our little lies
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Far away in the African antipodesÑat the extreme opposite side of the world from usÑlies South Africa. Vast as is this British possession, it forms but the southernmost point or tip of the great dark continent. In its very heart lies the TransvaalÑthe home of our little Boer cousins. The great "thirst-veldt" of the Kalahari Desert lies to the north-west of their land, which is about the size of England, and with a very similar climate, and to the south, beyond the Drakensberg Mountains, lies Natal, Kaffraria and Zululand. The story of the Transvaal is the story of the BoersÑa stalwart, patriotic and deeply religious race, whose history began one April day in 1652, about the time when Cromwell wasÊat the height of his power, when four Dutch ships, under the daring Jan Van Riebek, entered the bay of Table Mountain and made their first landing at the Cape of Good Hope. We have all read of the splendid valor of the Boers. Their history is as full of romance as it is of pathos and struggle. Such names as "Oom Paul" KrugerÑfour times presidentÑGeneral Botha, and General Joubert, come to us at once when we think of the Transvaal. But there are other great names associated with this land; such remarkable ones as those of Livingstone the "Pathfinder," and "Messenger of God," as he was called; and of Cecil Rhodes, the "Empire Builder," whose dream it was to build the great north roadÑnow nearing completionÑwhich will stretch like a ribbon across the whole African continent from the Cape to the Mediterranean. Perhaps, in this little story, you may gain a glimpse of the surroundings, the wholesome out-of-doorÊfarm-life, work and play of our little Boer cousinsÑboys and girls of the antipodes, and of the bright future which awaits the Transvaal. Ê
Reproduction of the original: Our Little Swiss Cousin by Mary Hazelton Wade
Reproduction of the original: Our Little Alaskan Cousin by Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
In this riveting prequel novella to her novel Little Mercies, New York Times bestselling author Heather Gudenkauf explores how even the smallest lies can have far-reaching consequences. When the body of a woman is discovered in a local park—with her bewildered four-year-old son sitting beside her—veteran social worker Ellen Moore is called in to assist in the police investigation. Positioned beneath a statue of Leto, the goddess of motherhood, the crime is weighted with meaning and, Ellen discovers, remarkably similar to one from a decade past. Ellen's professional duty is to protect the child, but she's not equipped to contend with a killer. As she races to connect the dots, she knows her time is running out. And the stakes are high: if she fails, another mother is sure to make the ultimate sacrifice.
ÊZoe sat in the doorway tending baby Domna as she lay asleep in her cradle. She was sleeping quietly, as any child should who has the cross on her cradle for good luck. Her skin was as white as milk, and this was because Zoe had taken care of her Marti. On the first day of March she had tied a bit of red ribbon about her little cousin's wrist, for a charm. The keen March winds could not hurt the baby after that, nor could she have freckles nor sunburn. Early on the morning of April first, Zoe had dressed the baby and carried her out of doors. The dew lay over the flowers, the sun was just up, and his rosy beams turned the blossoming lemon trees to beauty. Zoe had sought the nearest garden and there hung the Marti on a rose bush, plucking a rose and pinning it to Domna's cap. "Now, Babycoula," she had said, clapping her hands, "you shall have luck. Your Marti is upon a rose bush kissed with dew before the sun is high. The summer's heat shall not touch you and you shall be cool and well." It was fortunate for Zoe as well as for the "Joy," which the Greek word for baby means, that Domna was a quiet baby. As most of the little girl's time was taken up with caring for one or another of her aunt's children, when they were cross it left her but little time for thinking and dreaming. Zoe's thoughts were often sad ones, but her dreams were rose-coloured. When the little girl thought, she remembered the home she had once had. It was far in the sunny south where lemon groves lifted golden-fruited arms to the soft winds, and hillsides gleamed with purple and white currants.