Essay --

In 1877, Elias moved to California, when he met his better half vegetation, in 1890 they moved to Chicago, they had 5 youngsters, Herbert Arthur, Raymond Arnold, Roy Oliver, Walter Walt Elias Disney, and Ruth Flora Disney. Walt was conceived in Chicago in 1901, after 4 years his folks moved to Marceline, which was the most significant stage in his life, it was his old neighborhood, and they lived on a homestead. Walt had unique emotions towards creatures. The first occasion when I heard Walt Disney’s story, was in this class, and it was told in an inventive path by my teacher. Toward the start of each class, our teacher played us a moment or two of Walt Disney’s melodies, which brought back cheerful and ameliorating recollections of my adolescence. Walt lived in Marceline, an ideal unassuming community. He went to the town’s school where he indicated enthusiasm for things that different children didn’t. When he figured out how to utilize a pencil, he experienced passionate feelings for drawing. He likewise loved acting; the primary job he played was Peter Pan, who at that point turned into a motivation to him. When Walt was ten years of age, the family moved to Kansas City, Missouri. His dad Elias had sold his ranch for 5175$ and purchased a distributorship for the morning Times and the Star paper. Walt and his sibling at that point began working for their dad. They used to get up promptly in the first part of the day and convey papers before going to class. In 1917, Elias moved his family back to Chicago. Walt went to secondary school there and turned into the sketch artist for the school’s paper. During his talk, our educator indicated us a little piece of Walt’s narrative film, how he used to make kid's shows become animated, just as procedures he had utilized. Walt needed to go to Europe and join the military, yet his dad was against his thought and was declining to si... ...come source, he met with the head of Universal picture; this man gave him a thought regarding re-discharging his old movies, similar to Snow White, it was re-discharged very nearly multiple times. Walt Disney was a genuine motivation to kids just as grown-ups, he made dreams work out as expected, and each and every one of his movies was a triumph. He assembled a domain following his fantasies, and accomplished his primary objective, which was engaging individuals everywhere throughout the world. Walt Disney was one of the best men in our period. He assembled an Empire following his fantasy; engaging individuals. His accomplishments made him a motivation for kids just as grown-ups to never abandon their fantasies. Lamentably his dependence on nicotine, lead to a tumor in his lungs that assumed control over his life on December fifteenth 1966 when he was just 65 years of age. Despite the fact that he’s died one can’t deny that he’s still a living inheritance.

Copper Essay -- essays research papers

Copper  â â â â â â â â â Copper is a mineral. it's anything but a plant or a creature. Copper is a metallic metal. It can never be separated into differnet substances by ordinary concoction implies. Copper was one of the primary metals known to people. Individuals enjoyed it in light of the fact that in it’s local condition, it could without much of a stretch be beaten into weapons or devices. Copper has been one of the most valuable metals for over 5000 years. Copper was likely utilized around 8000 B.C by individuals living along the Tigris and Euphrates streams. In 6000 B.C, Egyptians figured out how to pound copper into things they needed. Around 3500 B.C, People initially figured out how to liquefy copper with tin to make bronze. So the period between 3000 B.C and 1100 B.C got known as the bronze age.                Today, a portion of the main conditions of the copper business are Arizona with 747,000 short tons, Utah with 187,000 short tons, New Mexico with 161,000 short tons. Some other driving nations are Chile with 1,422,000 short tons, United States with 1,203,000 short tons, Soviet Union with 650,000 short tons, and Zambia with 596,000 short tons.           When copper is being mined, both Native copper and copper metal are normally found. The most noteworthy evaluation of copper metal is pale shiny dark. Excavators used to be consistently in peril in copper mines. Today, we have redu...

50 Reflections

50 Reflections Hello old friends. The blogs are turning ten years old today, and Petey asked me to write something to kick off the big anniversary celebration. The invitation is a complete honor. Its great to be back in my old virtual stomping grounds; Ive missed you a lot. I like what youve done with the place. Ten years wow. I was 30 years old when we launched the blogs, and I just turned 40. Its hard to believe an entire decade has passed. This narrative isnt likely to be particularly linear. But you guys probably dont care. (Thanks.) Inspired by my own 50 Things, I offer you 50 Reflections. Here goes The years I spent at MIT were among the best and, at the same time, the hardest years of my life. I wouldnt trade them for anything in the world. MIT alums often describe their experience the same way. Even in the most difficult moments, I dont recall ever once saying IHTFP. But then again, I never had to take 8.02. Everyone who works at MIT is expected to innovate, to push boundaries, to improve the world. There isnt a day that goes by in which I am not grateful for the privilege of having been a part of that culture at a critical moment in my career. It taught me so much about the world and about what I wanted to contribute to it. Much of the time I am convinced that you dont find MIT; rather, MIT finds you. This may not be obvious now, but it will be someday. 50 Things supposedly still gets the most traffic of any entry ever written on the MIT blogs. While I am really, really flattered, the entry I wish everyone would read is More Than A Job. I have a list of all the applicants whose stories really changed my life. Every so often I google them to see what theyre up to. I have yet to be disappointed. Some of them didnt get admitted to MIT. Students entering college this fall would have been just eight years old, give or take, when we started the admissions blogs. Yes, this makes me feel a bit old. Social media as we know it today didnt exist when we launched our great experiment of promoting unfiltered/uncensored narratives and connecting prospective and current students directly. Facebook was only a few months old and restricted to a handful of colleges, which ruled out pretty much all of our prospective students. Twitter was still a couple of years away, as was Tumblr. The lack of third-party resources, in large part, enabled the blogs to become the epicenter of the online community we hoped to build around MIT Admissions. It would be more difficult (maybe even impossible) to pull off such a centralized effort today. When I first saw the job posting, I checked out the MIT Admissions web site; at the time, it was basically a couple of text-only pages and not very inspiring. I remember thinking: in 2004, the greatest technology school in the world cant find any students who can build a decent web page? (Answer, once I had the opportunity to ask: were putting a rover on Mars / trying to cure cancer / creating the renewable energy systems of the future / etc. you seriously want us to waste time with html?) Matt McGann was my partner in crime throughout the genesis and early evolution of the blogs program. MIT was the first, so this was all new territory with no road map to follow. Ill be forever grateful for Matts willingness to be a sounding board and copilot in those years. Matt and I also used to present our successes and failures to hundreds of colleagues at national conferences. I like to think we played at least some part in the fact that today almost every institution of higher education showcases unfiltered primary source content as part of its recruitment strategy. In other words, I think MIT can take much of the credit for the shift weve seen on the national higher ed recruitment landscape in the last decade, away from engineered messaging and towards transparency and authenticity. Speaking of Matt, I first met him at my job interview. He had long hair and was wearing shorts and flip-flops; I thought he was a student. The super classy individual you now know as Matt McGann the one who gives Donald Sadoway a run for his money in terms of pure awesomeness began emerging when he started dating Tina (also an MIT alum), who is now his wife. Correlation ? causation, of course, but everyone I know still gives Tina the credit. ;-) The original blogs were inspired in part by the experience of Amrys Williams, MIT alum and fellow admissions officer who was an avid blogger outside of work. She wrote about her world in general, which included the occasional entry on her job. She noticed a fair amount of traffic (and even an occasional comment from the particularly brave individual) coming from prospective students who were hoping to mine her MIT-related entries for insider info on the admissions process and stories of the real MIT. Which made us all think, hmmmmmm. Amrys also introduced me to Movable Type, which (after a brief stint with the now-defunct blogs.mit.edu portal) was the first publishing platform we used for the blogs. In the beginning, each blogger had his or her own install of MT, i.e. all the blogs were separate. There was no easy way to navigate between them or to cross-pollinate content. The first bloggers were students Mitra, Bryan, and Sam, along with employees me, Matt, and financial aid director Daniel Barkowitz. Links to the blogs were buried in the bottom corner of the static admissions site, well below the scroll, but in almost no time they were commanding most of the traffic another thing that made us think, hmmmmmm. Over the years Ive been given a lot of credit for my work on pioneering admissions blogs and the move to prioritizing student-centered primary source content. Im flattered but, to be clear, the best thing I ever did at MIT was to simply listen to what you (the prospective students) were telling us about what you wanted/needed and to convince my bosses that we should build an entirely new admissions site that reflected those things. They gave me the green light, and the rest is history. It didnt take a genius. Its worth noting, however, that at the time, MIT might have been the only institution in the country willing to take on this level of (perceived) risk. As we all know, it paid off: Yes, I know that graph is manipulative because the Y-axis starts at 10K and not 0. Remember, Im paid to engineer messaging, not robots. I built the original site in early 2005 using html tables and virtually no css. Despite the old-school nature of the code, that version worked pretty well for many years. The office brought everything into modern times sometime after I left. After importing and compiling all of the individual MT installs into the new backend, I realized that the thousands of entries would now need to be retagged with the universal categories we had established. I hired Mollie to tackle this project. She sat on my couch for the entire summer, reading every entry and tagging accordingly. Im convinced that her experience in the lab gave her the stamina necessary to complete so many hours of boring grunt work. Speaking of that couch, it had students sitting on it around the clock, doing homework, sleeping, whatever. Most were bloggers, but not all. I loved being able to look up from my desk and get student opinions on whatever I happened to be working on. The big reason our communications were so successful was that everything we released was student-approved. Oh, and unless you are Mollie, College Confidential will take years off your life, it really will. CPW is the greatest moment in the annual cycle. I never slept more than 4 hours a night during CPW. The energy of the admitted students is totally infectious. The CPW cannon hack was more incredible in person than you can imagine. Ditto for the fire truck on the dome. When working the CPW registration desk, I used to prank Mikey Yang constantly. He always worked the phones. So Id call him from an outside line (Id be sitting only a few feet away) and pretend to be an irate parent. Me: MY DAUGHTER HAS BEEN WAITING AT LOGAN FOR 40 MINUTES AND NO ONE HAS GREETED HER! SHES FROM A SMALL TOWN IN THE MIDWEST WITH 400 PEOPLE AND HAS NEVER BEEN ON AN AIRPLANE. SHES ALL ALONE AND TERRIFIED AND CRYING AND Mikey: Sir, sir, I am so sorry. We will get someone over there right away. Which terminal is she Me: DONT TRY TO PACIFY ME, SON. WHAT IS YOUR NAME? WITH WHOM AM I SPEAKING? Mikey: My name is Mike Yang, sir. I just Me: WELL LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING, MIKE YANG. DO YOU HAVE ANY KIDS? DO YOU??? DO YOU KNOW WHAT ITS LIKE TO SEND YOUR FIRST-BORN OFF TO A LARGE CITY 1500 MILES AWAY? TO PUT HER SAFETY IN THE HANDS OF TOTAL STRANGERS? STRANGERS LIKE YOU? (By now everyone else at check-in would be dying of laughter and Mikey would look over at us and realize what was happening.) The beauty of this was that I could do it over and over again, because even though he always thought it was me, he couldnt risk being wrong. Epic. I attended many lectures during my four years at MIT. If I had to pick a favorite, it would be Eric Landers overview of the human genome project. That part where he casually draws a parallel between debugging elite code and curing cancer at the DNA level yeah. Mind. Blown. (Of course, I could have totally misunderstood what he was saying. But still.) If you read only one entry from the post-Ben era, let it be this one by Lydia. This is everything the blogs were designed to do. Over the course of my four years at MIT I had several offers to, um, join a tour of certain lesser-known parts of the campus. For whatever reason, I never accepted. This is perhaps my single biggest MIT-related regret. My first name is Edward (Ben is from my middle name). When I moved into 3-107 with Edmund Jones, MIT Admissions Administrative Officer, we had the door repainted to say E.Jones2. Half of MIT thought this was really cool. The other half complained that it should have been 2(E.Jones), so we had to invent a story about being superheroes whose powers grew exponentially when we were together. If called upon to do an MIT info session today, I could totally rock it. Thats because we didnt memorize a script; we internalized a culture. I would no doubt have forgotten a script after all this time. The story of William Barton Rogers and the ideals on which he founded MIT still inspires me. I still meet students who tell me they cant apply to MIT (or to Oberlin, where I now work) because theyre certain they cant afford it. Given how much effort these places put into broadcasting their financial aid policies, this boggles my mind. Spread the word: if you get in, MIT will make the money part work for you. Period. Stu Schmill is one of the most awesome human beings on the planet. His unwavering kindness, ethics, and care for every individual he encounters in the admissions process are an inspiration. He embodies MIT. Working for him was one of the great honors of my life. Stu is also a rockstar at karaoke. I have videos. Bryan Nance taught me to see the world through a careful and nuanced understanding of context and the impact of privilege. These lessons completely changed my life, and far beyond the world of admissions. You will not meet a more dedicated or selfless person, nor one who has had as much of an impact on admissions-related social justice in this country. The first time Kirk Kolenbrander ever called me, he left a voicemail that said I want to talk with you about the blogs. Please return my call at your earliest opportunity. It sounded urgent. I pulled up the site immediately to see what may have prompted the call. There, at the top, was a photo of a chocolate penis courtesy of, I think, Mitra. (The entry was on a recent event for sexual health awareness or some such, and the chocolate was the icebreaker.) YUP, THIS IS WHERE I GET FIRED, I thought. Pretty sure I was shaking when I called Kirk back. Turns out he was just calling to let me know that President Hockfield was a big fan of the blogs and wanted to take the student bloggers out to lunch. (Recalling this memory still makes my heart race.) If you know what you are doing, you can almost always get Kim Hunter to cry on cue with stories of great beauty, sadness, joy, whatever. Nance and I used to take bets. Kim also gives the best hugs. (Sometimes the hug makes her cry though.) To all the folks working behind the scenes, past and present: Joanne, Mari, Kirsten, Edmund, Marilyn, Gisel, Ellen, Alyssa, Vicki, Rick, Elizabeth, Jon, Meredith, Sofia, Diane, Sue, Karen, and the many others Ive undoubtedly forgotten to mention who rarely receive any public recognition but without whom everything would fall apart: thank you. I will be indebted to you forever, in so many ways big and small. There are several annual admissions conferences, but the one that almost everyone attends is called NACAC. The educational sessions are great, but the best part is the informal bonding with the only other people in the country who truly understand how hard the job is. We would talk as much about our kids who didnt get in as we would about those who did. One year at NACAC, to settle a score (the details of which escape me), Nance stole a bunch of Edmunds business cards and enthusiastically distributed them at the vendor fair. I think Edmund is probably still getting calls. On October 2, 2009, the blogs were featured on the front page of the New York Times above the fold, no less. (Here is the online version.) I was so proud. We spent many years getting to that place. It meant a lot to be recognized on such a prominent national stage. Its been six years since I left MIT, and people still email me regularly to ask what the secret is to getting in. My answer hasnt changed: THERE IS NO SECRET/FORMULA/WHATEVER. OMG, PLEASE STOP INSISTING THAT THERE IS. That said, I suppose its possible that everyone who gets into MIT has figured out time travel, which they employ in various ways to ultimately guarantee admission. How would I know? Actually Stu and Matt and all the other alums in the office would know, so scratch that hypothesis. The lessons I learned at MIT are reflected in my work every single day. Embrace risk, learn from your inevitable failures along the way, never be satisfied. Oh, and simply changing the world isnt enough; you must be deliberate in seeking to change it in positive ways. Remember: WWWBRD? Marilee Jones, the Dean who hired me, taught me almost everything I know about being an effective boss and managing a team: have a vision, hire great people, inspire them, give them ownership, and then get out of their way. The most important part of your job is to remove the roadblocks and red tape that might slow them down, and to have their back if anything goes wrong. I dedicate this list to Lorelle Espinosa, who saw something in me that I wasnt yet ready to see, and in doing so inadvertently launched this crazy and awesome adventure. And finally, some parting words: every application was a chapter in the best story I have ever read. If you want to remain hopeful about the future of the world and be appropriately optimistic on a daily basis, become an admissions officer. Heres to the next ten years, friends. Be well. And a huge thanks to everyone who has so carefully nurtured our little experiment especially Petey. My baby could not be in better hands. To bloggers past, present, and future, youre all stars. 3 Post Tagged #50 Things

8 Best Books for New Christians in 2019

Sociology of Health - 2696 Words

Sociology of Health Author’s Name Institution’s Affiliation Sociology of Health The social perspective in sociology of health explains the societys view concerning health. It is a discipline that describes an illness using social factors present in daily activities of life. Sociologists show how wellness and disease, the treatment and explanation of illness production in a social organization can be understood differently from a medical perspective of nature, biology, and lifestyle in an attempt of explaining sickness (Bahar, 2013). It is a significant facet of interpreting biological information that shows the creation of health and disease in a political, social, and cultural environment. In describing various social phenomena,†¦show more content†¦The state of neutrality characterizes this relationship (Rogers, 2011). In return for compliance, the patient gets medical care through the doctor’s right to diagnose, examine, and treat. The example occurs when a patient comes to hospital and cooperates with the physician during the medical examinat ion till the very treatment. Sick people regard a disease as the issue that makes one seek medical help granting the access to the sick role. The patient’s compliance guarantees medical care in which both parties benefit on a neutral ground. According to Goold and Lipkin (1999), the doctor-patient relationship is essential in care. It forms the medium of data gathering, making diagnoses and plans, compliance achievement, healing and core in patient support and activation. In the health care system, the doctor-patient relationship is the market’s practicality of satisfaction, in which the patient makes some decisions on whether to stay with the particular service or not (Goold amp; Lipkin, 1999). The connection is an important facet of the healthcare industry in the delivery of quality health care. Goold and Lipkin (1999) describe the communication between doctors and their patients as a whole science incorporating philosophy and sociological aspects in system encounters guiding decision making. It is an area of modern sociology in the medical field that influences medical practitioners to be more effective and efficient in care delivery. Cockerham (2007) describesShow MoreRelatedThe Sociology Of Health And Illness1292 Words   |  6 Pagesthat Medical sociology or the sociology of health and illness is majorly based on the empiricist philosophy which uses the measurement of objectives for quantitative change. 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The chosen concern and debate in health and medicine that has been chosen for this discussion is the narrative analysis of the link between marijuana use and work/school performance, which was produced by Moravek, Johnson Dunlap (2007). Through this enriched understanding of the importance, value and meaning of narrative analysis, the effects of this concern of health and medicine are much easily grasped. In thisRead MoreMajor Sociology Of Health And Aging1994 Words   |  8 Pageschose to major in sociology of health and aging is because I was always really interested in the definition of health. How is health defined within and betwe en cultures? Is there a universal definition of health and if so who gets to create said definition. As I become more and more involved in this idea of health I found it to be socially constructed depending on the culture on belongs too. There is no one definition for even within a specific culture an individual’s health is changing over timeRead MoreEssay on Understanding the Sociology of Health1980 Words   |  8 Pages Health can be defined in three different ways; negatively, positively and holistically as well as contextually, that will differ from person to person. The English word for health is derived from the old English word ‘hale’ meaning â€Å"Wholeness and wellness†, in this essay I will be exploring the different definitions, views and models of health. The World Health organization defines health as â€Å"Health is a state of complete physical, mental and social well-being and not merely the absence ofRead MoreHealth: Sociology and Social Care9095 Words   |  37 PagesHNC/D Health and Social Care ------------------------------------------------- UNIT DIRECTORY Unit title: COMMUNICATING IN HEALTH AND SOCIAL CARE ORGANISATIONS Unit code: T/601/1560 Level: 4 Credit value: 15 ------------------------------------------------- AIMS The aim of this unit is to develop learners’ awareness of different forms of communication used in health and social care settings and its importance for effective service delivery. 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A Game of Thrones Chapter Sixty-six Free Essays

string(31) " her arms and not on her back\." Bran The oldest were men grown, seventeen and eighteen years from the day of their naming. One was past twenty. Most were younger, sixteen or less. We will write a custom essay sample on A Game of Thrones Chapter Sixty-six or any similar topic only for you Order Now Bran watched them from the balcony of Maester Luwin’s turret, listening to them grunt and strain and curse as they swung their staves and wooden swords. The yard was alive to the clack of wood on wood, punctuated all too often by thwacks and yowls of pain when a blow struck leather or flesh. Ser Rodrik strode among the boys, face reddening beneath his white whiskers, muttering at them one and all. Bran had never seen the old knight look so fierce. â€Å"No,† he kept saying. â€Å"No. No. No.† â€Å"They don’t fight very well,† Bran said dubiously. He scratched Summer idly behind the ears as the direwolf tore at a haunch of meat. Bones crunched between his teeth. â€Å"For a certainty,† Maester Luwin agreed with a deep sigh. The maester was peering through his big Myrish lens tube, measuring shadows and noting the position of the comet that hung low in the morning sky. â€Å"Yet given time . . . Ser Rodrik has the truth of it, we need men to walk the walls. Your lord father took the cream of his guard to King’s Landing, and your brother took the rest, along with all the likely lads for leagues around. Many will not come back to us, and we must needs find the men to take their places.† Bran stared resentfully at the sweating boys below. â€Å"If I still had my legs, I could beat them all.† He remembered the last time he’d held a sword in his hand, when the king had come to Winterfell. It was only a wooden sword, yet he’d knocked Prince Tommen down half a hundred times. â€Å"Ser Rodrik should teach me to use a poleaxe. If I had a poleaxe with a big long haft, Hodor could be my legs. We could be a knight together.† â€Å"I think that . . . unlikely,† Maester Luwin said. â€Å"Bran, when a man fights, his arms and legs and thoughts must be as one.† Below in the yard, Ser Rodrik was yelling. â€Å"You fight like a goose. He pecks you and you peck him harder. Parry! Block the blow. Goose fighting will not suffice. If those were real swords, the first peck would take your arm off!† One of the other boys laughed, and the old knight rounded on him. â€Å"You laugh. You. Now that is gall. You fight like a hedgehog . . . â€Å" â€Å"There was a knight once who couldn’t see,† Bran said stubbornly, as Ser Rodrik went on below. â€Å"Old Nan told me about him. He had a long staff with blades at both ends and he could spin it in his hands and chop two men at once.† â€Å"Symeon Star-Eyes,† Luwin said as he marked numbers in a book. â€Å"When he lost his eyes, he put star sapphires in the empty sockets, or so the singers claim. Bran, that is only a story, like the tales of Florian the Fool. A fable from the Age of Heroes.† The maester tsked. â€Å"You must put these dreams aside, they will only break your heart.† The mention of dreams reminded him. â€Å"I dreamed about the crow again last night. The one with three eyes. He flew into my bedchamber and told me to come with him, so I did. We went down to the crypts. Father was there, and we talked. He was sad.† â€Å"And why was that?† Luwin peered through his tube. â€Å"It was something to do about Jon, I think.† The dream had been deeply disturbing, more so than any of the other crow dreams. â€Å"Hodor won’t go down into the crypts.† The maester had only been half listening, Bran could tell. He lifted his eye from the tube, blinking. â€Å"Hodor won’t . . . â€Å" â€Å"Go down into the crypts. When I woke, I told him to take me down, to see if Father was truly there. At first he didn’t know what I was saying, but I got him to the steps by telling him to go here and go there, only then he wouldn’t go down. He just stood on the top step and said ‘Hodor,’ like he was scared of the dark, but I had a torch. It made me so mad I almost gave him a swat in the head, like Old Nan is always doing.† He saw the way the maester was frowning and hurriedly added, â€Å"I didn’t, though.† â€Å"Good. Hodor is a man, not a mule to be beaten.† â€Å"In the dream I flew down with the crow, but I can’t do that when I’m awake,† Bran explained. â€Å"Why would you want to go down to the crypts?† â€Å"I told you. To look for Father.† The maester tugged at the chain around his neck, as he often did when he was uncomfortable. â€Å"Bran, sweet child, one day Lord Eddard will sit below in stone, beside his father and his father’s father and all the Starks back to the old Kings in the North . . . but that will not be for many years, gods be good. Your father is a prisoner of the queen in King’s Landing. You will not find him in the crypts.† â€Å"He was there last night. I talked to him.† â€Å"Stubborn boy,† the maester sighed, setting his book aside. â€Å"Would you like to go see?† â€Å"I can’t. Hodor won’t go, and the steps are too narrow and twisty for Dancer.† â€Å"I believe I can solve that difficulty.† In place of Hodor, the wildling woman Osha was summoned. She was tall and tough and uncomplaining, willing to go wherever she was commanded. â€Å"I lived my life beyond the Wall, a hole in the ground won’t fret me none, m’lords,† she said. â€Å"Summer, come,† Bran called as she lifted him in wiry-strong arms. The direwolf left his bone and followed as Osha carried Bran across the yard and down the spiral steps to the cold vault under the earth. Maester Luwin went ahead with a torch. Bran did not even mind—too badly—that she carried him in her arms and not on her back. You read "A Game of Thrones Chapter Sixty-six" in category "Essay examples" Ser Rodrik had ordered Osha’s chain struck off, since she had served faithfully and well since she had been at Winterfell. She still wore the heavy iron shackles around her ankles—a sign that she was not yet wholly trusted—but they did not hinder her sure strides down the steps. Bran could not recall the last time he had been in the crypts. It had been before, for certain. When he was little, he used to play down here with Robb and Jon and his sisters. He wished they were here now; the vault might not have seemed so dark and scary. Summer stalked out in the echoing gloom, then stopped, lifted his head, and sniffed the chill dead air. He bared his teeth and crept backward, eyes glowing golden in the light of the maester’s torch. Even Osha, hard as old iron, seemed uncomfortable. â€Å"Grim folk, by the look of them,† she said as she eyed the long row of granite Starks on their stone thrones. â€Å"They were the Kings of Winter,† Bran whispered. Somehow it felt wrong to talk too loudly in this place. Osha smiled. â€Å"Winter’s got no king. If you’d seen it, you’d know that, summer boy.† â€Å"They were the Kings in the North for thousands of years,† Maester Luwin said, lifting the torch high so the light shone on the stone faces. Some were hairy and bearded, shaggy men fierce as the wolves that crouched by their feet. Others were shaved clean, their features gaunt and sharp-edged as the iron longswords across their laps. â€Å"Hard men for a hard time. Come.† He strode briskly down the vault, past the procession of stone pillars and the endless carved figures. A tongue of flame trailed back from the upraised torch as he went. The vault was cavernous, longer than Winterfell itself, and Jon had told him once that there were other levels underneath, vaults even deeper and darker where the older kings were buried. It would not do to lose the light. Summer refused to move from the steps, even when Osha followed the torch, Bran in her arms. â€Å"Do you recall your history, Bran?† the maester said as they walked. â€Å"Tell Osha who they were and what they did, if you can.† He looked at the passing faces and the tales came back to him. The maester had told him the stories, and Old Nan had made them come alive. â€Å"That one is Jon Stark. When the sea raiders landed in the east, he drove them out and built the castle at White Harbor. His son was Rickard Stark, not my father’s father but another Rickard, he took the Neck away from the Marsh King and married his daughter. Theon Stark’s the real thin one with the long hair and the skinny beard. They called him the ‘Hungry Wolf,’ because he was always at war. That’s a Brandon, the tall one with the dreamy face, he was Brandon the Shipwright, because he loved the sea. His tomb is empty. He tried to sail west across the Sunset Sea and was never seen again. His son was Brandon the Burner, because he put the torch to all his father’s ships in grief. There’s Rodrik Stark, who won Bear Island in a wrestling match and gave it to the Mormonts. And that’s Torrh en Stark, the King Who Knelt. He was the last King in the North and the first Lord of Winterfell, after he yielded to Aegon the Conqueror. Oh, there, he’s Cregan Stark. He fought with Prince Aemon once, and the Dragonknight said he’d never faced a finer swordsman.† They were almost at the end now, and Bran felt a sadness creeping over him. â€Å"And there’s my grandfather, Lord Rickard, who was beheaded by Mad King Aerys. His daughter Lyanna and his son Brandon are in the tombs beside him. Not me, another Brandon, my father’s brother. They’re not supposed to have statues, that’s only for the lords and the kings, but my father loved them so much he had them done.† â€Å"The maid’s a fair one,† Osha said. â€Å"Robert was betrothed to marry her, but Prince Rhaegar carried her off and raped her,† Bran explained. â€Å"Robert fought a war to win her back. He killed Rhaegar on the Trident with his hammer, but Lyanna died and he never got her back at all.† â€Å"A sad tale,† said Osha, â€Å"but those empty holes are sadder.† â€Å"Lord Eddard’s tomb, for when his time comes,† Maester Luwin said. â€Å"Is this where you saw your father in your dream, Bran?† â€Å"Yes.† The memory made him shiver. He looked around the vault uneasily, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. Had he heard a noise? Was there someone here? Maester Luwin stepped toward the open sepulchre, torch in hand. â€Å"As you see, he’s not here. Nor will he be, for many a year. Dreams are only dreams, child.† He thrust his arm into the blackness inside the tomb, as into the mouth of some great beast. â€Å"Do you see? It’s quite empt—† The darkness sprang at him, snarling. Bran saw eyes like green fire, a flash of teeth, fur as black as the pit around them. Maester Luwin yelled and threw up his hands. The torch went flying from his fingers, caromed off the stone face of Brandon Stark, and tumbled to the statue’s feet, the flames licking up his legs. In the drunken shifting torchlight, they saw Luwin struggling with the direwolf, beating at his muzzle with one hand while the jaws closed on the other. â€Å"Summer!† Bran screamed. And Summer came, shooting from the dimness behind them, a leaping shadow. He slammed into Shaggydog and knocked him back, and the two direwolves rolled over and over in a tangle of grey and black fur, snapping and biting at each other, while Maester Luwin struggled to his knees, his arm torn and bloody. Osha propped Bran up against Lord Rickard’s stone wolf as she hurried to assist the maester. In the light of the guttering torch, shadow wolves twenty feet tall fought on the wall and roof. â€Å"Shaggy,† a small voice called. When Bran looked up, his little brother was standing in the mouth of Father’s tomb. With one final snap at Summer’s face, Shaggydog broke off and bounded to Rickon’s side. â€Å"You let my father be,† Rickon warned Luwin. â€Å"You let him be.† â€Å"Rickon,† Bran said softly. â€Å"Father’s not here.† â€Å"Yes he is. I saw him.† Tears glistened on Rickon’s face. â€Å"I saw him last night.† â€Å"In your dream . . . ?† Rickon nodded. â€Å"You leave him. You leave him be. He’s coming home now, like he promised. He’s coming home.† Bran had never seen Maester Luwin took so uncertain before. Blood dripped down his arm where Shaggydog had shredded the wool of his sleeve and the flesh beneath. â€Å"Osha, the torch,† he said, biting through his pain, and she snatched it up before it went out. Soot stains blackened both legs of his uncle’s likeness. â€Å"That . . . that beast,† Luwin went on, â€Å"is supposed to be chained up in the kennels.† Rickon patted Shaggydog’s muzzle, damp with blood. â€Å"I let him loose. He doesn’t like chains.† He licked at his fingers. â€Å"Rickon,† Bran said, â€Å"would you like to come with me?† â€Å"No. I like it here.† â€Å"It’s dark here. And cold.† â€Å"I’m not afraid. I have to wait for Father.† â€Å"You can wait with me,† Bran said. â€Å"We’ll wait together, you and me and our wolves.† Both of the direwolves were licking wounds now, and would bear close watching. â€Å"Bran,† the maester said firmly, â€Å"I know you mean well, but Shaggydog is too wild to run loose. I’m the third man he’s savaged. Give him the freedom of the castle and it’s only a question of time before he kills someone. The truth is hard, but the wolf has to be chained, or . . . rdquo He hesitated . . . or killed, Bran thought, but what he said was, â€Å"He was not made for chains. We will wait in your tower, all of us.† â€Å"That is quite impossible,† Maester Luwin said. Osha grinned. â€Å"The boy’s the lordling here, as I recall.† She handed Luwin back his torch and scooped Bran up into her arms again. â€Å"The maester’s tower it is.† â€Å"Will you come, Rickon?† His brother nodded. â€Å"If Shaggy comes too,† he said, running after Osha and Bran, and there was nothing Maester Luwin could do but follow, keeping a wary eye on the wolves. Maester Luwin’s turret was so cluttered that it seemed to Bran a wonder that he ever found anything. Tottering piles of books covered tables and chairs, rows of stoppered jars lined the shelves, candle stubs and puddles of dried wax dotted the furniture, the bronze Myrish lens tube sat on a tripod by the terrace door, star charts hung from the walls, shadow maps lay scattered among the rushes, papers, quills, and pots of inks were everywhere, and all of it was spotted with droppings from the ravens in the rafters. Their strident quorks drifted down from above as Osha washed and cleaned and bandaged the maester’s wounds, under Luwin’s terse instruction. â€Å"This is folly,† the small grey man said while she dabbed at the wolf bites with a stinging ointment. â€Å"I agree that it is odd that both you boys dreamed the same dream, yet when you stop to consider it, it’s only natural. You miss your lord father, and you know that he is a captive. Fear ca n fever a man’s mind and give him queer thoughts. Rickon is too young to comprehend—† â€Å"I’m four now,† Rickon said. He was peeking through the lens tube at the gargoyles on the First Keep. The direwolves sat on opposite sides of the large round room, licking their wounds and gnawing on bones. â€Å"—too young, and—ooh, seven hells, that burns, no, don’t stop, more. Too young, as I say, but you, Bran, you’re old enough to know that dreams are only dreams.† â€Å"Some are, some aren’t.† Osha poured pale red firemilk into a long gash. Luwin gasped. â€Å"The children of the forest could tell you a thing or two about dreaming.† Tears were streaming down the maester’s face, yet he shook his head doggedly. â€Å"The children . . . live only in dreams. Now. Dead and gone. Enough, that’s enough. Now the bandages. Pads and then wrap, and make it tight, I’ll be bleeding.† â€Å"Old Nan says the children knew the songs of the trees, that they could fly like birds and swim like fish and talk to the animals,† Bran said. â€Å"She says that they made music so beautiful that it made you cry like a little baby just to hear it.† â€Å"And all this they did with magic,† Maester Luwin said, distracted. â€Å"I wish they were here now. A spell would heal my arm less painfully, and they could talk to Shaggydog and tell him not to bite.† He gave the big black wolf an angry glance out of the corner of his eye. â€Å"Take a lesson, Bran. The man who trusts in spells is dueling with a glass sword. As the children did. Here, let me show you something.† He stood abruptly, crossed the room, and returned with a green jar in his good hand. â€Å"Have a look at these,† he said as he pulled the stopper and shook out a handful of shiny black arrowheads. Bran picked one up. â€Å"It’s made of glass.† Curious, Rickon drifted closer to peer over the table. â€Å"Dragonglass,† Osha named it as she sat down beside Luwin, bandagings in hand. â€Å"Obsidian,† Maester Luwin insisted, holding out his wounded arm. â€Å"Forged in the fires of the gods, far below the earth. The children of the forest hunted with that, thousands of years ago. The children worked no metal. In place of mail, they wore long shirts of woven leaves and bound their legs in bark, so they seemed to melt into the wood. In place of swords, they carried blades of obsidian.† â€Å"And still do.† Osha placed soft pads over the bites on the maester’s forearm and bound them tight with long strips of linen. Bran held the arrowhead up close. The black glass was slick and shiny. He thought it beautiful. â€Å"Can I keep one?† â€Å"As you wish,† the maester said. â€Å"I want one too,† Rickon said. â€Å"I want four. I’m four.† Luwin made him count them out. â€Å"Careful, they’re still sharp. Don’t cut yourself.† â€Å"Tell me about the children,† Bran said. It was important. â€Å"What do you wish to know?† â€Å"Everything.† Maester Luwin tugged at his chain collar where it chafed against his neck. â€Å"They were people of the Dawn Age, the very first, before kings and kingdoms,† he said. â€Å"In those days, there were no castles or holdfasts, no cities, not so much as a market town to be found between here and the sea of Dorne. There were no men at all. Only the children of the forest dwelt in the lands we now call the Seven Kingdoms. â€Å"They were a people dark and beautiful, small of stature, no taller than children even when grown to manhood. They lived in the depths of the wood, in caves and crannogs and secret tree towns. Slight as they were, the children were quick and graceful. Male and female hunted together, with weirwood bows and flying snares. Their gods were the gods of the forest, stream, and stone, the old gods whose names are secret. Their wise men were called greenseers, and carved strange faces in the weirwoods to keep watch on the woods. How long the children reigned here or where they came from, no man can know. â€Å"But some twelve thousand years ago, the First Men appeared from the east, crossing the Broken Arm of Dorne before it was broken. They came with bronze swords and great leathern shields, riding horses. No horse had ever been seen on this side of the narrow sea. No doubt the children were as frightened by the horses as the First Men were by the faces in the trees. As the First Men carved out holdfasts and farms, they cut down the faces and gave them to the fire. Horror-struck, the children went to war. The old songs say that the greenseers used dark magics to make the seas rise and sweep away the land, shattering the Arm, but it was too late to close the door. The wars went on until the earth ran red with blood of men and children both, but more children than men, for men were bigger and stronger, and wood and stone and obsidian make a poor match for bronze. Finally the wise of both races prevailed, and the chiefs and heroes of the First Men met the greenseers and wood dancers a midst the weirwood groves of a small island in the great lake called Gods Eye. â€Å"There they forged the Pact. The First Men were given the coastlands, the high plains and bright meadows, the mountains and bogs, but the deep woods were to remain forever the children’s, and no more weirwoods were to be put to the axe anywhere in the realm. So the gods might bear witness to the signing, every tree on the island was given a face, and afterward, the sacred order of green men was formed to keep watch over the Isle of Faces. â€Å"The Pact began four thousand years of friendship between men and children. In time, the First Men even put aside the gods they had brought with them, and took up the worship of the secret gods of the wood. The signing of the Pact ended the Dawn Age, and began the Age of Heroes.† Bran’s fist curled around the shiny black arrowhead. â€Å"But the children of the forest are all gone now, you said.† â€Å"Here, they are,† said Osha, as she bit off the end of the last bandage with her teeth. â€Å"North of the Wall, things are different. That’s where the children went, and the giants, and the other old races.† Maester Luwin sighed. â€Å"Woman, by rights you ought to be dead or in chains. The Starks have treated you more gently than you deserve. It is unkind to repay them for their kindness by filling the boys’ heads with folly.† â€Å"Tell me where they went,† Bran said. â€Å"I want to know.† â€Å"Me too,† Rickon echoed. â€Å"Oh, very well,† Luwin muttered. â€Å"So long as the kingdoms of the First Men held sway, the Pact endured, all through the Age of Heroes and the Long Night and the birth of the Seven Kingdoms, yet finally there came a time, many centuries later, when other peoples crossed the narrow sea. â€Å"The Andals were the first, a race of tall, fair-haired warriors who came with steel and fire and the seven-pointed star of the new gods painted on their chests. The wars lasted hundreds of years, but in the end the six southron kingdoms all fell before them. Only here, where the King in the North threw back every army that tried to cross the Neck, did the rule of the First Men endure. The Andals burnt out the weirwood groves, hacked down the faces, slaughtered the children where they found them, and everywhere proclaimed the triumph of the Seven over the old gods. So the children fled north—† Summer began to howl. Maester Luwin broke off, startled. When Shaggydog bounded to his feet and added his voice to his brother’s, dread clutched at Bran’s heart. â€Å"It’s coming,† he whispered, with the certainty of despair. He had known it since last night, he realized, since the crow had led him down into the crypts to say farewell. He had known it, but he had not believed. He had wanted Maester Luwin to be right. The crow, he thought, the three-eyed crow . . . The howling stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Summer padded across the tower floor to Shaggydog, and began to lick at a mat of bloody fur on the back of his brother’s neck. From the window came a flutter of wings. A raven landed on the grey stone sill, opened its beak, and gave a harsh, raucous rattle of distress. Rickon began to cry. His arrowheads fell from his hand one by one and clattered on the floor. Bran pulled him close and hugged him. Maester Luwin stared at the black bird as if it were a scorpion with feathers. He rose, slow as a sleepwalker, and moved to the window. When he whistled, the raven hopped onto his bandaged forearm. There was dried blood on its wings. â€Å"A hawk,† Luwin murmured, â€Å"perhaps an owl. Poor thing, a wonder it got through.† He took the letter from its leg. Bran found himself shivering as the maester unrolled the paper. â€Å"What is it?† he said, holding his brother all the harder. â€Å"You know what it is, boy,† Osha said, not unkindly. She put her hand on his head. Maester Luwin looked up at them numbly, a small grey man with blood on the sleeve of his grey wool robe and tears in his bright grey eyes. â€Å"My lords,† he said to the sons, in a voice gone hoarse and shrunken, â€Å"we . . . we shall need to find a stonecarver who knew his likeness well . . . â€Å" How to cite A Game of Thrones Chapter Sixty-six, Essay examples

The Hitchickers Guide3 Essay Example For Students

The Hitchickers Guide3 Essay The Hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy is a wholly remarkable book. Thought many of the concepts are slightly abstract and obscure, the book itself is a truly great work. The basic idea is that the day we meet our adventurous crew is the single worst Thursday of Arthur Dent’s life. Sadly, it is not just Arthur who will be having a bad day. You see, it is this Thursday when the earth gets destroyed. Of all the billions of people on the planet, there was only one who knew what was to take place, and he himself was not even from earth. Ford Prefect, best friend of Arthur is a smooth talking quick thinking person for the remote planet of Betelgeuse five. As you were probably able to infer, Ford Prefect was not the name given to him by his parents, but instead the name of a car that was never popular, which he chose as his moniker, as to better fit in with the humans of earth. Our story begins with Arthur waking up early at his London ’flat’ (it was a British boo k). This was just like any other Thursday, except that outside, a demolition crew was beginning to destroy his house so that they will be able to create a highway bypass. This was news to Arthur. He did not know how they could do this without even warning him first. Upon questioning the foreman of the job, he was informed that the plans had been on record in the planning office for months. Sadly, the plans had been kept in the cellar where there is no nights, or stairs for that matter, in a disused lavatory, in the bottom of a locked file cabinet, with a sign that says â€Å"Beware of the leopard.† Arthur’s decision at this point was to lie in front of the bulldozer, so that, without killing him, it would be impossible to destroy the house. Just at this point, Ford Prefect enters the scene. He tells Arthur that it is imperative that he goes to the bar with him, because after he tells him the news, he will need a stiff drink. Arthur explains the situation, and quickly F ord comes up with a plan. He makes a deal with the foreman that, since with Arthur there, they would not be able to do anything all day, they have resolved to just stand around and do nothing all day. So, it was not important weather or not Arthur was actually present. So they agreed that they would not knock down his house until he got back. Arthur could not decide whether or not to trust him. Ford assured him he could trust him to the end of the earth†¦ which was about ten minutes. Unknown to Arthur, ford was a writer for the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a type of encyclopedia chronicling the high and low points of every planet, and how to get about them for free. He had been doing research on earth for the last several years. Recently he had received a transmission over his ‘sub-ether radio,’ which told him what was to take place in just a few short minutes. Arthur and Ford hurried off to the bar, and Ford explained what was about to happen. Ironical ly, the planet was set to be destroyed in order to build an interstellar bypass. And who better to destroy the planet, than a fleet of Vogons. The Vogons were a race from the outer edges of the spiral arm. They had virtually no conscience, worked for cheep, had hugs ships of mass destruction, and had perfected a type of poetry which was so horrific, when read, the writers small intestine has been known to crawl out of their throat and strangle them. Well, the Vogons came, and made short work of our blue/green planet, but before that happened, Arthur and Ford were able to hitch a ride and stow away on one of the Vogon vessels. As you would assume, Arthur is fairly confused at the whole situation. Ford explains to him that he is from the planet of Betelgeuse, which, as anyone would suspect continued to surprise and confuse Arthur. Nothing, however, confused him as much as when Ford asked him to place something called a ‘babbelfish’ in his ear. Everything that the babbelfi sh heard, it translates for the person whose head it occupies. So, nearly instantly, Arthur was able to understand all of the grunts that had been coming over the intercom, and then knew that they were being searched for. Once again, Vogon efficiency prevailed, and they quickly located the two hitchhikers. The hitchhikers were subjected to hear the captain of the vessel read his latest sonnet, and were then forced into the blackness of space, despite Ford’s best efforts to sway the guards to letting the live. We learned that when ejected into the vacuum of space, one could only survive 26 seconds. Well, our adventurers were out there for a good 25 before suddenly sucked onto a strange ship, with yet another intercom, uttering more and more strange things. This time the subject of the babbling was mathematic improbability. They made their way to the bridge of the vessel, and found, with more surprise, Zaphod Beeblebrox, the president of the galaxy, and a life long friend of Fo rd Prefect. The mathematic garble that had been broadcasting was, in fact, why Arthur and Ford had arrived where they did. The Ship, known as the Heart of Gold, worked on an ‘infinite improbability drive.’ The ship decided how improbable it was that it would end up at a specific place at a specific time for no apparent reason, then generated a field with just that level of improbability. The only problem with that is that everything else that improbable also occurs in that general area. Zaphod was an adventurous sot, never thinking that rules really applied to him, weather it was rules of physics, or the law in general. Zaphod had a plan, a plan to prove true a myth of his youth. All the young kids on Betelgeuse were told the story of the planet of Magrathea. On this planet, they would custom build other planets to your liking. Like your own private home, except as large as you can afford. The location of this planet was one of the mysteries about it, but the Infinite I mprobability drive was able to figure out exactly where it could be found. Also on this ship was an android, but unlike normal androids, this one was very smart, very strong, and very depressed. His name was Marvin. Marvin was traveling along with the ship to do all the things which Zaphod and Trillian (Zaphod’s girl, who was also on the ship) did not feel like doing, which was pretty much anything. The crew set foreword on their journey, and soon found the mysterious planet. Magrathea was in fact a real planet, and all the stories had been true. When they arrived there, they were met with a defense mechanism, which promptly fired two missiles at the ship, neither of which impacted them, after they switched on the improbability drive. One missile became a whale, and the other became a bowl of tulips. The whale hit the surface of the planet and created a massive crater, which the team used to get below the surface, where all the work was done. Sadly, when they made it down the re, they found that all the inhabitants were sleeping, cryogenically, until their computers decide that the economy of the galaxy was doing well enough for their strange product to be affordable again. With a stroke of luck, the team had arrived at just this time. Arthur, who had decided to hang out by the ship, was met by a man named Slartibartfast. Slartibartfast took Arthur on a tour of the compound, where they build the planets, and explained how important he was to their clients. Arthur watched a video about a great computer system known as Deep Thought. Deep Thought was programmed to find the answer to ‘Life, the universe, and everything.’ Not a small task. The computer worked on the problem for millions of years, until such a time that it said, â€Å"The answer to life, the universe, and everything†¦ is 42.† On which point it was absolutely correct, however it did not know what the question was. It did, however design a computer strong enough to find the question to go with the answer. The people who owned the computer enlisted the Magratheans to create this machine, which was to be known as ‘Earth’. Arthur was informed that he was part of a giant computer program that utilized biological technology to solve problems. The system was five minutes from finishing the eight million year cycle of the program when it was destroyed to make way for the interstellar bypass. He was the only survivor, and thusly, the most valuable asset they had to present to their clients. Even weirder are the clients themselves. They were two mice. The mice explained how it had been them who had been running the planet during the entire biological cycle, and how upset they were when it all went wrong. The entire crew met up with Arthur and bartered for control of his brain, where the information was probably stored. During the combination meal and business agreement, all heck broke lose. The police who had been chasing Zaphod finally caught up, and Ford did the honorable thing and decided that no one would have Arthur’s brain but Arthur. They made a break for the ship, but were stopped by two police officers wielding kill-o-zap blasters. The officers chased our adventurers through the complex, eventually cornering them behind some computer equipment. They tried to bargain for their lives, but to no avail. Just when they thought it was all over, both of the officers keeled over dead. They rushed back to the ship, and found that Marvin the depressed android had been conversing with the police ship, caused it to become suicidal, and it overloaded and shorted out the life support systems of the police officers. Everyone hurried back into the Heart of Gold, and took off. Without much resolution, the story closes with Arthur being asked by Zaphod if he was hungry. The answer was obviously yes, since he hadn’t eaten much all day. Zaphod responded with the phrase â€Å"We’ll take in a quick bite at the Re staurant at the end of the universe.† This book was actually the first in a series. The next is aptly named The Restaurant at the End of the Universe. 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