generous and courageous, and not merely because they engage in stirring adventures. Exciting the youthful mind in the right direction is one thing; exciting it in the wrong direction is quite another thing. Once more it becomes the writer's pleasant duty to acknowledge the kindness of his young friends, as well as of very many parents and guardians, who have so often and so freely expressed their approbation of his efforts to please his readers. He has been continually cheered by their kind letters, and by their constant favor, however manifested; and he cannot help wondering that one who deserves so little should receive so much. William T. Adams.
From citrus trees to spring breakers, Transforming the Irvine Ranch tells the story of Orange County’s metamorphosis from 93,000 acres of farmland into an iconic Southern California landscape of beaches and modernist architecture. Drawing on decades of archival research and their own years at the famed Irvine Company, the authors bring a collection of colorful characters responsible for the transformation to life, including: Ray Watson, whose nearly century-long life took him from an Oakland boarding house to the Irvine and Walt Disney Company boardrooms Joan Irvine Smith, a much-married heiress who waged war against the US government and the Irvine Foundation's reactionary board and won William Pereira, the visionary architect whose work became synonymous with the LA cityscape. Spanning the history of modern California from its Gold Rush past to the late 1970s, Transforming the Irvine Ranch chronicles a storied family’s largely successful attempts to remake the vast Irvine Ranch in its own image.
In the year 2032, America is supposedly safe from terror, Iranian nuclear weaponry is no longer a threat, and the United Nations' treaties and technologies are keeping the peace. Then a suicide bomber targets Houston, Texas and a famous physicist is kidnapped. The ensuing search by a decorated U.S. Marine war hero and veteran of special ops, not only places the physicist's family in grave danger, but exposes an even more ominous threat to the country, moreso than any threat in its history.
With the silence and immobility of a great reddish-tinted, rock, Thor stood for many minutes looking out over his domain. He could not see far, for, like all grizzlies, his eyes were small and far apart, and his vision was bad. At a distance of a third or a half a mile he could make out a goat or a mountain sheep, but beyond that his world was a vast sun-filled or night-darkened mystery through which he ranged mostly by the guidance of sound and smell. It was the sense of smell that held him still and motionless now. Up out of the valley a scent had come to his nostrils that he had never smelled before. It was something that did not belong there, and it stirred him strangely. Vainly his slow-working brute mind struggled to comprehend it. It was not caribou, for he had killed many caribou; it was not goat; it was not sheep; and it was not the smell of the fat and lazy whistlers sunning themselves on the rocks, for he had eaten hundreds of whistlers. It was a scent that did not enrage him, and neither did it frighten him. He was curious, and yet he did not go down to seek it out. Caution held him back.
First published in 1945, “Carrier War” is the first-hand account of officers and soldiers who fought during the naval war in the Pacific through the battles of the Philippine Sea. It is the complete story of America’s aircraft carrier Task Force 58, told in stirring narrative form and illustrated with 200 pictures and maps, and features frank discussions of strategy, accounts of personal heroism, and lays bare many new facts of sea war in the Pacific. Primarily an action story, told in terms of people, dialogue and split-second accounts of air and sea battles, “Carrier War” is nevertheless a comprehensive history of the Central Pacific campaign. It begins with the arrival of the first new carriers at Pearl Harbour and describes the growing power and fury of the Navy’s campaign—through Marcus, Wake, Rabaul, the landings at Tarawa and Kwajalein, the great raids on Truk, Saipan and Palau, the landings at Hollandia, the panoramic battles of the Philippine Sea. Throughout, Admiral Mar Mitscher’s Task Force 58 is the protagonist, although large parts of the story are built around the adventures of the redoubtable Yorktown and Essex and their two air groups, Five and Nine, whose full war records were released for the first time. “Carrier War” reveals a great deal about the nature of U.S. naval fliers and their lives. It is a shrewd appraisal of the enemy. It explains in simple, non-technical terms how carriers work and how sea battles are fought. It contains excerpts from ships’ logs, official action reports. Besides the good, it describes the bad, telling how mistakes were made, and corrected. It tells how U.S. ships, as well as the enemy’s, were hit, and contains many exciting stories of how the men were rescued from the sea.
It was all new - most of it singularly dramatic and even appalling to the woman who sat with the pearl-gray veil drawn closely about her face. For eighteen hours she had been a keenly attentive, wide-eyed, and partly frightened bit of humanity in this onrush of "the horde." She had heard a voice behind her speak of it as "the horde" - a deep, thick, gruff voice which she knew without looking had filtered its way through a beard. She agreed with the voice. It was the Horde - that horde which has always beaten the trails ahead for civilization and made of its own flesh and blood the foundation of nations. For months it had been pouring steadily into the mountains - always in and never out, a laughing, shouting, singing, blaspheming Horde, every ounce of it toughened sinew and red brawn, except the Straying Angels. One of these sat opposite her, a dark-eyed girl with over-red lips and hollowed cheeks, and she heard the bearded man say something to his companions about "dizzy dolls" and "the little angel in the other seat." This same voice, gruffened in its beard, had told her that ten thousand of the Horde had gone up ahead of them. Then it whispered something that made her hands suddenly tighten and a hot flush sweep through her. She lifted her veil and rose slowly from her seat, as if to rearrange her dress. Casually she looked straight into the faces of the bearded man and his companion in the seat behind.
Between Conniston, of His Majesty's Royal Northwest Mounted Police, and Keith, the outlaw, there was a striking physical and facial resemblance. Both had observed it, of course. It gave them a sort of confidence in each other. Between them it hovered in a subtle and unanalyzed presence that was constantly suggesting to Conniston a line of action that would have made him a traitor to his oath of duty. For nearly a month he had crushed down the whispered temptings of this thing between them. He represented the law. He was the law. For twenty-seven months he had followed Keith, and always there had been in his mind that parting injunction of the splendid service of which he was a part - "Don't come back until you get your man, dead or alive." Otherwise - A racking cough split in upon his thoughts. He sat up on the edge of the cot, and at the gasping cry of pain that came with the red stain of blood on his lips Keith went to him and with a strong arm supported his shoulders. He said nothing, and after a moment Conniston wiped the stain away and laughed softly, even before the shadow of pain had faded from his eyes. One of his hands rested on a wrist that still bore the ring-mark of a handcuff. The sight of it brought him back to grim reality. After all, fate was playing whimsically as well as tragically with their destinies.
Philip Weyman's buoyancy of heart was in face of the fact that he had but recently looked upon Radisson's unpleasant death, and that he was still in a country where the water flowed north. He laughed and he sang. His heart bubbled over with cheer. He talked to himself frankly and without embarrass-ment, asked himself questions, answered them, discussed the beauties of nature and the possibilities of storm as if there were three or four of him instead of one. At the top end of the world a man becomes a multiple being - if he is white. Two years along the rim of the Arctic had taught Philip the science by which a man may become acquainted with himself, and in moments like the present, when both his mental and physical spirits overflowed, he even went so far as to attempt poor Radisson's "La Belle Marie" in the French-man's heavy basso, something between a dog's sullen growl and the low rumble of distant thunder. It made him cough. And then he laughed again, scanning the narrowing sweep of the lake ahead of him.
The deep hush of noon hovered over the vast solitude of Canadian forest. The moose and caribou had fed since early dawn, and were resting quietly in the warmth of the February sun; the lynx was curled away in his niche between the great rocks, waiting for the sun to sink farther into the north and west before resuming his marauding adventures; the fox was taking his midday slumber and the restless moose-birds were fluffing themselves lazily in the warm glow that was beginning to melt the snows of late winter. It was that hour when the old hunter on the trail takes off his pack, silently gathers wood for a fire, eats his dinner and smokes his pipe, eyes and ears alert; - that hour when if you speak above a whisper, he will say to you,
Before the railroad's thin lines of steel bit their way up through the wilderness, Athabasca Landing was the picturesque threshold over which one must step who would enter into the mystery and adventure of the great white North. It is still Iskwatam - the "door" which opens to the lower reaches of the Athabasca, the Slave, and the Mackenzie. It is somewhat difficult to find on the map, yet it is there, because its history is written in more than a hundred and forty years of romance and tragedy and adventure in the lives of men, and is not easily forgotten. Over the old trail it was about a hundred and fifty miles north of Edmonton. The railroad has brought it nearer to that base of civilization, but beyond it the wilderness still howls as it has howled for a thousand years, and the waters of a continent flow north and into the Arctic Ocean. It is possible that the beautiful dream of the real-estate dealers may come true, for the most avid of all the sportsmen of the earth, the money-hunters, have come up on the bumpy railroad that sometimes lights its sleeping cars with lanterns, and with them have come typewriters, and stenographers, and the art of printing advertisements, and the Golden Rule of those who sell handfuls of earth to hopeful purchasers thousands of miles away - "Do others as they would do you." And with it, too, has come the legitimate business of barter and trade, with eyes on all that treasure of the North which lies between the Grand Rapids of the Athabasca and the edge of the polar sea.
This book summarizes several years of research carried out by a collaboration of many groups on ultrafast photochemical reactions. It emphasizes the analysis and characterization of the nuclear dynamics within molecular systems in various environments induced by optical excitations and the study of the resulting molecular dynamics by further interaction with an optical field.
Not far from the rugged and storm-whipped north shore of Lake Superior, and south of the Kaministiqua, yet not as far south as the Rainy River waterway, there lay a paradise lost in the heart of a wilderness world - and in that paradise "a little corner of hell." That was what the girl had called it once upon a time, when sobbing out the shame and the agony of it to herself. That was before Peter had come to leaven the drab of her life. But the hell was still there. One would not have guessed its existence, standing at the bald top of Cragg's Ridge this wonderful thirtieth day of May. In the whiteness of winter one could look off over a hundred square miles of freezing forest and swamp and river country, with the gleam of ice-covered lakes here and there, fringed by their black spruce and cedar and balsam - a country of storm, of deep snows, and men and women whose blood ran red with the thrill that the hardship and the never-ending adventure of the wild.
If you had stood there in the edge of the bleak spruce forest, with the wind moaning dismally through the twisting trees - midnight of deep December - the Transcontinental would have looked like a thing of fire; dull fire, glowing with a smouldering warmth, but of strange ghostliness and out of place. It was a weird shadow, helpless and without motion, and black as the half-Arctic night save for the band of illumination that cut it in twain from the first coach to the last, with a space like an inky hyphen where the baggage car lay. Out of the North came armies of snow-laden clouds that scudded just above the earth, and with these clouds came now and then a shrieking mockery of wind to taunt this stricken creation of man and the creatures it sheltered - men and women who had begun to shiver, and whose tense white faces stared with increasing anxiety into the mysterious darkness of the night that hung like a sable curtain ten feet from the car windows.
Kazan lay mute and motionless, his gray nose between his forepaws, his eyes half closed. A rock could have appeared scarcely less lifeless than he; not a muscle twitched; not a hair moved; not an eyelid quivered. Yet every drop of the wild blood in his splendid body was racing in a ferment of excitement that Kazan had never before experienced; every nerve and fiber of his wonderful muscles was tense as steel wire. Quarter-strain wolf, three-quarters "husky," he had lived the four years of his life in the wilderness. He had felt the pangs of starvation. He knew what it meant to freeze. He had listened to the wailing winds of the long Arctic night over the barrens. He had heard the thunder of the torrent and the cataract, and had cowered under the mighty crash of the storm. His throat and sides were scarred by battle, and his eyes were red with the blister of the snows. He was called Kazan, the Wild Dog, because he was a giant among his kind and as fearless, even, as the men who drove him through the perils of a frozen world.
Cold winter lay deep in the Canadian wilderness. Over it the moon was rising, like a red pulsating ball, lighting up the vast white silence of the night in a shimmering glow. Not a sound broke the stillness of the desolation. It was too late for the life of day, too early for the nocturnal roamings and voices of the creatures of the night. Like the basin of a great amphitheater the frozen lake lay revealed in the light of the moon and a billion stars. Beyond it rose the spruce forest, black and forbidding. Along its nearer edges stood hushed walls of tamarack, bowed in the smothering clutch of snow and ice, shut in by impenetrable gloom. A huge white owl flitted out of this rim of blackness, then back again, and its first quavering hoot came softly, as though the mystic hour of silence had not yet passed for the night-folk. The snow of the day had ceased, hardly a breath of air stirred the ice-coated twigs of the trees. Yet it was bitter cold - so cold that a man, remaining motionless, would have frozen to death within an hour.
Captain Rifle, gray and old in the Alaskan Steamship service, had not lost the spirit of his youth along with his years. Romance was not dead in him, and the fire which is built up of clean adventure and the association of strong men and a mighty country had not died out of his veins. He could still see the picturesque, feel the thrill of the unusual, and - at times - warm memories crowded upon him so closely that yesterday seemed today, and Alaska was young again, thrilling the world with her wild call to those who had courage to come and fight for her treasures, and live - or die. Tonight, with the softly musical throb of his ship under his feet, and the yellow moon climbing up from behind the ramparts of the Alaskan mountains, something of loneliness seized upon him, and he said simply:
Philip Steele's pencil drove steadily over the paper, as if the mere writing of a letter he might never mail in some way lessened the loneliness. The wind is blowing a furious gale outside. From off the lake come volleys of sleet, like shot from guns, and all the wild demons of this black night in the wilderness seem bent on tearing apart the huge end-locked logs that form my cabin home. In truth, it is a terrible night to be afar from human companionship, with naught but this roaring desolation about and the air above filled with screeching terrors. Even through thick log walls I can hear the surf roaring among the rocks and beating the white driftwood like a thousand battering-rams, almost at my door. It is a night to make one shiver, and in the lulls of the storm the tall pines above me whistle and wail mournfully as they straighten their twisted heads after the blasts.
On an afternoon in the early summer of 1856 Captain Nathaniel Plum, master and owner of the sloop Typhoon was engaged in nothing more important than the smoking of an enormous pipe. Clouds of strongly odored smoke, tinted with the lights of the setting sun, had risen above his head in unremitting volumes for the last half hour. There was infinite contentment in his face, notwithstanding the fact that he had been meditating on a subject that was not altogether pleasant. But Captain Plum was, in a way, a philosopher, though one would not have guessed this fact from his appearance. He was, in the first place, a young man, not more than eight or nine and twenty, and his strong, rather thin face, tanned by exposure to the sea, was just now lighted up by eyes that shone with an unbounded good humor which any instant might take the form of laughter.
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