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It was pretty windy and I didn't have the best tripod so things are a little shaky. I hope to go back with a better setup and a camera with a better zoom to show more details and get some actual demolishing shots.
Project Cabrini Green is a public art installation addressing the demolition of the last high-rise of the Cabrini-Green housing development. The Project, led by the artist Jan Tichy and developed together with Efrat Appel, was created in collaboration with youth from Chicago, most of them attending educational programs in the Cabrini-Green area and with students from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.
On March 28th, two days before the beginning of the demolition, 134 self-contained, battery-powered LED modules were placed inside 134 of the building's vacated apartments. The lights will blink every day from 7pm to 1am CDT, for the four week duration of the demolition, and will be gradually erased with the building. Each blinking light has a unique pattern. These patterns are a visual translation of poems written and recorded by the youth who attended workshops developed and instructed by Tichy, Appel, and students from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.
The project aims to highlight the significant moment of the demolition, while giving voice to young people, enabling them to reflect on social issues related to their communities. The idea to collaborate with youth derived from the wish to empower them through a creative experience.
As a component of Project Cabrini Green, live-feed video footage from the site will be projected at the Museum of Contemporary Art, Chicago, accompanied by a voice/light-activated model of the high-rise, a printed publication of the poems and an access to the audio and visual content of this web site.
While Norwegian trains plough through snow without blinking, english trains are incapicitated by “Leaves on the Line”
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slippery_rail
It is that time of year when the weather turns wet and the leaves start to fall; and when these two combine on rail tracks, it creates a serious issue for the running of our trains.
When leaves fall on to a track, they are crushed under the continuous high pressure of passing trains, resulting in a Teflon-like coating which causes the lines to become slippery – this is similar to black ice on the roads.
If a train passes over a particularly slippery piece of track while the brakes are applied, this can sometimes result in damage to the wheels and they develop a flat spot, or a ‘wheel flat’ – when this happens, the train needs to be taken back to the depot for repair.
At the moment, some of our services are being affected by the problem, meaning we are either having to take some trains out of service to repair the wheel damage, or that we need to make some trains travel slower along parts of a line in order to pass safely.
Your safety takes priority at all times, so if you are travelling with us and experience a delay to your journey or that your train is running with a reduced number of carriages because of this issue, we would like to apologise for the inconvenience caused but also assure you we are doing everything we can to keep overall disruption to a minimum.
We would advise you to allow more time for your journey, if possible – you can also check for an update on your journey before travelling with us by using our free Journey Check tool.
20141110_171825
"Here and where"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
0100101110101101.ORG, Adam Cruces, Agathe Andre, Aids-3d, Alberto Bustamante, Alejandro Crawford, Aline Otte, Andreas Angelidakis, Angela Genusa, Angelo Plessas, Aude Debout, Aureliano Segundo, Asli Serbest, Blinking Girls, Caspar Stracke, Clement Valla, Cornelia und Holger Lund, Dragan Espenschied, Emilio Gomariz, ET AL., ETC., Francesca Gavin, Golgotha, Hugo Scibetta, Jennifer Chan, JODI, Jon Rafman, Julien Lacroix, Kim Asendorf, Laimonas Zakas, Louis Doulas, m-a-u-s-e-r, Metahaven, Neil McGuire, Mona Mahall, Nicholas O'Brien, Nilgün Serbest, Olia Lialina, Patrick Cruz, Superpool, Tomas Klassnik.
2012
My street in Huntingtown, MD. I went for a walk and Kings Landing and had no luck, then come home to this guy right across the street.
For the first time, I witnessed something like a community Diwali.. Many flats were lit up with those small blinking lights and people almost went berserk with the crackers..
This unique accommodation experience provides a high quality accommodation experience. Walking distance to all Warrnambool's attractions and right next door to Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village. Your only neighbour is the blinking Lady Bay Lighthouse that still keeps the Warrnambool Harbour safe at night.
Created around the original State Heritage Listed 1859 Lighthouse and Warrnambool Garrison Fortifications.
By visiting our maritime village and interpretive centre, you will hear, see and experience for yourself the hardships of those who sailed the high seas. See the piceless Minton Loch Ard Peacock - Australia's most valuable shipwreck wreck artefact.
Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village has been awarded the 2009 Victorian Tourism Awards - Tourist Attraction, the 3rd year in a row!! With that our historic precinct is now a member of the Victorian Tourism Industry - Hall of Fame For Ongoing Excellence.
Lighthouse history – from www.flagstaffhill.com
Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village (www.flagstaffhill.com) is a maritime precinct overlooking the continually dangerous Lady Bay . It contains the still active lighthouses that have attempted to keep the Warrnambool harbour safe from the roaring southern oceans.
The growing trade through the opening of the western Victoria district created the need for coastal ports. Port Fairy and Portland had established in the early 1840’s and a steady trade began to flow. The settlers of the new town of Warrnambool were attracted by early reports of the potential of Lady Bay to become a trading port.
Trade began through a range of slowly improving piers and jetties. The dangers of the port some became more apparent and calls for improved safety through the installation of lights started and were finally listened to by the newly separate colony of Victoria .
The Lady Bay Lighthouse Complex was originally built in 1858-9 of basalt quarried on the Salt Water (Maribynong) River, Melbourne . The upper tower, chartroom, cottage and privy were originally located on Middle Island near the outlet of the Merri River , with a lower light located on a timber tower on the beach.
It soon became apparent that the middle island location was not satisfactory with the light obscured by heavy seas.
In 1871 the lights and all associated buildings, along with the privy, were moved to their current location on Flagstaff Hill as leading lights for the entry to the treacherous and shallow Warrnambool Harbour . The lower light was placed on a bluestone obelisk that had been erected there as a navigation marker in 1854.
A flagstaff had been erected on the hill as early as 1853 very soon after the settlement of the Warrnambool district.
Flagstaff Hill’s Lady Bay Lighthouse Complex is of historical, scientific (technological) and architectural significance to the State of Victoria by providing an excellent example of the kind of navigational aids constructed in the early years of regional expansion in Victoria. The lights remain today a maritime navigation aid.
The Lady Bay Lighthouse Complex historical significance is further enhanced for its intact battery and guns, a strong reminder of Victoria 's wealth and determination to protect itself from the perceived threat of invasion in the 1880s.
Flagstaff Hill was also the centre for the Warrnambool Garrison, built in response to the perceived threat of foreign forces looking to expand their own empires by taking this remote part of the mighty British Empire .
The remaining guns are scientifically (technologically) significant as physical reminders of a time when these weapons represented advanced design in artillery. A recent study has found two of the guns to be of "world significance" and further work is being undertaken to enhance the way we tell our guests of this significance.
The Lady Bay Lighthouse Complex is of architectural significance as a fine example of Public Works Department architecture of the 1850s and 1880s. The modest but dignified and sturdy lighthouse structures are indicative of the importance of lighthouses to the communities that relied upon them to facilitate safe passage for shipping, at a time when such transport was crucial to relatively isolated towns like Warrnambool.
The battery of two 80 pounder rifled, muzzle loading guns was added in 1887 as part of a general upgrade to the defences of Victoria which saw Port Phillip Bay transformed into a fortress and the nearby ports of Belfast (Port Fairy) and Portland receive a similar armament to Warrnambool. The fortifications and guns were in a derelict condition until they were restored after the complex was integrated into the Flagstaff Hill Maritime Museum in the 1970s.
The Warrnambool Garrison guns are fired by re-enactment groups on major event days at Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village .
2009 marks the 150th year of these beautiful structures role in developing what is now the thriving City of Warrnambool . A range of activities and special events are planned across the year to mark this important milestone for our city.
The two lights are undergoing upgrades works in early 2009 to enhance their current role in marking the safe channel into what is now a recreational boating port.
Guests to Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village can explore the Victorian State Heritage Registered Lady Bay lighthouse complex daily. The upper lighthouse can be climbed and is open daily.
The lighthouses are also able to be viewed through the flagstaffhill.com webcam located overlooking Lady Bay .
The sun, blinking, for a moment at the RAF airshow during a very cool demonstration of flying precision.
Her neon mouth with the blinking soft smile
Is nothing but an electric sign
You could say she has an individual style
She's part of a colorful time
Super-sealed lady, chrome-color clothes
You wear 'cause you have no other
But I suppose no one knows
You're my plastic fantastic lover
Your rattlin' cough never shuts off
Is nothin' but a used machine
Your aluminum finish, slightly diminished
Is the best I ever have seen
Cosmetic baby plugged into me
And never ever find another
And I realize no one's wise
To my plastic fantastic lover
The electrical dust is starting to rust
Her trapezoid thermometer taste
All the red tape is mechanical rape
Of the TV program waste
Data control and IBM
Science is mankind's brother
But all I see is drainin' me
On my plastic fantastic lover...
Plastic Fantastic Lover/Jefferson Airplane
The JimStim is a test circuit that you have to build before you build the MegaSquirt ECU itself - what it does is to simulate the engine's inputs into the ECU, and then report back the ECU's responses in the form of blinking LEDs to confirm that the ECU is doing what it's supposed to be doing. This lets you make sure that your ECU is actually working properly before you install it in the car and hook it up to the engine.
Of course, before you can use the JimStim to test the ECU, you have to test the JimStim itself to make sure that IT'S doing what it's supposed to be doing.
This step of the MegaSquirt ECU build had me stuck for a while, so in case that's happened to anybody else, here are some notes. This picture shows how the JimStim needs to be configured to check that it's producing the RPM signal correctly. The instructions describe this, but they don't show a picture.
(shown but not noted on the photo: all DIP switches remain in the OFF position throughout these tests)
For sale an Arcadia blinking spotlight floor lamp, in good condition.
Lamp is stainless steel, 65"H, can choose to have 1, 2, 3, or all 4 on.
All lights when turned on will keep blinking, perfect for party or whatever.
Asking for $10. Call or text 650-450-1078 if you are interested.
Ooh its good not to be restricted to Briggate anymore. View On Black
This image is heading for my own photoblog "Into the light" and probably
also the Headrow photoblog which Griff and I are going to share.
Like all the others in this series, uncropped, un-PS-ed
Featuring a vintage 1940s 'blinking' dolls eye.
Also: resin, slice of waterbuffalo horn, peridot gemstones, fine silver Thai Karen Hills Tribe handcrafted beads, shards of vintage pink glass, sterling silver flower charms, spinel gemstones, sterling silver & copper wire, amethyst gemstone cubes & gold plated cubes.
So I didn't know about this glittery, laser-show-ish thing the tower does at the top of each hour. I got out of the taxi I'd hailed at the irretrievably broken Charles de Gaulle Metro stop at 10:01 PM (I love the northerly latitudes), and there it was, blinking and twitching away, white flashes over top of its electric blue light-up job. "Really?" I thought. "Okay, I guess."
So I started backing up along the Pont d'Iéna to get a few wide snapshots, and several photos in, I looked up from my camera to notice that the Eiffel Tower was no longer having a fit.
I had to look around at the reactions of everyone else to satifsy myself that this was normal and expected, before settling into an appreciation of the relative calm of blazing electric blue kleigs.
Irony of ironies from that 2003 NYT article:
"The tower will retain its all-white elegance. This is not Niagara Falls, which is illuminated in 4,000-watt iridescent spotlights that change color throughout the evening."
Well, that sounds nice, anyway.
This was an incredibly difficult picture to take. I've been trying for days (nights, actually). First, I have to watch a firefly until it stops flying and sets down on a leaf. That's hard to do when it's nearly dark. When I get too close, the fireflies fly away. Focusing, especially in the dark, is difficult--the autofocus hates the three-dimensional jungle of leaves in which the fireflies perch. And when I do take a picture, the chances are that the firefly is not blinking at that moment. The trick is to take lots and lots of pictures, day after day, and hope for the best. I'm still trying to get a better one.
The Eurasian nuthatch or wood nuthatch (Sitta europaea) is a small passerine bird found throughout the Palearctic and in Europe. Like other nuthatches, it is a short-tailed bird with a long bill, blue-grey upperparts and a black eye-stripe. It is a vocal bird with a repeated loud dwip call. There are more than 20 subspecies in three main groups; birds in the west of the range have orange-buff underparts and a white throat, those in Russia have whitish underparts, and those in the east have a similar appearance to European birds, but lack the white throat.
Its preferred habitat is mature deciduous or mixed woodland with large, old trees, preferably oak. Pairs hold permanent territories, and nest in tree holes, usually old woodpecker nests, but sometimes natural cavities. If the entrance to the hole is too large, the female plasters it with mud to reduce its size, and often coats the inside of the cavity too. The 6–9 red-speckled white eggs are laid on a deep base of pine or other wood chips.
The Eurasian nuthatch eats mainly insects, particularly caterpillars and beetles, although in autumn and winter its diet is supplemented with nuts and seeds. The young are fed mainly on insects, with some seeds, food items mainly being found on tree trunks and large branches. The nuthatch can forage when descending trees head first, as well as when climbing. It readily visits bird tables, eating fatty man-made food items as well as seeds. It is an inveterate hoarder, storing food year-round. Its main natural predator is the Eurasian sparrowhawk.
Fragmentation of woodland can lead to local losses of breeding birds, but the species' range is still expanding. It has a large population and huge breeding area, and is therefore classified by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) as being of least concern.
The apple sits on its desk,
Its white light blinking.
Just sitting there sleeping,
Waiting the wake up call.
So many possibilities lie within,
Simply resting, awaiting the key.
To bring it to life, by degree,
Let me search! Is its plea
Connect to the world, its syntax free,
Like you and like me the world to see.
Directed it is, as it works for us,
Covering the net without any fuss.
Trouble for us is, that we ‘Think’
And that does cause us a problem.
Decisions to make, and often uncertain,
Takes us to places with multiple faces.
Emotions gather, desire to appease,
Dignity traces its awkward façade.
Standoffs are reached, and then erased,
From somewhere comes a war’s fullisade.
The programme is running,
The computers are humming.
The code is received,
And the world IS deceived.
Poem: Richard Walker
9 May 2005
Note: maybe you can write your own thoughts about these lines...
Image: One of my Apple Computers this one a G4 (quite old now)
View at the north of the crossing. The signal for right turning car which I mentioned in “Crossing in Shifting Center Line Section of Mitaka-dori at the South of Mitaka Station” is at the center of this photo. Its yellow light was blinking while the green light was on for cars going straight.
As a geek, when I see a whiteboard, I'm pulled towards it. This compulsion is only furthered by the fact that I used to draw a lot when I was younger. Today we went to the Mountain Top Children's Museum, and it seems that Paige is taking after her old man. Among the many activities she spent a significant time playing with, the whiteboard earned a significant amount of attention.
I don't recall there being a children's museum in Breckenridge in years past, so when it showed up on a little morning surfing for kids activities, I thought it was a perfect fit for Paige. After a mellow morning and a slow start, we made our way to the museum. The museum is really more of an old store off Main St. that's been filled with educational activities for the infant to ten (10) year old set. The cost is $7 per child and $5 per adult.
I only set the stage of an old storefront, because it can be jarring at first if you're expecting a children's museum of a large city. That being said, if you can look past the space it occupies, you'll find hours of creative fun for young and old alike.
I can't even list all the activities that drew Paige in for any distinct amount of time. Remote control diggers, various marble/gravity experiments, a solar system room, weights and measures, biology and physiology, fishing with magnets, dress-up, puppets, and of course the craft center. I sat down first at the whiteboard, but after my mountain scene, Paige took to making her own drawing.
While most wouldn't be able to tell what she'd just drawn, it has been really fun to watch her perception grow. Stick figure people now have bodies, clothes, hair, eyes, mouths, and more. They used to just be a circle with two long legs sticking out. Eventually mouths showed up. Now she's got every detail in her own manner of representation. I can't wait to see what shows up next.
Ash had been shot by an overzealous Catwalker and was recovering, confined to a wheelchair. Who should come along but everyone's favorite Shadow!
Serp Iwashi's field of vision like a crimson tide fans out down the corridor leaving its lingering touch in a faint scarlet tinge creeping out around the bend. Making reconaissance and inspecting the cause of the scent taken through the current and the warm sensations growing upon his proximity to the flickering flames. The gaudy frame of mechanics treading carefully over the concrete with a purposeful measure of his caution and some attempted refusal of his clanky form. Abound with tiny mechinism now settled deep within his guise as to only remain waiting. The copiously driven swirl of the feline tail dangling along the backside the chair and the ears protruding from the fire slathering his crude smile upon his charred face.
Ashur Kentoku warms her hands, blinking glassily through her haze of medication....she considers callling Ember, tired of waiting for her and missing her, but sits, hypnotized by the flames instead, unaware of the danger behind her...
Ashur Kentoku sighs and rummages for her PDA...which pocket did she put it in again? A scent reaches her...somehow familiar and altogether unique, and it penetrates her addled mind....the hairs on the back of her neck rise and she feezes, ears trying to pick up sounds behind her...
Serp Iwashi a faint hissing parts ways through the revealed palm and chain now presented before the distant light. The hooked end would creep down slowly with the chimes ushering his true intentions forward. Regal like folds through that all too familiar ominous shroud fully set aside to show the gleaming expanse of thick slabs that made up the abdominal wall. They would nearly pearl into the inferno seemingly as the flames intensity would meet the glacial exterior with tiny beads of condensation already dripping down in single streams following the curvature of his well muscled form. There was no hiding now and a further plume of the noxious mist would try to stiffle the fire as he shaped the strands upon her head.
Ashur Kentoku takes a deep breath and turns her wheelchair around to face the dark figure....she narrows her eyes defiantly, even as her heart begins to pound within her chest. "What do you want, Serp?" she mews. "I'm not in the mood for playing with you today." She tries to keep her voice casual, but she's all too aware of her predicament now...she wonders how fast a wheelchair could be if the occupant was desperate enough....
Serp Iwashi had watched quietly as she turned with a dreadful second of waiting. A stillness and true silence that had come so sudden that was truely ordinary. Yet the titanic formation was anything but that as a cold stare fell over the feline. Smoke billowing through his guise and out into the perpetual night that was this cities plight. His frigid nature holding the woman to an unwavering judgement spoken through tainted ink. Finally a shudder of the murky flesh escaping well sculpted canines in the follow of his booming voice.. " You should know well I dont often play with my food..Though I will say I enjoy you're current form..half machine now are we..." A twitch of the cheek region just below that hypnotic gaze that ran red like a scarlet tear pushing aside his humanity and fully allowing him to take advantage of what was to come. The hooked end continously rocking back and forth as the momentum built so did the fiendish laughter now pouring through the alleyways.
Naomah Beaumont is happily nibbling V's collarbone one moment, and the next *that* laugh echoes through the maze of passages behind the den. Nio starts, looking around, but seeing only the usual, but the oily chill slides down her back in thick, dark droplets. She doesn't say anything at the moment, though.
Ashur Kentoku tenses and tries to rise from her chair but succeeds only in doubling into a half-crouch, balancing on one leg, one arm against the wall supporting her weight, the other gripping an armrest. Her face scrunches in pain as her insides feel like they're tearing open again at the sudden exertion...."Serp," she gasps. "I'm not prey...not like this..." Her eyes follow the hook with horrified fascination.
Naomah Beaumont wanders toward the med den, then turns back to listen to Kiri. She chuckles. "You never cease to surprise me, Kiri."
Serp Iwashi spoken tongue was more akin to some demonic entity from another realm then the more comforting notion that he was a mere machine..an earthly creation. " Oh but you are..but tell me how many lives are left so I know how many more times I can beat you within an inch of you're miserable life.." The nefarious lord nodding through his inquiries with a final exasperated sigh hissing through the tubular protrusions beneath jaws fit for some measure of barbarism. The slow gait remained just that as the hook swung back one final time awaiting the moment she would speak before flying outward with a hungered gleam of rotted flesh discarded to make way for the encasement of the rustic blade wanting to bite into those thighs.
Naomah Beaumont blinks. "No, I didn't know. You never did sit down and tell me your life's story. You keep threatening to, but so far, no soap." Nio scratches an ear, looking down at her former pledge mom, wondering how much else she doesn't know about the other cat.
Ashur Kentoku: "More than enough for the likes of you, coward!" she snarls defiantly, and then the hook sweeps down at her and she moves suddenly, twisting aside, a wonderful testament to her training and boosted feline reflexes, but its not enough...not this time...her stiff leg betrays her and the hook still slashes into her thigh, leaving a bloody furrow....she feels something break inside her and her vision dims for a moment as she collapses at Serp's feet, a yowl of pain and despair escaping her lips....
Naomah Beaumont stiffens. That's a yelp she knows entirely too well. "Ash... Shit. Amrys, get up here..." Nio runs toward the sound as best her own battered legs will carry her, stitches be damned.
Amrys (Ameretat Skytower) says 'What is it?'
Amrys (Ameretat Skytower) looks over the rooftops, then finally down. "oh my-- What..."
Serp Iwashi delivered a rather softer cackle that strayed from his otherwise overbearing mechanically induced tone. Lifting a shard like brow high above his right eye in response to her words..His laugh dieing alongside the last notion that there was anything amusing to be found in this .." Just an opportunist my dear..." The rich blood coaxed out from the fresh wound as the blade gnaws away at her thigh trying to sink into the meat with his palm giving a yank back to bring her with now dragging alongside the concrete.." Come we have much to discuss.." His icey fingertips rapping upon his own chain as he began to haul her out into the shadows.
Naomah Beaumont looks over the edge at the tableau unfolding below. "Fuck. SERP! GET AWAY FROM HER. HER CANDY ASS IS MINE!" Well... that's perhaps misrepresenting things a trifle, but at times, it's best to stick to the most primal motivations. Violence. Defence of prey. In a lower voice she says to Amrys. "In the lockers upstairs. Locker 30. Combo There's a rifle made of white plastic. Grab it and bright it to me. And make sure to grab one of the magazines for it at the bottom of the locker." As she says this, she draws the only weapons she has on her, a pair of 9mm automatics. She can hit from here. She's sure she can. But whether the rounds will do anything to the horror stalking the alley is entirely another question. "Hurry!" she enjoins the blue cat.
Amrys (Ameretat Skytower) backs away from the railing and runs to the med den
Ashur Kentoku screams like a kitten as she's dragged by the hook across the concrete, leaving a trail of blood.....she extends her claws, diamond-hard and sharp nanotech constructs, her only weapons now, and claws frantically at whatever part of Serp is in reach....if she could just delay him or hurt him enough to let her go, she might, just might be able to scuttle away under cover from the shots from above....
Emberen Twine arrives at the scene, her breath issuing halted and heaving. "Get off of her," she growls, her body temperature spiking instantly as she draws her axe.
Serp Iwashi Nothing human evident in those swirling pits now glancing upward to the jealous tirade spoken from high above. Grizzly formation of those fearsome rows beaming to the kitten walker or whatever manner of their pesiferous hiearchy..His tongue gracing his lower rows as his sonorous vocalization launches itself to the catwalks like its own chaotic agent. Only the chain remained about her thigh and the titanium could withstand the claws as he continued to back off around the shed..
"Silence wench..If you want her..come down.." A masterful puppet overlord pulling on the strings that was his chains nearly binding Ashur to his will.
Naomah Beaumont runs forward to compensate for the changing angle of the shot and draws a bead on Serp's head with the open sights of her pistols. She has to aim for the head, really. Any lower and she risks putting (more) bullets in Ash.
Akiel Martian reached his left hand for the hand of his blade, silent. Numbed eyes looking over to the darkened fellow, draped in black, original. The blade shifted from his left as he tossed it into the air, snatching at it with his right, "..I'm in the mood to beat someone senseless..", he said low, rumbling in his throat. Growling only slightly as he held the blade lazily over his shouler in his bloodied right hand.
Amrys (Ameretat Skytower) rushes out of the med den with the gun Niobe had requested. She held it out as soon as she saw Niobe. "Here," she said, obviously a little strained from trying (and failing) to run down teh stairs with it.
Emberen Twine glances to Syle, her body shaking with that uncontrolled energy. She turns back just in time to see Ashur's body dragged around the corner, her eyes widening before narrowing darkly under heavily furrowed brow. A sweat breaks onto her flesh as the acid burn of rage burns within her and she approaches the shadowed figure, her eyes sparking before seeming to ignite in a swirl of liquid fire. She falls silent as she approaches her target, focus falling tunneled upon approach.
Ashur Kentoku casts a desperate lok back at Ember as she's draged around the corner..."NO!" she screams..."Stay away! I can handle....this..." The blood seeping from her mouth, an indication of her internal injuries having opened some, and the hook through her thigh seems to make the proposition somewhat unfeasible, but she didnt want Ember hurt...if it was her last act, she wanted her safe....
Ashur Kentoku: ...and tries to pull herself closer to Serp, using the chain embedded in her thigh, to sink her claws into his body and rip and tear at the armour and cybernetics that composed his form....
Serp Iwashi had caught only a glimpse of the bushido wannabe and axe wielding kitten upon his departure from the birthed flames of the pit to now retreat back into the alley with his prey. Casting a parting glance above long enough to hawk out a large chemical splatter over the concrete. Perhaps not terribly in good shape for the sheer corpulence of his overbearing mechanical form but steady nevertheless as those nails screech alongside the carapace only forming distinct lines of silver etchings peeling away the caliginous nature of those crude slabs of armor. His laugh starting up again as his teeth flashed sharply through the changing mood of the scene..The ragged ends of his cloak would be just against the railing now as he would readily embrace the fleeting marks of a wild cat in desperation..His palm risen in that immense fist taking the chain with to try and keep her off balance through another volatile tug that could likely take her into the railing or over.
Ashur Kentoku snarls, even as her vision dims momentarily, and tries to inflict some kind of damage that would cause him to leak whatever substance passes for circulatory fluid, hoping it would make tracking him easier...she'd done it before, in her fights with him in the past, but this was different, and she was badly hurt...she yowled as she was jerked up to the railing and clung stubbornly with one free hand, not willing to go into the darkness that awaited her....her face turns and she locks her eyes on Em's....
Naomah Beaumont drops her pistols on the catwalk and takes the M41 from Amrys as she hands it to her, stuffs the mag in and racks the action of the much heavier assault rifle, preparing to rain 10mm slugs on Serp's head and upper torso like a hailstorm from hell. As she draws the bead on him she yells, "UNHOOK THE CHAIN, ASH!" Whether all this is in time to save Ash from being chucked into the canal is subject to the actions of a lot of others. Particularly Serp's.
Emberen Twine stalks closer to her target, breath huffing heavily through flared nostrils, focus tunneling further as she lowers to a crouch before springing forth, flipping the axe as she flies at the shadowed figure, the spike aiming for his throat.
Serp Iwashi A bulwark of thick metallic slabs rising and falling making a mockery of the fleshlings now attempting to thrust the axe into where the jugular would normally lay. Perhaps it was the brash manner of assault or the predicament of the situation but an orotrund cackle soon broke away from the clatter of obsidians fangs with his mechanical defiance making its presense known through the heavy reverberation pinging against the sheathed aluminum that made up the shed beside him. The chain was still strung upward as if he were going to lynch ashur as he stepped aside letting the chains loop around and in the same movement guiding such to let the axe hit the chains forcing a violent rattle trying to swing the momentum of the axe wielder away from him.Sparks likely following the opposition of metal over metal with a pompous air discharged through baited breath of noxous fumes like a malginant cloud trying to creep into their lungs.. His head was still somewhat in view but the rest of his imposing form had..
Serp Iwashi two felines before him essentially blocking most of his mass..though his cranium was gauging through a lingering eye to the weaponary above..how good was that aim indeed..
Ashur Kentoku squalled in pain and anger, her actions weakening as her injuries began to get the better of her...she tried again to break circulatory tubes she knew lurked between the armor plates, still maintaining her death grip on the railing...
Naomah Beaumont seems to have a moment before Emby gets to Serp, and she cuts loose with the M41, its suppressed chugging sound belying the high powered slugs she's sending Serp's way. She's aiming for his chest, while she has the moment. Chest and head, as the pulse rifle climbs.
Emberen Twine screeches as the axe is deflected by the chains, white knuckles clinging tightly to their charge, before the momentum of his swing casts her off like a rag doll. Claws extend on her free hand, aiming with a powerful swipe before she is thrust head first into the brick wall, her body sliding to the ground with a thud, blood streaming from her skull.
Serp Iwashi constructs illuminated as soon as the gun fire roared through pelting his chest region with two of the slugs and the others streaking up accross his carapace towards the should region and upward with distant splashes of the final rounds hitting the slime below. Black tar oozing out as his gait seemed to loose control with a choked burst of a howl that only further sends more of his blood oozing out the pectoral region..His grip would not falter though even as legs seemed to want to give way to the throbbing pain stemming from the core of his chest. His free hand grasping the back of the rail as his tongue swiped away the murky blood dripping down his fangs..His eyes dimming as he lets himself fall backward into the sewage with the chain running through fast and soon taking Ashur over and into the sludge should she be unable to get out of the tangled mess of rustic links.
Ashur Kentoku gives a final squall as her grip is broken by the immense weight of the falling Shadow and she's dragged into the murky depths along with him, leaving nothing but her blood pooled on the concrete next to the railing to show she was ever there....
Naomah Beaumont lets stitches be damned and makes a high performance leap from the catwalk to the ground running to the edge of the canal. The stitches in one leg tear, leaving a bloody streak down her thigh as she peers over the railing trying to find something, anything to shoot at. And then there are bubbles. She fires on them with little hope, knowing that... hoping that... Ashur is holding her breath and the bubbles come from Serp.
Serp Iwashi’s tar seemed to break out among the stagnant pools in blotches accross the surface of the sludge like some oil spill of sorts. A few pieces of black cloth even floating atop but no bubbles that could be made out amid the thick consistancy of the sewage. The sounds of chains rattling not breaking the surface as he crawls along the bottom with those reflective lenses peering through the murky depths.Feeling along the bottom as he dragged ashur with him down the canal. She would likely float but where he was exactly was hard to determine besides the general direction of ripples eminating outward with stray shots licking away close to him perhaps but unknown which would hit its mark.
Amrys (Ameretat Skytower) leaps onto the nearest roof and, once she regains her balance, aims with the knife, then realizes she can't see the attacker. "Damn," she mutters, she was tired of people getting hurt because of her incompetence.
Ashur Kentoku holds her breath as well as she can, but her struggles are weak now as bloodloss, pain, shock and lack of oxygen take their toll...her mind clouds and dims and she thinks....'Hey, this is peaceful...I think I might just go to sleep...' "
Naomah Beaumont stares down into the water. "Look!" she shouts to Amrys. "The ripples!" She yells up. "Call for backup!" And with that she goes vertical, pulling more stitches out, moving over the building between her and Ash and Serp's path.
Amrys (Ameretat Skytower) pulls out her phone and texts madly, knife still in hand. Tricky, but it can be done.
Serp Iwashi was indeed quite at home without a need to breath in the typical sense he easily remained submerged. His steely fingertips clawing away at the grime encrusted stone with his cloak spreading outward from him akin to some dark manta flattening him as best he could. Little interest was held to wether the feline could breath or not but surely he thought her tougher then a mere victim of drowning.
Amrys (Ameretat Skytower) puts the phone away and resumes looking to the sewage. "I don't know her well, I don't actually know. Nio said call for backup, so I did." Her tone is angry, but she's glaring down at the sludge below--unclear where the anger is directed.
Ashur Kentoku lapses into a state of semi-consciousness...she hasn't automatically inhaled any water yet, but if she's kep under for too much longer she will...
Naomah Beaumont: "It's Ash." Nio yells. "he's down in the canal with her." The guilt in Nio's voice comes out almost like a sob. "He's headed south"
Naomah Beaumont adds. "Follow them! He has to surface if he wants her alive!"
Serp Iwashi bubbling formation rises out through what could be some manner of speech spoken beneath the surface of the muck running down the canal. The resounding vocalization forming more ripples dancing above until calming the waves..A few moments longer he could attempt to keep his captive alive but for now content on the same route without pause to allow her breath.
Amrys (Ameretat Skytower) nods and runs over to where Niobe is, assuming she can see them ((Amrys lost them)). Then she begins to follow their movements.
Amrys (Ameretat Skytower) quietly says to Nio "If she's there, he should be in front of her, right?"
Naomah Beaumont: Probably, I don't know.... Yeah, she's not swimming...
Brandon Dragonfly slowly stammered down the steps, each little piece of concrete trembling beneath the weighted boots; he'd seem heavily armored. Pounds upon pounds of casted metal stretch about the human fleshy form beneath, a harbinger mask of sorts was worn. The harbinger of chaos scanned a quick gaze over the surrounding area, glancing for any signs of distress he'd have heard deep within the lobs of his ear.
Serp Iwashi had made it just under the bridge with a turn of his body like some leviathan rising up out of the sewage now dripping down the length of the folds that made up his cloak. Soaked and matted alongside his thighs and the musculature of his form he would tug upwards and reach out gripping the chain and trying to consume the neck to bring her out like a wet rat opposing to her feline genetics. Wanting to ring her out as he allowed but a single gasp before he would lower himself back down and her with.
Niemack Saarinen glances around following the harbinger...hand on the grip of his kalashnakov....scanning....he'd hear some metal distress but..couldnt point out where it was comming from quite yet....he muttered quietly in german under his facemask...the sound distroyed and unrecognizable outside....just muffles.
Naomah Beaumont looks over her shoulder at the other two people who've moved onto the sidewalk. She eyes them, and makes her way back across the street.
Serp Iwashi cloak soon slipped over the side of the concrete with raining droplets beading down along the surface as he arose from the waste. His cumbersome form soon landing down with a heavy thud while the chain is slowly taken back into his grip to hoist ashur up and out of the sludge. The liquid was inside his shell now with a expelled cough wreaking havoc on the modulation of his voice before spewing out some of his own blood and the swallowed green slime off to the side. A growl in aggravation with his free hand letting his thumb probe over the fresh peneration of lead that had warped his exterior.
Ashur Kentoku splutters and gasps as she's hauled free of the foul water, and then coughs weakly, still only semi-aware of her surroundings...she knew she was in trouble but lucid thought escaped her for the moment as she recovered from her underwater voyage.
Serp Iwashi once luminous orbs covered in a toxic sheath seeming to drown a little during her gasped fit. He lets the chain fall almost immediatelt with his talosn swooping in to try and grab those wrists to hold her up above and leave her face mere inches from his own..
Ashur Kentoku dangles limply, head down, wet hair matting her face....she coughs again, then brings her head up slowly to meet the skull-like face, blinking owlishly. Her ears fold back and she hisses weakly, instinctively....
Serp Iwashi Decayed manacles of those icy grips claiming the pulse running through those wrists as the sopping wet cat continues to drip over the grime. Long chains that had weighed her down now dangling as well with the hook still sunken deep not wanting to release the connection through such tantalizing prospects in some fusion of metal and beast. An animal was all she was to him as those cold orbs continue to belittle her and make judgement. The scarlet sheathing peeling back several times with the spinning motion evident. Clangerous bite of his jaws promising to taste her flesh as his plates groaned in some complaint..There was still some of his own blood running down his chest in droplets splashing to the cement. Each one forcing a twitch under the inky skin as his grip tightening.." Wake up kitten.." His voice breaks free of the visage and washes over the paled skin.
Ashur Kentoku hisses again, ears still folded back, her pale eyes suddenly shining with defiance and a mixture of anger and fear...she struggles weakly to break free of the tightening grip on her wrists as she hangs above the filthy sewage water and tries to raise her weary legs in an attempt at kicking against the dark figure's vast, armored chest, but she's too hurt inside and her muscles simply won't obey her...she settles for wriggling a few moments instead before subsiding, panting. She coughs convulsively, and blood fills her mouth, some of it leaking down her chin...
Serp Iwashi Those dreadful crimson beams continue to whirl in a circular fashion as the clanking of multiple pieces release themselves in shuttering expells. Cluttering steel vibrating outward as his features begin to protrude out of the mask. His tongue lashing out swiping away the blood dripping down her chin..A faint breath bated as his mechanical hiss sheered rough the confines of the tunnels. Savoring the taste with a satisfied rumble churned through his gullet before moving his head into Ashur's .Letting the horrid black steely brows roll about her face in almost a loving embrace as the coldness of his clammy flesh would grace her own. " Im going to enjoy this..." Words nearly whispered at but a wisp of smoke lingering around the ebon spindles of those long locks and tugging on the feline ears..But a moment to pass befoe his face changed with the sharp shards narrowing inward giving the crimson a slant that streaked accross directly about her sight like a visor.." Are you ready kitten.."His head suddenly rearing back and trying to slam it directly into her own before releasing her to face the brunt of the blow should he suceed meshing titanium and her own chin and or forehead depending on how she would move. A sickening crack would likely be heard through and the newly laced blood promising to paint his own charred face should it follow through.
Ashur Kentoku recoils as the tongue flicks out to lap at the blood leaking down her chin, turning her face aside and grimacing at the touch. She glares into the crimson orbs and growls, ever-defiant in spite of her fear and pain. She was a warrior, used to be, and still had the heart of one and snarls, bloody fangs bared when the skull face presses itself against hers, frustrated at her body's betrayal and her inability to fight back...she opens her mouth to say something when the horror before her speaks, but never gets the chance as the head slams into her forehead with a crack that echoes off the sewer walls...for a few moments she sees and feels and hears nothing, then it comes back in a rush of new pain, and she mews slowly, desperately trying to focus, blinking through the blood running down her face and stinging her eyes...
Serp Iwashi Vigorious movements of steely talons undulating in the damp air that encompassed them. Nocturnal wings flailing aside as if suddenly driven by unseen forces letting the ripples of stygian cloth unfurl. Grotesque shards shifting back as his own head begins to shift side to side making sure to carefully roll it atop that thick set of darkened tissues that was his neck." This will be just a faint memory..a blurr in you're miserable life.. " Her dazed state easily allow him time to approach as his thumb flicked her own blood off his face and to the wall. The tremor of his step closing in towards her as he loomed atop with an audible chime of his thick mechanical digits crossing over one another and flexing. Even the tone of his voice would seem like an assault ringing through those ears. Hellish grin of metal peaking out of his dark visage as he hovered there a few seconds longer..Suddenly his right palm forming a back hand and rearing back with a resounding slap booming through the tunnels should it connect accross her cheek bone..The same hand would swing backward but this time swooping in low to sink those claws in about the abdomen to try and get ahold of her better. The thumb and index finger pincering through the lowest rib of an anatomy he knew all so very well.
Ashur Kentoku yelps as her face is struck, her cheekbone breaking and flesh splitting, sending a spray of blood across the sewer wall, then gasps as the clawed hand sinks into her abdomen and slices through a rib....she doubles over and holds onto the figure's arm, another hand against his chest in a curiously intimate-seeming gesture....She blinked at the blood obscuring her vision and started shivering involuntarily, her skin clammy and cold from shock..."You know....nothing...of my life," she whispers....
Serp Iwashi Rich organs that were cradled within but a breath away from being split open but that was too easy an option. The vice like grip crushing the bone and rending flesh that his hand was now apart of her body with the raw mechanical nature pumping his toxicity into her. Brittle peelings of his own hand making the skin rise under her stomach region before peaking out and soon tiny beads of crimson pouring through each and every hole..Her touch meant nothing to him as he had felt nearly nothing but the thrill seeping through his mind. An echoic roar of laughter before squelching such and letting his other hand reach behind his cloak.." I dont care to know fleshling..you are all the same..bone..tissue..organs..blood....- meat-.." Ominous overtones spoken with a true passion as he grunts taking her with directly to the wall to try and pin her up..The concrete absorbed the blow and her backside scraping along all the way up..her clothing..her skin catching on the cement slabs as he continued to toy with the ribs..another inch..reaching for the second just beneath the skin as a dagger suddenly comes to the dismal light now held in his left hand..A tool as every much a part of him as his own claws..He brings it down screeching against the brick making it dull with each blow and a horrid peeling sending the dull ache of the sound flooding the tunnels.
Ashur Kentoku screams as she's rent asunder, digging her claws into his arm, her other clawed hand scrabbling at his chest for support, something to cling to, to try quell the pain...she had none but her torturer for that and so she clung to him, a hideous embrace. She yelps again, a short, cut-off sound as she's slammed against the wall and pinned there, her skin tearing and her ribs cracking further under the force....She's so overcome with pain and shock she barely notices the knife, simply hanging there, panting and shivering, ears pinned back....
Serp Iwashi elongated tips slide over the handle more firmly as that horrific sculpt of his own blade gealms under the incandescent glow of his own sight. A snarl let forther to become a mask of hunger in a boisterous display of mechanical harmonics trying to seep through to ones very bones..Muscled layers giving way to the cruel nature of his talons squirming inside like starved maggots eating her alive. Thet mystifying gaze glaring into her as his breath like the decay of a thousand corpses seeps out and clings to her flesh. The jagged edge stroking alongside her cheek as she shivered more under the cool dampness of the tunnel and his very own presense only making manners worse as her blood continued to drizzle down along his plates..Her meager attempts at clawing across his chest a mere tickle while he toyed just a moment longer.." Shhh..So attractive you are..though I had heard beauty is only skin deep..perhaps.." A cloud of his cancerous breath pluming out.." We should find out.." With that his jaws clench and the blade departs from her face now thrusting it downward along her bicep trying to peel under and separate skin from muscle tissues as if he was some butcher preparing the meal to come..He would likely stop mid palm with a swipe of blood splattered accross his own garb..The motion entertained again as he continued with another following the same as he attempts to repeat the motion with resistant overpowered by his mechanical might..A demented gleam of his fangs just under those swirling pits of hatred with blackened nostrisl flaring..breathing more heavily and his tongue squirming through pushing foam like chemical concotion out between the cracks of his jaws as he worked pushing harder and harder on the ribs trying to compress the abdomen as he did so.
Ashur Kentoku's internal nanites swarm and struggle to control her blood-loss and system shock, trying to keep her alive...She couldn't scream anymore, couldnt find the breath to, so she just mews quietly, almost casually, as if to herself, as her ribs collapse. She lays her head against the armoured chest and closes her eyes, even moving her head a little to get comfortable, still clinging to the arm that's killing her, and sighs.
Serp Iwashi finally pulled the blade aside to let the droplets fly outward.Her arms likely looked mangled now and her ribs upon her left hand side were nearly protruding out in a compount fracture as he pulled half the the bone with. Crushing it in his hand almost into a powdery film now sprinkled atop her..His foot kicking her back to the wall and soon striking the armored shin across her body several times to batter her. He would slowly move back to gauge the damage as his licked the blade a moment in thought. he could nearly whistle at this point to judge his quick work as if to see if he had gotten any better through the countless bodies that have come to past.
Ashur Kentoku crumples to the sewer floor and twitches as she's battered, but it's perhaps a blessing she's unconscious now....she lies there and sets about the business of dying as the horror before her contemplates his handiwork, her blood mingling with the waters and flowing away from her...
Serp Iwashi soon slipped the blade along his backside once more. The white film tainted in red continously rubbed through his inner palm as he would lean down only once letting his figners graze atop her feline ear..Stroking the tip a moment with a soft laugh that nearly betrayed the size and mass of his mechanical form. " Enjoy you're recovery.." Soon walking off back into the shadows of the tunnel as if nothing had happened.
The blinking red light of an aircraft is seen in the night sky over the mountains in the Scapegoat Wilderness. The United States congress designated the Scapegoat Wilderness in 1972 with a total of 239,936 acres. The long northwest border of the Scapegoat Wilderness is shared with the Bob Marshall Wilderness and the massive limestone cliffs that dominate 9,204 ft Scapegoat Mountain are an extension of the "Bob's" Chinese Wall. Elevations range from 5,000 feet on the North Fork Blackfoot River to 9,400 feet on Red Mountain; the highest peak in the Wilderness Complex.
Together, the Great Bear Wilderness, the Bob Marshall Wilderness and the Scapegoat Wilderness form the Bob Marshall Wilderness Complex, an area of more than 1.5 million acres. U.S. Forest Service photo by Brandan W. Schulze.
blinking in the morning sun
drinking in the morning sun
...
oh anyway, its looking like a beautiful day
[elbow- one day like this]
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Please don't comment with (blinking or self-promoting) images.
And please respect the copyright on the photos in my photostream.
Please don't comment with (blinking or self-promoting) images.
And please respect the copyright on the photos in my photostream.
(1856-1928)
George H. Earle, Jr., Surgeon-General of Finance
George H. Earle, Jr., Surgeon-General of Finance (1909)
by Richard Jarvis
Related Authors.related authors: George Howard Earle (1856-1928).
Hampton's Magazine (April 1909) V. 22 No. 4 pp. 557-60.
George H. Earle, Jr., Surgeon-General of Finance
By Richard Jarvis
Illustration from Photograph
ALL the members of the board of directors were present. They had been present for many weary hours, and during that entire period they had been trying to convince themselves that figures do, after all, lie. But at last the stubborn, blue-black columns in the leathern ledgers had conquered; their silence had worsted the clamor of these financiers; the board was still in session, but Ruin was just about to take the chair.
"Gentlemen," said the president, "there is no use any longer in blinking at truth. The company must go into the hands of a receiver, and when it goes there is only one man who can cure it, only one man who can get it on its feet again, preserve our business integrity and save the money of our stockholders."
The company's lawyer looked up from the pad upon which he had been scribbling aimlessly. "I know," he nodded; "of course you mean George H. Earle, Jr."
And of course the president did—not once, but many times. For this anecdote is not fiction; it is so much fact that it has happened on a score of occasions, each and every one of which has contributed to the reputation of Mr. Earle, of Philadelphia, as a Business Doctor and Financial Surgeon.
It is an axiom of medical research that, for every new disease which is discovered, sooner or later a new cure is made known, and much the same law seems to apply to ethics and to business. Thus the bank-wrecker had be-come a too-familiar danger, and the average receiver was generally, though by no means always justly, looked upon as of small assistance—or worse. But now Mr. Earle has, well-nigh against his will, been forced to pass most of his working life in one receivership or another and has elevated the task of financial salvage into a profession.
A novel type, surely. A ray of honest sunlight, you may well call it, in the dark sky of high finance. Mr. Earle is all that; he has evolved, in short, an absolutely new species which seems destined to become the hope of modern finance, and in evolving that species—the species of the sterling professional business man—he has achieved one of the most remarkable business records of our day.
Bear in mind that here is one who, for the most part, has worked only on wrecks. Their variety has been wide, but their condition has been uniform. And yet this reconstructive genius has come through his tasks to success by the unique process of commanding confidence and rebuilding with painful care.
It was the case of the Real Estate Trust Company of Philadelphia which brought Mr. Earle into national prominence. In the late summer of 1906 that institution, theretofore regarded as a local Gibraltar, fell with a crash. By a single shot from his revolver its president ended his own life and, to all appearances, the life of the institution of which he had been the unworthy head.
Investigation revealed seeming ruin. The head of the company had advanced tremendous sums of money on wild-cat securities. Hundreds of poor people with their little all in those vaults swarmed vainly to the doors. Angry depositors engaged counsel and started a legion of suits. Litigation was begun in such complexity that it would have tied up for years whatever money remained and would have crushed the company's credit forever. To meet a seven million dollar failure there did not appear to be assets worth two millions.
George H. Earle, Jr., was made receiver and proceeded to perform the seemingly impossible. First of all he employed what psychologists call "the direct command," and immediately demonstrated that, in financial illness as truly as in physical disease, half the cure is accomplished when the doctor has secured the patient's confidence.
"Stop these suits immediately!" he ordered.
Wonderingly, the contesting depositors obeyed.
Leave everything to me," he continued.
The depositors nodded.
"Now then, I will save your money."
And already it was as good as saved!
Mr. Earle went to the directors—not at them, but to them. He talked with them and found them willing to advance two and a half million dollars in cash. That sounds amazing. It is amazing. People even hinted that Mr. Earle had "put the screws on" those directors. But he denies this. Like most successful men, he is an optimist. "Personally," he said only the other day, "I have always been wholly sure that any litigation against the directors would fail. They had audits made and had reports submitted, but they were deceived by unquestioned frauds. There was not the neglect that the public suspected, and there was no moral delinquency. Not at all. The appeal I made to them was only an appeal to their sense of honor and personal responsibility, and it was responded to in a way that would make anyone's heart glad who likes to respect his fellow-men. One of them, who gave an enormous sum, had all his property in trust and could not possibly have been reached by law."
REJECTS A $250,000 FEE
Once the money was in his hands, Mr. Earle went even farther in his demands upon the confidence of the depositors and stockholders. He called for proxies.
In return," said he, "I promise to pay the depositors one third in cash and give them, for the balance, preferred stock in the reorganized company carrying an accumulative dividend of six per cent."
The response to this was instant. Each mail brought in hundreds of proxies, until the receiver had authority to act for every dollar on deposit. That began the last chapter, which Mr. Earle ended by clever deals with the assets: only two months from the time of its disastrous failure the bank reopened, and it stands to-day as one of Philadelphia's soundest institutions.
The directors suggested a $250,000 fee.
"Why, I'd really feel better if I weren't paid at all," said Mr. Earle.
But it was pointed out that other receivers would have to be paid in future instances and that such a sentiment, if indulged, might establish a precedent that would be hard upon them.
"All right," replied the receiver, "in that case we will make it $50,000."
So $50,000 it was made, but only a small part of even that has yet been called for.
"As a matter of fact," said Mr. Earle recently, "I have not made up my mind what I shall ultimately do with the rest."
Is it any wonder that the fifteen thousand stockholders unanimously chose him for President?
"This is the ninth institution which I have been called upon to help," Mr. Earle said when the task was at last completed, "and looking back over the past weeks, when I was often working twenty hours a day, I fully understand just the sense of supreme peace that must have come to the old lady who, having at last married off her ninth daughter, declared that she felt her life's work was done."
Mr. Earle's life work, however, is by no means completed. We give unstinted praise, we Americans, to one man who succeeds in building up one business under favorable auspices; but here is a man whose success lies in his ability to take over businesses of varied sorts that have been all but ruined and then restoring them to their pristine vitality—a man who has done this for banks, for railroads, for sugar refineries. An expert who rebuilds in these days of the destroyers; a man who believes in this day of doubts; a man who, by his own business insight and his own true worth of character, secures the faith of the thitherto deceived and snatches victory from the fangs of defeat—such a man is worthy of some detailed study.
Springing from sound Quaker stock, George H. Earle, Jr., started life with a golden spoon in his mouth and in his mind the intention of making himself into the same sort of a good lawyer that his father had been. He was admitted to Harvard with the class of 1879; left because of ill-health; regained his strength in the Adirondacks, becoming the enthusiastic outdoor-man he has since remained; and, returning to Philadelphia, entered the law firm of Earle & White which his grandfather had founded.
Almost immediately the young man began to demonstrate his ability to patch up torn rents in the cloak of business. In the Pennsylvania Warehousing & Safe Deposit Company his family owned stock which was selling—when it could get a purchaser—at five dollars a share, and which, bought at fifty dollars, had never brought a dividend. Could not this concern be put on its feet? Mr. Earle thought that it could. He convinced the powers that were, and they made him President.
The best pruned trees bear the best plums, and one of Mr, Earle's specialties has always been pruning. He gathered other young men about him, pruned that warehousing company's tree, and began using fertilizer—which came in the shape of a purchase of certain wharves. Why he wanted wharves nobody then knew, but after the purchase—some time after—the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, entering the city, began fighting the Philadelphia & Reading for wharf room: that warehousing company's stock now fluctuates between seventy-five and a hundred dollars a share.
This was only the start, but business men at once observed Mr. Earle's peculiar talent. In his own city the Guarantee Trust & Safe Deposit Company had been severely shaken by some free and easy speculation; Mr. Earle was called in and restored it to stability. The cure of the Finance Company of Pennsylvania was next affected, Mr. Earle having now withdrawn from the law firm. Then the stock of the Tradesmen's National Bank of Philadelphia was precisely doubled in genuine value and the Philadelphia Market Street National Bank rescued, whereupon Mr. Earle had his part in the restoration of the Reading Railway and reorganized the Choctaw, Oklahoma and Gulf Railroad.
To give the entire catalogue of all that followed would be but to repeat former instances with new names. Finally, however, came the twin failure of the allied Philadelphia Chestnut Street National Bank and the Chestnut Street Trust Company.
George H. Earle, Jr., Hampton's Magazine, April 1909.jpg
GEORGE H. EARLE, JR.,
The Philadelphian who has attained wonderful success in bringing tottering financial institutions from chaos to order.
The creditors faced the cheerless prospect of getting twelve cents on the dollar, but Mr. Earle and Richard Y. Cook became receivers. The president of both concerns had borrowed heavily on securities of the Philadelphia Record, and when the Comptroller of the Currency refused to permit Mr. Earle to protect these loans with the money remaining in the bank, he got the president of the company to assign to him and Mr. Cook the equity of the paper, so that if the loans were paid the creditors of the institutions could get the value. The next move was to secure control of the newspaper: the two receivers raised the money and ran the business for four years. It prospered; profits increased, and the Record was sold at a great profit.
A fortune had been made. According to an opinion handed down by the courts, the profits belonged to Messrs. Earle and Cook, who had saved the newspaper with money advanced at their own risk. But Mr. Earle's action showed the character of the man. The creditors of the bank received one hundred and thirty cents on the dollar, being principal and interest for five years.
When you go into Mr. Earle's office you enter a high-ceilinged room, green carpeted, and see, sitting at a massive roll-top desk and behind a little wall of methodically arranged papers, a slightly stoop-shouldered man whose age, however, you would be unlikely to set at fifty-two years. This man's clean-shaven face is a picture of strength, eye clear, mouth firm; but the manner is that of business man and gentleman; always courtly, never gruff; and, most of all, impressive in its quietness.
Modest of his achievements, and scrupulous in his regard for the confidences involved in his delicate financial relations, he prefers to talk, in his easy, deliberate way, of his splendid thousand-acre estate, well called "Broad-acres," near Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, with twelve miles of drives within its limits and situated only that number of miles from his office door. He enjoys showing the visitor there one of the best private collections of pictures—especially rich in modern French masters—in America. He likes to tell, too, of his enthusiasm for a country, even an athletic, life; and he is fond of exhibiting his rare coins.
Do not suppose, however, that just because he was born to wealth on the one hand, and forced, so to speak, into the profession of financial surgery on the other, Mr. Earle has wholly lost interest in the law. On the contrary, he could not have done what he has done had he not been a lawyer, and when you ask his colleagues what sort of a lawyer he is, there is a single reply:
"One of the four best in the city."
As a matter of fact, Mr. Earle's legal talent is like his financial talent—constructive.
"I still occasionally plead a case in court," he says, "when I think a wrong has been done, or when I am interested personally, or as a matter of principle."
That does not sound very portentous, but it is only Mr. Earle's way of referring to his casual legal battles, one of which practically established the present libel law of Pennsylvania, while in another he developed an interpretation of the Sherman Act which is now accepted in all courts.
And his legal work is like his financial in yet another respect—the manner in which it demonstrates his infinite capacity for taking pains. In one case he looked up every decision regarding restraint of trade ever handed down by an English or American judge. Then, having launched these at the head of an honorable though bewildered court, he took a day's vacation and embodied the results of his researches in a little volume, "The Liberty to Trade as Buttressed by National Law," which in its particular field has come to be regarded as an authority.
Mr. Earle has seen some strange things in his time. In one instance where the president of a banking institution had stolen its entire capital, he was astounded to find that a court after the thefts, had appointed three able lawyers to audit the concern's accounts and that these lawyers had returned a highly complimentary report. This required investigation, and in the end the investigator discovered that, hearing of the approaching audit, the president, who had "used" one hundred thousand dollars, wrapped up and sealed a huge roll of perfectly blank paper, told his officers that it was a special deposit of one hundred thousand dollars to be returned with the seals unbroken if a certain deal did not "go through," and so received the one hundred thousand dollars credit on the books which was necessary to satisfy the auditors!
You would think that such experiences would breed suspicion in any soul, but you must remember that Mr. Earle is an optimist. In his own words:
"The most striking thing in my career has been, to my mind, the quickness with which my little financial rebuildings are forgotten in the interims between disaster, and the certainty with which they are remembered when disaster comes again. Whenever I have been engaged in one of these tasks, I have been magnificently supported and magnificently attacked. It is true, too, that, in the interval, criticism is my chief lot, until I might be tempted to feel that any slight service I may have rendered has quite faded from public memory; but that is sure always to be negatived when something fresh happens, for then I find that people have not, after all, been unmindful of what little I have done."
That is, of course, a far too modest estimate, for Mr. Earle's life is something more than he would have one believe. Many men who have observed the careers of our most conspicuous money-makers have asked: Does it pay to play fair?" George H. Earle, Jr., is the answer, and the answer is "Yes."
[George Howard Earle, Jr. is a sixth-great-grandson of my ninth-great grandfather, our common ancestor immigrant Ralph Earle. Thus we are 7th cousins, 3 times removed.
His son, George H. Earle III, is a seventh-great-grandson of my ninth-great grandfather, our common ancestor immigrant Ralph Earle. Thus we are 8th cousins, 2 times removed.
His father, George H. Earle, Sr., is a fifth-great-grandson of my ninth-great grandfather, our common ancestor immigrant Ralph Earle. Thus we are 6th cousins, 4 times removed.]