Brown: Gentlemen, I am the bearer of joyful tidings. We leave this charming paradise tomorrow. Quincannon: Paradise! It's the devil's own...
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Burros (also known as Donkeys): Kind/gentle-eyed/velvety-nosed donkey/burro has been throughout history a burden bearer/used extensively in every other conceivable work, and the reward for his loyal service has been neglect/abuse/ridicule! Ever since the decline of mining and the invention of automobile the burro no longer being gainful to man, was abandoned. They banded together and lived off grazing lands which ranchers used for their sheep/cattle, and hunters for their target animals. War is declared on burros by shooting/burning/running them off cliffs to their deaths!'
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If you have a grateful heart (which is a miracle amongst you statesmen), show it by directing the bearer to the best wine in town, and pray let not this highest point of sacred friendship be performed slightly, but go about it with all due deliberation and care, as holy priests to sacrifice, or as discreet thieves to the wary performance of burglary and shop-lifting. Let your well-discerning palate (the best judge about you) travel from cellar to cellar and then from piece to piece till it has lighted on wine fit for its noble choice and my approbation.
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YER OF THE VIGILE DEL FUOCO Lord who light the skyes and fill up the abysses, burn in our breast the flame of sacrifice. Strenghten the spirit of service that burn in us, make safe our eye, steady our foot, to make effective the rescue that in your name we bringto brothers in danger. When the siren shrieks in the streets of the town, listen the throb of our earths devoted to renounce. When in competition with eagles we climb to You, support us Your sored hand. When the fire irresistible flares up, burns the evil nestled in the houses of men, not the life and affections of Your sons. Lord, we are the bearer of Your Cross, and risk is our daily bread. A day without risk is not lived, because for we believers death is life, is light: in the dread of collapses, in the fury of waters, in the hell of fires. Our life is the fire, our faith is God. For Saint Barbara martyr. AMEN
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It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment --but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?
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None love the bearer of bad news.
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No man loves the bearer of bad tidings.
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