In 1801, some five years after Robert Burns' death, nine of his friends sat down to dinner in what is now known as Burns Cottage in Alloway to celebrate his extraordinary life and to give thanks for his friendship. Over the years the informal theme from that evening has developed into the ritual known as Burns Night. This best-selling book is the essential guide for anyone intending to hold or attend a Burns Night of any size. In addition to setting out the order of events for the evening, the Burns Supper Companion also offers fascinating insights into the traditions surrounding Burns Night. Nancy Marshall has spent a large part of her life living and working in Edinburgh. She read English Literature and Medieval History at Edinburgh University, going on to write widely about Scottish song and the poems and songs of Robert Burns.
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<b>Macline tombera-t-elle dans les griffes du lion blanc ?</b> <br> <br>Seïs se voit contraint d’abandonner Naïs en Principauté pour retourner de toute urgence à Macline. Mais voilà, la jeune femme s’approche dangereusement de Noterre… au risque de tomber entre les griffes du lion blanc. Toutes les fondations du pays sont menacées et risquent de s’effondrer, et au-delà, celles de leur propre existence. Parviendront-ils à protéger leur univers, leur croyance et leur vie ? Réussiront-ils à se retrouver en dépit du fossé qui les sépare désormais ? <br> <br> <b>Grâce au troisième tome de cette saga fantasy époustouflante, replongez dans le monde de Seïs Amorgen et découvrez la suite de ses aventures !</b> <br> <br>EXTRAIT <br> <br>Il s’accrocha à ma tunique et je dégainai Trompe-la-mort. Dès que je poussai la porte, un rouleau de fumée opaque nous sauta au visage. Liem-Sat mit la main devant la bouche et toussa bruyamment. Je fis un pas dans le couloir et tentai de percer l’obscurité. À ma droite, les flammes ravageaient le fond du corridor, ainsi que l’Aile des Princes et éclairaient de rouge et d’orange les tapisseries en feu. À ma gauche, le couloir ressemblait à un trou béant noir et oppressant, nimbé de volutes de fumée si épaisses qu’on se serait cru aveugle. Je m’engageai par là, serrant Trompe-la-mort comme si c’était une bouée de sauvetage, et Liem-Sat s’accrochait à moi, comme si j’étais la sienne. Je tâtonnais. En dépit de ma vue, j’y voyais comme dans un four. Je devais me montrer prudent, le sol était jonché de ce que tous les notables avaient laissé tomber en fuyant vers les souterrains. Les Taroghs n’étaient pas parvenus jusque-là, mais je les entendais. Ils n’étaient plus très loin. Je pressai l’allure. Liem-Sat trottinait derrière moi en ahanant, se couvrant la bouche et le nez de la main. <br> <br>CE QU'EN PENSE LA CRITIQUE <br> <br> Le point fort de cette saga ? Ses personnages ! […] Angel Arekin a un don incroyable pour créer des personnages à la fois convaincants et attachants. - <b>LesFantasydAmanda, <i>Babelio</i></b> <br> <br>[…]ce troisième tome est toujours aussi sombre, je le trouve même plus sanglant que les précédents. L’auteur joue complètement avec nos nerfs... Je pense vraiment qu’elle a fait voler en éclats toutes mes certitudes, elle a instauré le doute en moi tout au long de ma lecture, au point qu’à la fin je ne sais plus discerner le vrai du faux. - <b>Blog <i>Le monde de Wendy</i></b> <br> <br>Ce troisième tome est rempli de surprises constantes. Nos émotions jouent les montagnes russes et cette angoisse et cette boule de ventre qui ne s’enlèvent pas facilement. Des personnages toujours attachants en pleine quête d’identités et d’affirmations. En plus, une histoire s’amplifie en intensité grâce aux événements, aux rebondissements et aux mystères. - <b>Nenyval, blog <i>De fil en histoire</i></b> <br> <br>À PROPOS DE L'AUTEUR <br> <br>Née en 1981 à Brive-la-Gaillarde, <b>Angel Arekin</b> partage sa...
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For two months I had been on the d'Entrecasteaux Islands gathering data for the concluding chapters of my book upon the flora of the volcanic islands of the South Pacific. The day before I had reached Port Moresby and had seen my specimens safely stored on board the Southern Queen. As I sat on the upper deck I thought, with homesick mind, of the long leagues between me and Melbourne, and the longer ones between Melbourne and New York.
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The fifty empty freights danced and rolled and rattled on the rough road bed and filled Jericho Pass with thunder; the big engine was laboring and grunting at the grade, but five cars back the noise of the locomotive was lost. Yet there is a way to talk above the noise of a freight train just as there is a way to whistle into the teeth of a stiff wind. This freight-car talk is pitched just above the ordinary tone - it is an overtone of conversation, one might say - and it is distinctly nasal. The brakie could talk above the racket, and so, of course, could Lefty Joe. They sat about in the center of the train, on the forward end of one of the cars. No matter how the train lurched and staggered over that fearful road bed, these two swayed in their places as easily and as safely as birds on swinging perches. The brakie had touched Lefty Joe for two dollars; he had secured fifty cents; and since the vigor of Lefty's oaths had convinced him that this was all the money the tramp had, the two now sat elbow to elbow and killed the distance with their talk.
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Apart from the rest of the children, on the top rail of a fence, holding tight on to the tall gate post, sat a little girl of perhaps thirteen years of age; darker than any of the others, and with a more decided woolliness in the hair; a pure unmitigated African. She was not so entirely in a state of nature as the rollers in the dust beneath her; but her only garment was a short woolen skirt, which was tied around her waist, and reached about to her knees. She seemed a dazed and stupid child, and as her head hung upon her breast, she looked up with dull blood-shot eyes towards her young brothers and sisters, without seeming to see them. Bye and bye the eyes closed, and still clinging to the post, she slept. The other children looked up and said to each other, "Look at Hatt, she's done gone off agin!" Tired of their present play ground they trooped off in another direction, but the girl slept on heavily, never losing her hold on the post, or her seat on her perch. Behold here, in the stupid little negro girl, the future deliverer of hundreds of her people; the spy and scout of the Union armies; the devoted hospital nurse; the protector of hunted fugitives; the eloquent speaker in public meetings; the cunning eluder of pursuing man-hunters; the heaven guided pioneer through dangers seen and unseen; in short, as she has well been called, "The Moses of her People."
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He was a misshapen thing, bulking a black blotch in the night at the entrance of the dark alleyway-like some lurking creature in its lair. He neither stood, nor kneeled, nor sat-no single word would describe his posture-he combined all three in a sort of repulsive, formless heap. The Flopper moved. He came out from the alleyway onto the pavement, into the lurid lights of the Bowery, flopping along knee to toe on one leg, dragging the other leg behind him-and the leg he dragged was limp and wobbled from the knee. One hand sought the pavement to balance himself and aid in locomotion; the other arm, the right, was twisted out from his body in the shape of an inverted V, the palm of his hand, with half curled, contorted fingers, almost touching his chin, as his head sagged at a stiff, set angle into his right shoulder. Hair straggled from the brim of a nondescript felt hat into his eyes, and curled, dirty and unshorn, around his ears and the nape of his neck. His face was covered with a stubble of four days' growth, his body with rags-a coat; a shirt, the button long since gone at the neck; and trousers gaping in wide rents at the knees, and torn at the ankles where they flapped around miss-mated socks and shoes.
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The gut of the pass rose toward Zeitoon at a sharp incline--a ramp of slippery wet clay, half a mile long, reaching across from buttress to buttress of the impregnable hills. It was more than a ridden mule could do to keep its feet on the slope, and we had to dismount. It was almost as much as we ourselves could do to make progress with the aid of sticks, and we knew at last what Kagig had meant by his boast that nothing on wheels could approach his mountain home. The poor wretches who had struggled so far with us simply gave up hope and sat down, proposing to die there.
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For half a century the housewives of Pont-l'Eveque had envied Madame Aubain her servant Felicite. For a hundred francs a year, she cooked and did the housework, washed, ironed, mended, harnessed the horse, fattened the poultry, made the butter and remained faithful to her mistress—although the latter was by no means an agreeable person. Madame Aubain had married a comely youth without any money, who died in the beginning of 1809, leaving her with two young children and a number of debts. She sold all her property excepting the farm of Toucques and the farm of Geffosses, the income of which barely amounted to 5,000 francs; then she left her house in Saint-Melaine, and moved into a less pretentious one which had belonged to her ancestors and stood back of the market-place. This house, with its slate-covered roof, was built between a passage-way and a narrow street that led to the river. The interior was so unevenly graded that it caused people to stumble. A narrow hall separated the kitchen from the parlour, where Madame Aubain sat all day in a straw armchair near the window. Eight mahogany chairs stood in a row against the white wainscoting. An old piano, standing beneath a barometer, was covered with a pyramid of old books and boxes. On either side of the yellow marble mantelpiece, in Louis XV. style, stood a tapestry armchair. The clock represented a temple of Vesta; and the whole room smelled musty, as it was on a lower level than the garden.
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