Macroeconomics for Life Smart

Choices for All Canadian 2nd Edition

Cohen Solutions Manual
Visit to download the full and correct content document: https://testbankdeal.com/dow
nload/macroeconomics-for-life-smart-choices-for-all-canadian-2nd-edition-cohen-solut
ions-manual/
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
But now I know he was away
Upon the hills of Italy.

He showed me once long months before

The picture of a dark-eyed girl
Within a locket that he wore—
A little keepsake wrought of pearl.

His life had known no counter gale,

He had the aid of wind and tide,
And dreamed that soon a snowy sail
Should bear him to his future bride.

’Twas but a letter—nothing much—

A scrap of paper sent to him,
Yet something he did clutch and clutch
The while his dusky eyes grew dim.

And oh, how eagerly he scanned

Each syllable that formed her name!
He crushed the letter in his hand
And fed it to the driftwood flame.

As in a dream he sat and stared

At night’s black pall around us hung;
I would have spoken if I’d dared,
But silence had a gentler tongue.

He did not curse as men will do,

Of grief he gave no outward sign;
That bitter draught of myrrh and rue
He drank as though it had been wine.

With joyless heart he crooned a song

Of love and hope, as day by day
We hauled our heavy seine along
The pebbled beaches of the bay.
At last—ah, Christ, I’ll not forget!
I never saw the like before!
An empty boat—we, chilled and wet,
And ten leagues from our cabin door!

Ten leagues—a stormy row!

But fishermen know naught of fear;
Had we ere this not faced the snow
When winter nights were dark and drear?

Had we not braved the Storm-king’s glee

When winds were shrill and waves were high,
Been battered by a raging sea
And swung below a ragged sky?

“Oho! Cheer up!” I cried,

“We’ve dared the seas before, my mate,
What matter if ill luck betide?—
Why, we were born to laugh at fate!”

He grasped his oar with one long sigh,

Nor spoke he any word to me;
And so together, he and I,
Put out upon the angry sea.

And side by side, with steady stroke;

We fought against the veering flaw;
In flakes of froth the billows broke—
The wildest wolves I ever saw!

Ah, how the cutting north wind blew,

And in our faces dashed the spray!
The sullen twilight round us grew,
The green shore faded into gray.

“Cheer up! Cheer up! A merry row

We’ll have ere dawn of day!” laughed I;
“And what care we how winds may blow?”
 The Sea’s voice only made reply.

A silent man he left the shore,

Nor yet a single word had said;
A silent man he dipped his oar
As though it were a thing of lead.

The night came down and still we toiled,

The tumult fiercer grew, and now
The swirling tide-rip foamed and boiled,
And ghostly seas swept o’er the prow.

The air was filled with flying spume,

Cloud-galleons sailed down the sky,
Strange forms groped toward us in the gloom,
Pale phantoms glided swiftly by.

Afar, at times, a lonely loon

Sent quavering laughter through the night,
While from a filmy sheath the moon
Drew forth a sabre, keen and bright.

Oh, it was weird!—the seabird’s screech,

The distant buoy’s warning bell,
The white palms lifting high to reach
A loosened star that downward fell!

Within my breast each moment grew

A fear of more than wind-blown sea;
And lo! that mute man, laughing, threw
Aside his oar and leered at me.

That moonlit face! It haunts me still!

The eyes that spoke the maddened brain!
That moonlit face! it sent a thrill
Of terror through my every vein!

“Aha! You thought me dead, you cur!”—

 His breath blew hot against my cheek;
“Aha! You coward, you lied to her!”—
I felt my limbs grow strangely weak.

“Lorenzo! Look! The boat! The boat!”—

But how can mad men understand?
My God! He leaped to clutch my throat,
A wicked dagger in his hand!

That lifted knife! Ah, yet I feel

A horror of the deadly thing!
The long, keen blade of polished steel
Against the white stars quivering.

I upward sprang—I grasped somehow

The hand that held the hilt of bone;
With panther strength he struggled now,
A demon I must fight—alone!

He strove to slay, and I to save

His life and mine if such might be,
And in the trough and on the wave
Like beasts we grappled savagely.

To plead were vain; I could not hear

My voice above the tempest’s breath,
I only knew my feet were near
The awful, icy edge of Death.

We fought until the dark became

A glare of crimson to my eyes,
Until the stars were snakes of flame
That writhed along the lurid skies.

We fought I know not how—to me

All things of that mad night appear
As vague as when in dreams you see
The ghouls that haunt the coast of Fear.
We fought—we fought and then—and then—
A leap—a cry—and he was gone!
And I alone pulled shoreward when
The East had grown the flower of dawn.

...

I knew he was morose that day

Because he did not speak to me,
But now I know he was away
Upon the hills of Italy.

—Copyright by the Harr Wagner Co., San Francisco, and used by

kind permission of author and publisher.

WHY SANTA CLAUS FORGOT

By Herbert Bashford

A wind from the south swept down the bay,

And pale with anger the waters turned
As the ranchman’s wife looked far away
To where the lights of the city burned.

Like feeble stars on that Christmas eve

Were the pulsing lights beyond the tide;
“Now play with your dolly and do not grieve,”
Said she to the wee one at her side.

“Good Santa Claus will come to you

This very night if you do not cry,”
And she wiped a tear like a drop of dew
From the rosy cheek and the anxious eye.

“No sail! No sail!” and the sad wife pressed

A wan face close to the window-pane,
But naught she saw but the sea’s white breast
And the long gray lash of the hissing rain.
The night fell black and the wild gale played
In the chimney’s throat a shrill, weird tune,
While into a cloud as if afraid
Stole the ghostly form of the groping moon.

Then the steeds of the sea all landward came,

Each panting courser thundered o’er
The rocks of the reef and died in flame
Along the utmost reach of shore.

Ah, heavy the heart of the ranchman’s wife!

And long she listened, yet only heard
The voice of breakers in awful strife
And the plaintive cry of a frightened bird.

So long she waited and prayed for day

As the firelight flickered upon the floor,
While the prowling wind like a beast of prey
Did growl and growl at the cabin door.

The gray dawn crept through the weeping wood,

The clouds set sail and all was still;
With a breast of gold the fair morn stood
Above the firs of the eastern hill.

The waters slept and the raindrops clung

Like shimmering pearls to the maple tree;
The sky was clear and the brown birds flung
Sweet showers of crystal melody.

A splintered mast and a tattered sail

Lay out in the sun on the hard brown sands
And plainer than words they told a tale
To the woman who wept and wrung her hands.

And the little girl with the gold-crowned head

Looked up with her tear-wet eyes of blue;
“Oh, please don’t cry, mamma,” she said,
 “Old Santa Claus forgot me, too.”

—Copyright by Harr Wagner Co., San Francisco, and used by kind

permission of author and publisher.

DICKENS IN CAMP
By Bret Harte

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,

The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow:

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted

The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure

A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure
To hear the tale anew.

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,

And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of “Little Nell.”

Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy—for the reader

Was youngest of them all—
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall;

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,

Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows
Wandered and lost their way.
And so in mountain solitudes—o’ertaken
As by some spell divine—
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire;

And he who wrought that spell?—
Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story

Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak, and holly

And laurel wreaths entwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly—
This spray of Western pine!

—Copyright by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass., and used

by their kind permission.

WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED

By A. J. Waterhouse

Sometimes ’long after supper my grandsire used to sit

Where the sunbeams through the window things of beauty liked to
knit,
And he’d light his pipe and sit there in a sort of waking dream,
While to bathe his form in glory seemed the sunlight’s pretty scheme;
And then, whatever happened, he didn’t seem to see,
And a smile lit up his features that used to puzzle me,
And I would often wonder what pleasant inner theme
Had caused that strange and tranquil smile when grandpa used to
dream.
Sometimes, though, when I’d listen I’d hear the good man sigh,
And once I’m almost sure I saw the moisture in his eye,
But whether he would smile or sigh, he didn’t seem to see
The things that happened ’round him, and that’s what puzzled me.
With the wreaths of smoke ascending as the twilight gathered there,
The shadows crept about him in the old arm chair,
And through the evening darkness I could see the fitful gleam
From the embers in his lighted pipe when grandpa used to dream.

I used to wonder in those days. I wonder now no more,

For now I understand the thing that puzzled me of yore,
And I know that through the twilight and the shadows gathering fast
Came unto my grandsire, dreaming, the visions of the past.
The boys who played with him were there within that little room;
His mother’s smile no doubt lit up the darkness and the gloom;
Again he ran and leaped and played beside an Eastern stream;
The ones he loved were there, I know, when grandpa used to dream.

And so he smiled—and then she stood, his dearest, at his side,

With the glow of youth upon her, red-lipped and laughing eyed,
And he told the old, sweet story, and she listened, nothing loth,
And dreams of hope were written in the happy hearts of both;
And then, by strange transition, he saw her pulseless lie—
And ’twas then I viewed the moisture in the corner of his eye.
Old friends were gathered round him, though they’d crossed death’s
mystic stream,
In that hour of smiles and sighing when my grandsire used to dream.

Oh, glad, sad gift of memory to call our dear ones back
And win them from their narrow homes to Time’s still beaten track!
Yours was the power my grandsire held while twilight turned to night;
Through you his loved returned again and blessed his longing sight;
And I no longer wonder, when his dreaming I recall,
At smiles and sighs succeeding while the shadows hid us all,
For, while my pencil’s trailing and I’ve half forgot my theme,
I, too, am seeing visions, as my grandsire used to dream.
 WHEN LITTLE SISTER CAME[14]
By Joaquin Miller

We dwelt in the woods of the Tippe-canoe,

In a lone lost cabin, with never a view
Of the full day’s sun for a whole year through.
With strange half hints through the russet corn
We children were hurried one night. Next morn
There was frost on the trees, and a sprinkle of snow,
And tracks on the ground. Three boys below
The low eave listened. We burst through the door,
And a girl baby cried,—and then we were four.

We were not sturdy, and we were not wise

In the things of the world, and the ways men dare.
A pale-browed mother with a prophet’s eyes,
A father that dreamed and looked anywhere.

Three brothers—wild blossoms, tall-fashioned as men

And we mingled with none, but we lived as when
The pair first lived ere they knew the fall;
And, loving all things, we believed in all.

Ah! girding yourself and throwing your strength

On the front of the forest that stands in mail,
Sounds gallant, indeed, in a pioneer’s tale,
But, God in heaven! the weariness
Of a sweet soul banished to a life like this!

This reaching of weary-worn arms full length;

This stooping all day to the cold stubborn soil—
This holding the heart! it is more than toil!
What loneness of heart! what wishing to die
In that soul in the earth, that was born for the sky!

We parted wood-curtains, pushed westward and we,

Why, we wandered and wandered a half year through,
We tented with herds as the Arabs do,
And at last lay down by the sundown sea.
Then there in that sun did my soul take fire!
It burned in its fervor, thou Venice, for thee!
My glad heart glowed with the one desire
To stride to the front, to live, to be!
To strow great thoughts through the world as I went,
As God sows stars through the firmament.

Venice, 1874.

—Copyright by Harr Wagner Co., San Francisco, and used by kind

permission of author and publisher.

WHEN THE OLD MAN SMOKES

By Paul Laurence Dunbar

In the forenoon’s restful quiet,

When the boys are off at school,
When the window lights are shaded
And the chimney corner cool,
Then the old man seeks his arm-chair,
Lights his pipe and settles back;
Falls a-dreaming as he draws it
Till the smoke wreaths gather black.

And the tear-drops come a-trickling

Down his cheeks, a silver flow—
Smoke or memories you wonder,
But you never ask him, no;
For there’s something almost sacred
To the other family folks
In those moods of silent dreaming
When the old man smokes.

Ah, perhaps he sits there dreaming

Of the love of other days
And how he used to lead her
Through the merry dances maze;
How he called her “little princess.”
And, to please her, used to twine
Tender wreaths to crown her tresses,
From the “matrimony vine.”

Then before his mental vision

Comes, perhaps, a sadder day,
When they left his little princess
Sleeping with her fellow clay.
How his young heart throbbed, and pained him!
Why the memory of it chokes!
Is it of these things he’s thinking
When the old man smokes?

But some brighter thoughts possess him,

For the tears are dried the while.
And the old worn face is wrinkled
In a reminiscent smile,
From the middle of the forehead
To the feebly trembling lip,
At some ancient prank remembered
Or some unheard of quip.

Then the lips relax their tension

And the pipe begins to slide,
Till in little clouds of ashes,
It falls gently at his side;
And his head bends lower and lower
Till his chin lies on his breast,
And he sits in peaceful slumber
Like a little child at rest.

Dear old man, there’s something sad’ning,

In these dreamy moods of yours,
Since the present proves so fleeting,
All the past for you endures;
Weeping at forgotten sorrows,
Smiling at forgotten jokes;
Life epitomized in minutes,
When the old man smokes.

—Copyright by Dodd Mead & Co., New York, and used by

arrangement.
 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS IN POETRY

EACH IN HIS OWN TONGUE

By W. H. Carruth

A fire mist and a planet,

A crystal and a cell,
A jelly-fish and a saurian,
And caves where the cavemen dwell;
Then a sense of law and beauty,
And a face turned from the clod;
Some call it Evolution,
And others call it God.

A haze on the far horizon,

The infinite tender sky;
The ripe, rich tints of the cornfields,
And the wild geese sailing high;
And all over upland and lowland
The charm of the golden-rod;
Some of us call it Autumn,
And others call it God.

Like the tide on the crescent sea beach,

When the moon is new and thin,
In our hearts high yearnings
Come welling and surging in.
Come from the mystic ocean,
Whose rim no foot has trod;
Some of us call it Longing,
And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty,

A mother starved for her brood;
Socrates drinking the hemlock,
And Jesus on the road;
The millions who, humble and nameless,
The straight, hard pathway trod;
Some call it Consecration,
And others call it God.

—Copyright, and used by kind permission of the author.

THE MAN WITH THE HOE

By Edwin Markham
(Written after seeing Millet’s World-Famous Painting)
God made man In His own image, in the image of God made He
him.—Genesis.

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans

Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?
Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And pillared the blue firmament with light?
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this—
More tongued with censure of the world’s blind greed—
More filled with signs and portents for the soul—
More fraught with menace to the universe.
What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Time’s tragedy is in the aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Judges of the World,
A protest that is also prophecy.

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,

Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream;
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,

How will the Future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute questions in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings—
With those who shaped him to the thing he is—
When this dumb Terror shall reply to God,
After the silence of the centuries?

—Copyright by Doubleday, Page & Co., New York, and used by

kind permission of author and publisher.

TOMMY
By Rudyard Kipling
I went to a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,
The publican ’e up an’ sez, “We serve no redcoats here.”
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
I out into the street again, an’ to myself sez I:
O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins,” when the band begins to
play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins,” when the band begins to play.

I went into a theater as sober as could be,

They gave a drunk civilian room, but ’adn’t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,
But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;
But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,
The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.

Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ’ow’s yer
soul?”
But it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll.

We aren’t no thin red ’eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,

But single men in barracks, most remarkably like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barracks don’t grow into plaster saints;
While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind,”
But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the
wind,
There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
 O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the
wind.

You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room shops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the
brute!”
But it’s “Saviour of ’is country” when the guns begin to shoot;
An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool—you bet that Tommy sees!

THE CAVALIER’S SONG

By Sir Walter Scott

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,

My true love has mounted his steed, and away
Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down—
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!

He has doff’d the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,

He has placed the steel cap o’er his long-flowing hair,
From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down—
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!

For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws;

Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;
His watchword is honor, his pay is renown—
God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!

They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all

The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;
But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town,
That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.

There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;

There’s Erin’s high Ormond, and Scotland’s Montrose!
Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown
With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?

Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!

Be his banner unconquer’d, resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,
In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown.

WAR
Anonymous

Ivor never heard of Rudolph,

Rudolph never heard of Ivor,
Yet each of them flies at the other—and dies;
For some one, somewhere, has said “War!”

Twelve million men to be marshaled

And murdered and mangled and maimed;
Twelve million men, by the stroke of the pen,
To be slaughtered—and no one ashamed.

Mountains of wealth to be wasted,

Oceans of tears to be shed,
Valleys of light to be turned into night,
Rivers of blood to run red.

Thousands of wives to be widowed,

Millions of mothers to mourn,
Thousands in sorrow to wait the to-morrow,
Millions of hearts to be torn.

Thousands of fathers to perish,

Millions of children to moan,
Ages of time to prepare for a crime
That eons can never atone.
Thousands of homes to be shattered,
Millions of prayers to be vain.
Thousands of ways to the glory that pays
In poverty, panic and pain.

Twelve million men in God’s image

Sentenced to shoot and be shot,
Kill and be killed, as ruler has willed,
For what—For what—For what?

Ivor never heard of Rudolph,

And Rudolph knows naught of Ivor,
Yet each of them flies at the other—and dies,
For some one, somewhere, has said “War!”

LOVE OF COUNTRY
By Sir Walter Scott

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell
High tho’ his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.

SIR GALAHAD