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Prairie Skies by Courtney Milne, C. Nov Flying Blind - excerpt by Robert Harlow No one should name a baby until they've lived with it long enough to find out who it is. A child comes with a personality, and part of bonding with it should be finding out what its name is. Nov Its Own Amazing Order by Beverley Daurio My impression of Moure as sceptical about how information is presented in the media is supported by her own poetry and essays. Coming Attractions 94 by D.

Glover, M. A Litany in Time of Plague by K. Stuart Houston, I. JanFeb Laying Down the Law by Rose Thorne There's no stopping a word when it wants to change its meaning, and 'peculiar' has been overpowered by its own peculiarity. Mar Douglas Fetherling - Close of Play by Douglas Fetherling People around the world had British Empire's pleasures and presumptions, brought to their door, but they also ventured out to play a role in its follies and conceits. Books in Canada is pleased to publish the winning entry.

Fadden, David K. Two different worlds, two different purviews, two different sets of assumptions. There are three highways that cross British Columbia. Mar In Memoriam by Douglas Fetherling Most of his ideas were first ironed out in the periodical press, another area in which there seemed no limit to his enthusiasm, energy, and integrity. Mar Literature on Line by Douglas Fetherling Writers and readers are being wired together by yet another Canadian innovation in communications.

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Mar Computing Creativity by Ian Lancashire Sophisticated new text-analysis programs will make literary criticism a science as well as an art. Mar Dancing in Chaos by Jack Ruttan Yet in the end, the conventional wisdom is right: writing is a solitary occupation. You sit in front of a machine, and it is up to you to make up the words that go into it.

Of course, the nature of that machine has changed. Sep Douglas Fetherling - The Ballad of English Bill by Douglas Fetherling One of the unusual facts about Skelton's life has been his willingness to employ many different verse forms, ancient and contemporary. Lately, his desire to adapt from as many different cultures as possible has become a kind of benevolent obsession.

Sep Outlook - Spin Control by Brian Bartlett Places like the casino can confuse us about our symbols and our language. In this way, the naive, the desperate, and others get hurt. Walker is ready to take on new challenges. The Age of Longing by Richard B. Wright, Richard Wright, Richard B. The Floating Garden by D. Oct Reading the Labels by Elise Levine Coming through Slaughter displays a knowingness of the unspeakable and how we are each freighted with the dark particulars of history, with the obscene, terrible consequences of time and place goose-stepping us from birth to death.

Aunt Mary Buttons by Diane J. Jones, Diane J. Melanie Bluelake's Dream by Betty F. Oct Douglas Fetherling - A Riveting Non-person by Douglas Fetherling In , Anthony Frisch, a poet of the day, organized a national writing competition for Canadian high school students, publishing the winning entries in a special anthology called First Flowering.

May Russell in Canada by Douglas Fetherling One of the most prolific and facile writers of his time, Russell also possessed invisible antennae that permitted him to pick up signals from any publication in the English-speaking world that seemed to be emitting a hint of liberalism. Oct Student Writing Awards - Rising Stars by The work of the winners in the fifth year of the country's leading student writing competition shows remarkable complexity, as well as evidence of experience.

Oct Half-Right - student writing award winner by I've changed. There can be no aloof square holes for crowding round pegs. Or the other way around. I forget how it goes. I'm flexible, I bend now. I can be whatever's needed. A man taught me that. Oct Poetry - student writing award winner by In your wedding dress, tight across the chest and tinged yellower than the custard tt began as, I could be a continuation.

Oct Douglas Fetherling by Douglas Fetherling It's insulting to anyone but a genre writer-someone who cranks out romances or westerns, for instance-to be called prolific. Serious writers are interested in craft, not athleticism, and each moves to the rhythms of his or her own metabolism. May Home and Away - Elaine Kalman Naves speaks with Jane Urquhart by Elaine Naves This interview has been fused together out of two separate conversations with Jane Urquhart, one by phone on February 7, and the other in person on March 2 in Ottawa, the day after her husband had received the Order of Canada.

Sep Douglas Fetherling - Tarzan, Inc. She has written steadily since then, producing thirteen more books of poetry. Oct Line Breaks - West Coast Line, Past and Present by Andrew Klobucar As early as , prominent poets working out of both the Beat movement and the Berkeley Renaissance began making brisk trips north to work drink and engage drink with Vancouver writers.

The Social Construction of What? To that perfection was added an insatiable curiosity. And to pique this curiosity, the Immortals presented Pandora with a box and strict instructions not to open it. The following year, he emigrated with his family to Canada. Sep Ecstasy Like an Irritant in the Blood by Carmine Starnino What's fascinating here isn't the answer but our chronic need to pose the question: How many good poems has Irving Layton written? Blood Girls by M. JunJulAug It was shortly after midnight, and the night was standard horror-movie footage.

Thunder, lightning, and ferocious wind. Stankiewicz by Bogdan Czaykowski, Samuel V. LeSelva, Samuel V. We've known each other for a few years, and have often met for lunch at the same table with a view of the Parliament Buildings high Read more His poetry has been praised for its lyrical craftsmanship and its ability to convey Read more Questions about the Stars by R.

Broken Entries by R. Mar Walking in the Minefield - Maria Elena de Valdes speaks with Elena Poniatowska by This past Fall, the world remembered the tragedy of Tlatelolco of thirty years ago when the Mexican government massacred hundreds of students who were taking advantage of media presence for the upcoming Olympic Games to protest government Read more Cameron, Brian W. Knight Errant by D. Sep Douglas Fetherling - Visual Writers by Douglas Fetherling That there was a recent exhibition of works-on-paper by Victor Hugo, at the Drawing Center in New York, is surprising but not astounding, for the great nineteenth-century French poet and novelist is remembered as an all-round genius.

As Jean Cocteau, Read more Plea for Emigration by M. Genealogy of Resistance Essays by M. Black Like Who? Who Knows? Out of the Whirlwind A Novel by M. Sep Directing, Plus Midwifery - interview with children's book editors by Frieda Wishinsky As a writer, I am enormously grateful for a good editor. An editor is my liaison to a publishing house, my book's champion, and my partner in rewriting.

An editor helps me keep my words focused and clear, my characters strong and Read more Spain is where democrats fought fascists in the unofficial opening-act of a much larger drama; it's also where Read more This author and painter is based in Combermere, in Ontario's Read more It was tucked away on a deep inside page, taken off the wire from the Canadian Press.

He was said to bathe only once a year though this was probably hyperbole based on how he smelled. Certainly he seemed to wear the exact same clothes day after day, year after Read more Salvage King, Ya! Nov Douglas Fetherling - Two-Gun, One-Arm by Douglas Fetherling A decade ago the municipal government in Shanghai unveiled a monument to a Canadian physician who had died forty-some years earlier in a remote part of China while giving medical aid to the communists. No, not Norman Bethune.

May Douglas Fetherling - Byron: Manic Celeb by Douglas Fetherling Almost a century and a quarter after his death by fever at Missolonghi in Greece, while symbolically helping the local insurgents fight the Turks , Lord Byron remains a figure of controversy and disgust.

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The fact that a new biography, Read more When you stumble on the name Al Capone in Colombo's Read more Mar Douglas Fetherling - The Long Way of a Dissenter by Douglas Fetherling Few details survive about Daniel Defoe's participation in what, for him and the others involved, was probably the single most influential event in their lives: the Battle of Sedgemoor on July 16th, , when the ragtag anti-Catholic for Read more In the light of archetypal sites like the tower, the garret, and the study, there's something fascinating about writers congregating by a lake or among mountains to practise their art, Read more Mar Douglas Fetherling - Kensington Market Irregular by Douglas Fetherling Toronto has never been a place for erecting plaques on the former homes of the writers and artist who've lived there much to the dismay of people like Greg Gatenby, the literary director of Harbourfront Centre, who is talking of taking up this very Read more The answer is: Almost purely by accident.

It is true that my mother's parents were Jewish immigrants from southern Russia and Poland, but that fact, somewhat exotic for a girl from downeast Maine, did not influence Read more JunJulAug Unfurling the Fern - Clarissa Hurley on Fiddlehead by The fiddlehead is a fern-like plant whose fronds coil tightly in the shape of a violin head. It is indigenous to the eastern provinces, flourishing briefly each spring along the swampy riverbanks of New Brunswick. The harbinger of a new Read more One of Cook's books is particularly wonderful, though it would fall Read more The cult members forgathered expectantly.

Specifically, he had some art business to conduct at Johns Hopkins University. Non-belief was the first radical cause to which I attached myself, and served as the type for my subsequent political activism. I learned the power of dissent at the age of nine when, alone out of four hundred students, Read more I refer to the Collected Works of Erasmus. The decision to make new and Read more JanFeb The Religion Question Answered - Iain Benson by From the vantage-point of the late twentieth century, there is a certain irony in being invited to consider whether there will be a rise in religion in the twenty-first Century.

JanFeb The Religion Question Answered - David Atkinson by One frequently hears that religion in North America is no longer a major factor in the lives of many people, and that religion is increasingly less influential in determining the moral Read more For example, Christianity is booming around the equator, Read more As an adult she loves writing them.

Raised in Melrose, Massachusetts, a suburb of Boston, Granfield devoured books about figures in United States and Massachusetts history. I am thinking of Mumia Read more How we exaggerate! The greatest, the best, the finest, the most successful. The literary context is no different. What we consider to be be Read more Dec Writing Books for Children by Writing books for children is hard on the ego. Many adults, the ones who don't read children's books and so know nothing about them, think that what we children's writers do is "easy", or a "nice little hobby", or a fine way to "get your feet wet in the Read more Sleepover Snowed In by S.

Dec Douglas Fetherling - A Shining Contrarian by Douglas Fetherling When journalists are asked, as they frequently are, what great figure of the past underlies their profession like a watermark, most will name either H. Mencken or A. Liebling, both American cranks of the century just ending, though enjoyable, Read more Dec Outlook - Voices in my Head by Brian Bartlett Once again he's back in the classroom, trying to teach what's called "creative writing".

A babble of internal voices-nagging and skeptical, positive and explanatory-buzz around inside his ears. He chooses two: A: "Creative writing" Read more Permit me to quote from it. Apr Douglas Fetherling - Reciprocity in Exiles by Douglas Fetherling A wonderful aspect of the long and tangled relationship between the United States and Canada is the way that the two societies have so often given refuge to each other's rebels.

I'm thinking not only of Loyalists, those rebels against rebellion, Read more Apr Douglas Fetherling - Chinese Eatons by Douglas Fetherling When Cora Hind, the first important female journalist in Western Canada, applied for work on the Winnipeg Free Press in , she was rebuffed because of her gender, even though she had recently qualified as a typewriter. Theodore Roszak is a professor of history best known for his youth-oriented book, Read more Luminosity by Itas E. Out of My Skin by T. Nov The Jane Jacobs of the Arctic - Robin Roger speaks with Jacobs by Robin Roger In Hannah Breece was lowered from a steamship into a rowboat and taken though crashing waves and torrents of rain to the island of Afognak, her first post as a teacher of natives in Alaska.

This arrival set the tone for her Read more Apr Douglas Fetherling - Edging out on a limb by Douglas Fetherling Being too close to the subject, we don't often look at how the reputation of Canadian literature is growing in other countries, or at how individual Canadian authors and academics are turning up with increased regularity in American Read more Judging by the media coverage, people were not so much shocked as perplexed Read more John is the author of a number of successful musical plays besides Billy Bishop Read more In fact, it's a book filled with photos of people who love Roots.

Arnold Schwarzenegger loves Roots-there's a picture of him smiling in his Roots shirt. The Essential Trudeau by Pierre E. NovDec Whipping up a Batch of Bees by Cynthia Sugars There are moments in life when you let go and allow your unconscious to carry you on its currents. These are the moments when you experience something that you have been faintly aware of but never able to put into words, when you are able to relive Read more The convention was held in an extravagant resort on the Atlantic coast of Florida.

Legend has it that during the s, its eccentric Read more He was born in in the eastern Polish town of Pinsk, which was annexed by the Soviet Union in He spent the war years in a small village near Warsaw.

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They took place over eighteen years. In the past twelve months, I had the opportunity to visit him while he was writing Ebony. NovDec Four Poems by Ryszard Kapuscinski by Tatars' Wasteland They left behind just sawdust and stalks yellowed grass dried-up bush cracked earth empty wells rock piles cold wind just Read more NovDec Ryszard Kapuscinski by Kapuscinski is one of the few great writers of our time trying to locate answers to the most pressing and fundamental questions posed for humanity.

His is a unique approach to writing which blends the objectivity of a reporter, Read more The Via Emilia, built in four years by the Romans, follows the ancient trade route beside the river Po through the town to the sea. Today, Parma is famed for it Read more My Year of Meats by Ruth L. While attending the University of Victoria, where she is completing a degree in creative writing this year, she met Floyd Read more Oct Putting the Pieces Together Again by Allan Levine Curiously enough, Pierre Berton's long journey on the road to becoming a national icon began with little fanfare.

As he recalled in a January Toronto Star column, reprinted in this witty and engrossing collection of his writings, it was during Read more Oct Telling History Artfully by Norman Ravvin It is ironic that Steven Spielberg, who loves to tell children's stories, shares responsibility for the recent reconsideration of two of the most difficult events of our era.

They settled in Vancouver. A few years later, she made the move to the U. She taught literature at Harvard and then worked for Read more Did James Murray ever have to head to the ladies' lingerie section of his local department store to determine how "brassiere" should be spelled in the Read more NovDec Deciphering the Silent Centre of Longing by Roman Sabo All post-colonial societies try to reclaim home turf from a version of history imposed by the colonizers who, in order to justify their activities, usually present the colonized as uncouth people in need of enforced enlightenment.

Stories about home, Read more Oct About the Writing Life by Ray Robertson Biographies about authors still alive tend to have, ironically, a certain lifelessness about them. Ironically, but not all that surprisingly. To begin with, there is the simple fact that all sorts of things that were or still are a part of the subject Read more Beside him sat a veteran of the War of Innovators ransack the old.

Iconoclasts look back with reverence. Nothing is truly new, nor is anything new Read more Oct Douglas Fetherling - Stalking the Stalkers by Douglas Fetherling In , two prospective literary biographers, both new to the genre, were competing to see who could come out first with a life study of Elizabeth Smart. Well, a fan column actually. No other recent work of Canadian non-fiction has impressed me more Read more Still fighting for a more humane, inclusive nation in an age when many Read more Apr From the borderlands - View of Bosnia from Princip's Bridge by Krzysztof Czyzewski "Objectivity, in Bosnia, could not be neutrality, and the head, in Bosnia, meant nothing without the heart.

Apr Invisible by In , in celebration of its 20th Anniversary, The Writers' Union initiated a Short Prose Competition for New Writers to discover, encourage, and promote emerging writers of fiction and non-fiction. One past winner and two finalists have since gone Read more Maccoby has done the meticulous research her students, colleagues, and general readers have come to expect of her.

The book cum textbook contains the introduction, chapter summaries Read more Apr The Epistle According to Disraeli by Mel Wiebe always has a well-thumbed copy of Burke's Peerage nearby so he can identify long-dead aristocrats. The walls of his workroom at Queen's University are lined with political biographies, copies of Hansard, almanacs, and nineteenth-century Read more Apr Untangling the Tentacles Around the human heart by Roman Sabo What can we do so as not to surrender to despair?

Is it possible to rescue our compassion for humanity? How can we preserve our ability to care? In answer to these fundamental questions, Jean Vanier, in Becoming Human a book comprising the Read more I don't know why I feel guilty towards myself, as if I had lost something and it was my own fault. Apr An American Ware: Wolfe in Georgia by Kevin Okeeffe If you have not read Tom Wolfe's latest effort, A Man In Full , you may be forgiven for presuming that this voluminous novel is worthy of the sort of serious attention usually reserved for acknowledged literary masters.

The essays, twenty-eight in all, constellate around topics near and dear Read more May Douglas Fetherling - Duelling Poet by Douglas Fetherling This year is the th Anniversary of the birth of the famous poet, Alexander Pushkin, whose works most ordinary Russians, including children and factory workers, can quote from memory in a way that isn't true of any English writer, Shakespeare included Read more May Dry Land of Days Where We Remain - on Brodsky by "A prominent forehead, hair swept back yet framing the head with a reddish halo, a sharp though not quite aquiline nose, and pale blue eyes-this is how I remember Joseph Brodsky when I met him at the Vancouver Airport in the fall of , when he arrive Read more As our leading apologist for reading, Manguel has certainly found Read more May Linguistic Disobedience and the Code of Conscience - a summation by "Unlike society, a good poet always has the future, and his poems, in a manner of speaking, are an invitation for us to sample it.

AR: In your Nobel Prize lecture, you write: "There are, as we know, three modes of cognition: analytical, intuitive, and the mode that was known to the biblical prophets Read more Lonergan was born in Buckingham, Quebec, in , and died eighty years later in Pickering, Ontario.

In the Read more Dec Letting Go of Anthology Guilt by Bruce Meyer Since this is an age of inclusiveness, which places emphasis on rethinking and retooling literary canons on a weekly basis, for whatever reasons polemical biases and literary trendiness come to mind as culprits , the anthologist's task is difficult. What Read more Where Does Kissing End?

May Brief Reviews - Medicine by Jeanette Bayduza To explain the complex subject of the cause of cancer in comprehensible terms to those not involved in this type of science is the purpose of Robert A. Two watchful readers, only hoping to avert treacherous reading accidents, by reading good reviews. Hoping to avert accidents caused by the timid, enclosed Read more I was in my mid-twenties then, and was aware of Layton's penchant for tweaking journalists' breasts and making titillating suggestions.

Stupid girl that I Read more JanFeb Hacking through to the Soul by Charles Levin "The soul of man is a far country, which cannot be approached or explored"- Heraclitus Ian Hacking is one of those rare philosophers whose mix of interests makes his work generally attractive, even beyond the academic circuit. At the University of Read more His poetry, in the main, is derived from an intense recollection of a Catholic childhood in eastern Newfoundland.

At its best, his poetry achieves a Read more Mar Caressing Unknown Flesh by R. Vaughan To Hell with Objectivity. I feel no need whatsoever to be anything less than ecstatic over the arrival, finally, of a book of selected plays by Sky Gilbert. Like many Queer writers, I am in debt to his ferocious, fearless quest for the truths of living Read more The best part of the job had little to do with my actual duties, which mainly entailed running copy as fast as I could from the fifth Read more Apr Poems Born Again? There is a lot of talk in this book.

But I suspect Read more Apr Compassion and the Globalization of the Spectacle of Suffering by As human beings have always suffered, so have they responded to the suffering of others. Compassion is as old as the human race. What is new is our window on the distress of fellow human beings no matter how remote from us. Thanks to the impact of the Read more HR A Biography of H.

Apr A Civil - Ian Coutts speaks with Mark Kingwell by "I think that the year is going to be the supercharged new year's eve of our lifetime. Mistry, a modest, Read more May An Alien World That's Going to Stay That Way by Jim Christy A few years ago, the nineteenth-century adventurer, linguist, and polymath Captain Sir Richard Burton was the central character of a film dramatizing the search for the greatest prize in exploration: the source of the Nile.

It wasn't a very good movie, as Read more May Light from Brain Damage by James Morton Jay Ingram is well known to Canadians from his weekly newspaper science columns, radio and television appearances, and popular science books. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock, W h e n he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed W h o at the bridge would be first to fall, W h o that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, — A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere. W h a t pictures to the taster rise, Of Dervish or of Almeh dances!

Of Eblis, or of Paradise, Set all aglow with Houri glances! The Koran's reader makes complaint Of Shitan dancing on and off it; The robber offers alms, the saint Drinks Tokay and blasphemes the Prophet. Such scenes that Eastern plant awakes; But we have one ordained to beat it. The Haschish of the West, which makes Or fools or knaves of all who eat it. The preacher eats, and straight appears His Bible in a new translation; Its angels negro overseers, And Heaven itself a snug plantation!

The man of peace, about whose dreams The sweet millennial angels cluster, Tastes the mad weed, and plots and schemes, A raving Cuban filibuster! The noisiest Democrat, with ease, It turns to Slavery's parish beadle; The shrewdest statesman eats and sees Due southward point the polar needle. The Judge partakes, and sits erelong Upon his bench a railing blackguard; Decides off-hand that right is wrong, And reads the ten commandments backward. O potent plant!

It has since been the subject of a good deal of conflicting testimony, and the story was probably incorrect in some of its details. It is admitted by all that Barbara Frietchie was no myth, but a worthy and highly esteemed gentlewoman, intensely loyal and a hater of the Slavery Rebellion, holding her Union flag sacred and keeping it with her Bible; that when the Confederates halted before her house, and entered her dooryard, she denounced them in vigorous language, shook her cane in their faces, and drove them out; and when General Burnside's troops followed close upon Jackson's, she waved her flag and cheered them.

It is stated that May Quantrell, a brave and loyal lady in another part of the city, did wave her flag in sight of the Confederates. It is possible that there has been a blending of the two incidents. Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall W h e n Lee marched over the mountain-wall; Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight. It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf, She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word; " W h o touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog!

March on! All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet: All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her! The Barefoot Boy Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! W i t h thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; W i t h thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; W i t h the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy, — I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art, — the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye, — Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, 55 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans!

For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks: Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, — Blessings on the barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, W h e n all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for.

I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Tlirough the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides!

Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin.

To screen themselves they charged their captain with the crime. I have read it with great interest and think good use has been made of the abundant material. No town in Essex County has a record more honorable than Marblehead; no one has done more to develop the industrial interests of our New England seaboard, and certainly none have given such evidence of self-sacrificing patriotism. I am glad the story of it has been at last told, and told so well. I have now no doubt that thy version of Skipper Ireson's ride is the correct one. My verse was founded solely on a fragment of rhyme which I heard from one of my early schoolmates, a native of Marblehead.

I supposed the story to which it referred dated back at least a century. I knew nothing of the participators, and the narrative of the ballad was pure fancy. I am glad for the sake of truth and justice that the real facts are given in thy book. I certainly would not knowingly do injustice to any one, dead or living.

Of all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme, — On Apuleius's Golden Ass, Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass, Witch astride of a human back, Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,— The strangest ride that ever was sped Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and ruffled in every part, Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, Shouting and singing the shrill refrain: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!

Back he answered, "Sink or swim! Brag of your catch of fish again! Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur That wreck shall lie forevermore. Mother and sister, wife and maid, Looked from the rocks of Marblehead Over the moaning and rainy sea, — Looked for the coming that might not be! W h a t did the winds and the sea-birds say Of the cruel captain who sailed away? Through the street, on either side, Up flew windows, doors swung wide; Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.

Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, Like an Indian idol glum and grim, Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear Of voices shouting, far and near: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead! W h a t is the shame that clothes the skin To the nameless horror that lives within? Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, And hear a cry from a reeling deck! Hate me and curse me, — I only dread The hand of God and the face of the dead!

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea Said, "God has touched him! Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Like two rose-leaves in sunshine when blowing, Just curled softly, gently apart, Were her lips by her passion, while growing In perfume on the stalk of her heart. At the birth of this fair virgin Vestal, She was taken for Venus' child; And her voice, though like diamond in crystal, Was not more melodious than mild.

Thus she stood on the arabesque borders Of the beautiful blossoms that blew On the banks of the crystalline waters, Every morn, in the diaphane dew. The Moon of Mobile The Song that she sang was all written In rubies that sparkled like wine, Like the Morning Star burning, new litten By the tablets of diamond divine.

About Anna:

Like some ravishing sound made from divers Sweet instruments fluting in June, From her soul flowed those musical rivers Of Odin, called the rivers of Rune. Then come to my bower, sweet Angel! Sweet Ellen! My Mary, mavourneen, the Moon of Mobile! Like the Gods when they feed on the blisses Of the undefiled glories above; So my soul drank delight from the kisses Of the lips of my beautiful love. Love's fountain of life to unseal; You shall live in this amber Evangel, Sweet Ellen!

It was the capital of Southern China, under the dynasty of the Song. I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb. The fourth; he broke into a roar; The fifth; his waistband split; The sixth; he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can. He read so much of that language, that his English half turned into it. He got caught in town, one hot summer, in pretty close quarters, and wrote, or began to write, a series of city pastorals.

I remember some of his verses, if you want to hear them. The old man had a great deal to say about "aestivation," as he called it, in opposition, as one might say, to hibernation. Intramural aestivation, or townlife in summer, he would say, is a peculiar form of suspended existence, or semi-asphyxia. One wakes up from it about the beginning of the last week in September. This is what I remember of his poem: — In candent ire the solar splendor flames; The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes, Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine! To me, alas! Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades! Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids!

Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous clump, — Depart, — be off, — excede, — evade, — erump! The Deacons Masterpiece Or, the wonderful "One-Hoss Shay" A logical story [The following note was prefaced to the poem when it appeared in an illustrated edition. The mind may take a certain pleasure in this picture of the impossible.

The event follows as a logical consequence of the presupposed condition of things. There is a practical lesson to be got out of the story. Observation shows us in what point any particular mechanism is most likely to give way. In a wagon, for instance, the weak point is where the axle enters the hub or nave. W h e n the wagon breaks down, three times out of four, I think, it is at this point that the accident occurs.

The workman should see to it that this part should never give way; then find the next vulnerable place, and so on, until he arrives logically at the perfect result attained by the deacon. Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits, — Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive, — Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will, — Above or below, or within or without, — And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, That a chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out. Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died.

That was the way he "put her through. I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren — where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day! Eighteen hundred increased by ten; — "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth.

This is a moral that runs at large; Take it. A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn't be, — for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there was n't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, And the back crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore.

And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out! First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small bovs, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. The parson was working his Sunday's text, — Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the — Moses — was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.

W h a t do you thing the parson found, W h e n he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once, — All at once, and nothing first, — Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say. Ode for a Social Meeting With Slight Alterations by a Teetotaler Here is a little poem I sent a short time since to a committee for a certain celebration. I understood that it was to be a festive and convivial occasion, and ordered myself accordingly. It seems the president of the day was what is called a "teetotaler. The sentiments expressed with reference to liquor are not, however, those generally entertained by this community.

I have therefore consulted the clergyman of this place, who has made some slight changes, which he thinks will remove all objections, and keep the valuable portions of the poem. Please to inform me of your charge for said poem. Our means are limited, etc. How sweet is the breath of the fragrance they shed! For summer's last roses-lie hid in the wines stable-boys smoking long-nines. That were garnered by maidens who laughed thro' the vines?

For all the good wine, and we've some of it here! In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all! Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all! I not wonder much That he who sails the ocean should be sad. I am myself reflective. W h e n I think Of all this wallowing beast, the Sea, has sucked Between his sharp thin lips, the wedgy waves, W h a t heaps of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls; W h a t piles of shekels, talents, ducats, crowns, W h a t bales of Tyrian mantles, Indian shawls, Of laces that have blanked the weavers' eyes, Of silken tissues, wrought by worm and man, The half-starved workman, and the well-fed worm; W h a t marbles, bronzes, pictures, parchments, books; W h a t many-lobuled, thought-engendering brains; Lie with the gaping sea-shells in his maw, — I, too, am silent; for all language seems A mockery, and the speech of man is vain.

O mariner, we look upon the waves And they rebuke our babbling. Tell me, O mariner, dost thou never feel The grandeur of thine office, — to control The keel that cuts the ocean like a knife And leaves a wake behind it like a seam In the great shining garment of the world? To the Captain. Ay, ay, Sir! Stiddy, Sir! What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! II Hear the mellow wedding bells Golden bells! W h a t a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! Oh, from out the sounding cells, W h a t a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

How it swells! How it dwells On the Future!

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Ill Hear the loud alarum bells — Brazen bells! W h a t a tale of terror, now their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Oh, the bells, bells, bells! W h a t a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! W h a t a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -— Of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — In the clamor and the clanging of the bells!

IV Hear the tolling of the bells — Iron bells! W h a t a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells: — Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells — To the sobbing of the bells: — Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells: — To the tolling of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology. I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. Mister Brown! Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town! He can't do it, because 'T is against all bird-laws. Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches An owl has a toe That can't turn out so!

I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears! To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed him don't half know his business! I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pass Off on you such poor glass; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff. Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown! I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.

In fact, about him there's not one natural feather. I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day! Jupiter and Ten Mrs.

Psychic Crime Solvers Unexplained Mysteries

Chub was rich and portly, Mrs. Chub was very grand, Mrs. Chub was always reckoned A lady in the land. You shall see her marble mansion In a very stately square, — Mr. Chub was so sagacious, Such a patron of the arts, And she gave such foreign orders, That she won all foreign hearts. Chub was always talking, When she went away from home, Of a prodigious painting Which had just arrived from Rome. Come to-morrow, gentlemen, Come and see our splendid painting, Our fine Jupiter and Ten. Chub departed, Our brains we all did rack, — She could not be mistaken, For the name was on the back.

But when we saw the picture, — Oh, Mrs. Oh, fie! We perused the printed label, And 't was Jupiter and Io! Lies eighteen centuries uneffaced, While many a page of bard and sage, Deemed once mankind's immortal gain, Lost from Time's ark, leaves no more mark Than a keel's furrow through the main. O Chance and Change! Too pressed to wait, upon her slate Fame writes a name or two in doubt; Scarce written, these no longer please, And her own ringer rubs them out: It may ensue, fair girl, that you Years hence this yellowing leaf may see, And put to task, your memory ask In vain, "This Lowell, who was he?

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room's one side W i t h half a cord o' wood in — There warn't no stoves tell comfort died To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back f'om Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clear grit an' human natur', None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — All is, he could n't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il. She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, W h e n her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole. She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper, — All ways to once her feelins flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin' o' 1'itered on the mat Some doubtfle o' the sekle, His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle. I come dasignin' " — "To see my Ma?

She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t' other, An' on which one he felt the wust He could n't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, "I'd better call agin;" Says she, "Think likely, Mister. Wal, he up an' kist her. W h e n Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes. For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'. Homer Wilbur's "Festina Lente" Once on a time there was a pool Fringed all about withflag-leavescool And spotted with cow-lilies garish, Of frogs and pouts the ancient parish.

Alders the creaking redwings sink on, Tussocks that house blithe Bob o' Lincoln Hedged round the unassailed seclusion, Where muskrats piled their cells Carthusian; And many a moss-embroidered log, The watering-place of summer frog, Slept and decayed with patient skill, As watering-places sometimes will. Now in this Abbey of Theleme, Which realized the fairest dream That ever dozing bull-frog had, Sunned on a half-sunk lily-pad, There rose a party with a mission To mend the polliwogs' condition, Who notified the selectmen To call a meeting there and then.

That boy, that came the other day To dig some flag-root down this way, His jack-knife left, and 't is a sign That Heaven approves of our design: 'T were wicked not to urge the step on, When Providence has sent the weapon. You'd better let 'em try to grow: Old Doctor Time is slow, but still He does know how to make a pill. Too soon it came; our pool, so long The theme of patriot bull-frog's song, Next day was reeking, fit to smother, W i t h heads and tails that missed each other, — Here snoutless tails, there tailless snouts: The only gainers were the pouts.

In dreams they doze, the drowsy boors, Their hazy hovel warm and small: Thought's ampler bound But chill is found: Within low doors the basking boors Snugly hug the ember-mound. Sleepless, I see the slumberous boors Their blurred eyes blink, their eyelids fall: Thought's eager sight Aches — overbright! Within low doors the boozy boors Cat-naps take in pipe-bowl light. No flushful tint the sense to warm — Pure outline pale, a linear charm. The clear-cut hills carved temples face, Respond, and share their sculptural grace.

The Lover and the Syringa-Bush Like a lit-up Christmas Tree, Like a grotto pranked with spars, Like white corals in green sea, Like night's sky of crowded stars — To me like these you show, Syringa Such heightening power has love, believe, While here by Eden's gate I linger Love's tryst to keep, with truant Eve. The New Ancient of Days The man of bone confirms his throne In cave where fossils be; Outdating every mummy known, Not older Cuvier's mastodon, Nor older much the sea: Old as the Glacial Period, he; And claims he calls to mind the day W h e n Thule's king, by reindeer drawn, His sleigh-bells jingling in icy morn, Slid clean from the Pole to the Wetterhorn Over frozen waters in May!

Oh, the man of the cave of Engihoul, W i t h Eld doth he dote and drule? C ; But do-do tracks, all up and down That slate he poreth much upon, His algebra may be: — Yea, there he cyphers and sums it free; To ages ere Indus met ocean's swell Addeth aeons ere Satan or Saturn fell. His totals of time make an awful schism, And old Chronos he pitches adown the abysm Like a pebble down Carisbrook well. Yea, the man of the cave of Engihoul From Moses knocks under the stool. In bas-relief he late has shown A horrible show, agreed — Megalosaurus, iguanodon, Palagotherium Glypthaecon, A Barnum-show raree; The vomit of slimy and sludgey sea: Purposeless creatures, odd inchoate things Which splashed thro' morasses on fleshly wings; The cubs of Chaos, with eyes askance, Preposterous griffins that squint at Chance And Anarch's cracked decree!

Oh the showman who dens in Engihoul, Would he fright us, or quit us, or fool? But, needs to own, he takes a tone, Satiric on nobs, pardee! And why cut your kinsman the ape? I'll settle these parvenu fellows, he-he! Diluvian Jove of Ducalion's day — A parting take to the Phocene clay! He swears no Ens that takes a name Commensurate is with the vasty claim Of the protoplastic Fegee.

O, the spook of the cave of Engihoul He flogs us and sends us to school. Hyena of bone! But the ogre of bone he snickers alone, He grins for his godless glee: "I have flung my stone, my fossil stone, And your gods, how they scamper," saith he. Clear the way there Jonathan!

Way for the President's marshal — way for the government cannon! Way for the Federal foot and dragoons, and the apparitions copiously tumbling. How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops! Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town. Why this is indeed a show — it has called the dead out of the earth!

The old graveyards of the hills have hurried to see! Cock'd hats of mothy mould — crutches made of mist! Arms in slings — old men leaning on young men's shoulders. Kleiner first sees you, he bursts out "Great Scott! The O. Also, Sheppard mentions a "flux capacitor". What Is It? This was Glover's character in Back to the Future. Whose Line Is It Anyway? Brown", which is a reference to Dr. Brown from "Back to the future". They both also travel time. Fox, including "Back to the Fuchsia". Life on Mars: Episode 1. Heist: Ladies and Gentlemen Reno ! Dangle says that he will be returning in a Delorean with Doc Brown.

Fearing a temporal paradox, he quickly hangs up and says "Great Scott" Doc Brown's recurrent line with his accent. The Abridged Series: Jagshamesh! Emmett Brown is seen in Imaginationland. Jackson's disappearance mimics that of Marty's older siblings. Lost in Austen: Episode 1. In the diner scene at the beginning, someone shouts 'Winchester! Dean also makes a reference to a DeLorean at a later point. Flying Delorean. The Fairly OddParents: 9 Lives! Ryan: That's from Back to the Future, it was on last night! Cyprien answer 2. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire: Episode 7. Back to the Future: Michael J.

American Dad! Watch me for the changes. The Thick of It: Episode 3. Many viewers saw this as a nod to one of Robert Zemeckis ' previous works, Back to the Future. However, when asked about it in an interview, Zemeckis said that had not occurred to him but reasoned it was a subconscious image.

Just give me a flux capacitor so I can get the hell out of here. The People vs. Fox after several weeks of filming. Fox is mentioned in relation to time travel. Brown in the older movie. Board James: Mr. Where we're going we don't need roads. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire: Episode 8. Grant try to connect the electrical cables they find that they are too short and must stretch them just as Dr. Emmett Brown had to in the movie. Brown';s time-traveling Deloran's license plate reads: "Outtatime". Emmett Brown Christopher Lloyd says, "Where we're going, we don't need roads.

WWE SmackDown vs. Where we're going we don't need roads". Frankie Boyle's Tramadol Nights: Episode 1. Michio Kaku mentions the DeLorean in this movie. Twin Pines took all my customers. His son, who died in , comes to visit him from the past. Not only is there time travel theme in this episode, but the year is the present time in Back To The Future films. Hoodwinked Too! Hood vs. Breaking In: Curb Your Enthusiasm: Larry vs.

Michael J. To which Michael replies that he feels like the conversation is going into time travel. Referencing Back to the Future, which came out in Marty McFly. Fox wore in Back to the Future. Discussing 80s movies, Rich Hall says "Why show a normal car when you can show a car that goes back into the future? Pastor Mike Online: Episode 1. Players can earn an achievement called "1. There's also a DeLorean with "88" written on it. In Thomas' room there's the poster hung on the wall and his car wears the "outatime" plate.

Also Alan uses the words "Grande Giove! Strangelove and Back to the Future, a time travel franchise which used the same Strangelove tribute. Cagan choose it as their contender for the best 80s movie. Fox's popularity. Beauty and the Geek Australia: Episode 4. It's Christmas, Carol! Impractical Jokers: Episode 1. He says "Where we're going, we don't need roads". A reference to a Doc Brown line from Back to the Future.

Young: Mr. In the movie, it's built into the car. In this episode, it's stored in the glove compartment. Lloyd's character frequently uses the phrase "Great Scott! In this scene, there is also a musical reference to the film. Where we're going, we don't need a road. The Office: A. Fax from "Fax to the Future"! This sets up the drama where the time traveling characters have to play cupid for the interrupted lovers, in order to fix the timeline back onto the right track and restore the history that was written.

There is also a scene where an artifact vanishes which reinforces the urgency of this timeline-correcting mission. A doctor is concerned because he lives in Hill Valley. I got a tricked-out Delorean in mint condition". Beauty and the Geek Australia: Episode 5. Teen Titans Go! Did that kid from the future come back? Emmett L. Brown from the Back to the Future franchise. Kurtzman and Doc Brown both have white hair, wear the same type of fedora Doc wore the fedora in at the high school in Part 1, and at the drive-in in Part 3 , and say the line "They found me.

I don't know how, but they found me. Chelsea Lately: Episode 8. We're Polite.