It was a cool, crisp morning. Hannah washed the breakfast dishes while her husband, Philip, tied a few chests onto their donkey. He was a carpenter, and a rather wealthy man had asked him to make the fine chests and bring them to his house.

“I’ll be back by supper,” Philip told his wife as he mounted the animal. He didn’t swing himself up like he used too, Hannah noticed. But, then again, her step wasn’t quite as springy as it had been, nor her back as straight. They were both getting older.

 In Defense of Scrooge?

I was on the HSLDA website, and I clicked on the 'contests' link. One of the categories for 2010 was to write an essay on an article entitled 'In Defense of Scrooge' by Michael Levin, a Libertarian. Although the contest is long over, I would still like to write my own essay on this article. So, here goes.

Left, with bruised heart. Beating a steady weary beat, behind the cover of fear. Afraid to love. Afraid to be loved. Everything just seems...like betrayal. Everything ends, just as the heart begins to open; cautiously, quietly, and then it cringes, because it's gone.

I accompanied my dad while he went Christmas shopping for my brothers at "Cabela's, the world's foremost hunting outfitter." Hunting is not exactly my cup of tea. It was not fun to spend five hours there.

1:00
Dad looks at BB guns. I wait.

2:00
Dad looks at air soft guns. I wait some more.

3:00
Dad looks at rifles. I wait even more.

4:00
Dad looks at pop guns. You guessed it, I'm waiting even some more.

5:00
Dad looks at rubber-band guns. I suppress a yawn.

Once upon a time there lived a boy named Michael Grant, who was the youngest of three children. He was ten years old, and his two oldest sisters were sixteen, and twelve; their names were Philomena and Edith. He had a mother and father, whose names were Marie and Luke Grant. Michael also had a Saint Bernard dog, who was two and a half years old. The Grant family lived in a cabin, with a farm, surrounded by woods and lakes and a clear sky.

The smog of the city faded and finally died off completely as my carriage rattled onward into the countryside. Finally, it ground to a shaky halt in the middle of a rambling collection of shacks and shanties. I emerged with confidence and determinedly sunk my feet into several inches of deep mud, courtesy of the previous evening’s rain.