Books with author Robert W Pope

Yarn, a sheep, explains the twelve months of the year to his flock in The Golden Months of Ram Merino. Set in a medieval world shared by friendly animals and a small band of knights, each month is introduced by a full-page illustration followed by a description of the actions pictured. An impatient fox, who hurries from one month to the next, learns a valuable lesson by year's end. For his part, Ram Merino himself can only sigh: "My goodness, how much wool we gather in a year!"The Golden Months of Ram Merino encourages children to discover their own imaginary worlds by exploring works of art, then drawing or writing their own story about what they have seen.

The failure of the old-time firm of Edgerton, Tennant & Co. was unusual only because it was an honest one—the bewildered creditors receiving a hundred cents on a dollar from property not legally involved.Edgerton had been dead for several years; the failure of the firm presently killed old Tennant, who was not only old in years, but also old in fashion—so obsolete, in fact, were the fashions he clung to that he had used his last cent in a matter which he regarded as involving his personal honor.The ethically laudable but materially ruinous integrity of old Henry Tennant had made matters rather awkward for his orphaned nieces. Similar traditions in the Edgerton family—of which there now remained only a single representative, James Edgerton 3d—devastated that young man's inheritance so completely that he came back to the United States, via Boston, on a cattle steamer and arrived in New York the following day with two dollars in loose silver and a confused determination to see the affair through without borrowing.He walked from the station to the nearest of his clubs. It was very early, and the few club servants on duty gazed at him with friendly and respectful sympathy.

In the days when the keepers of the house shall tremble. When I first saw the sexton he was standing motionless behind a stone. Presently he moved on again, pausing at times, and turning right and left with that nervous, jerky motion that always chills me. His path lay across the blighted moss and withered leaves scattered in moist layers along the bank of the little brown stream, and I, wondering what his errand might be, followed, passing silently over the rotting forest mould. Once or twice he heard me, for I saw him stop short, a blot of black and orange in the sombre woods; but he always started on again, hurrying at times as though the dead might grow impatient.

Because it all seems so improbable-so horribly impossible to me now, sitting here safe and sane in my own library-I hesitate to record an episode which already appears to me less horrible than grotesque. Yet, unless this story is written now, I know I shall never have the courage to tell the truth about the matter-not from fear of ridicule, but because I myself shall soon cease to credit what I now know to be true. Yet scarcely a month has elapsed since I heard the stealthy purring of what I believed to be the shoaling undertow-scarcely a month ago, with my own eyes, I saw that which, even now, I am beginning to believe never existed.