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Make a post that's too long, and no one will read it, but I think you'll enjoy this one in smaller installments. It concerns a wealthy and spoiled rich young woman who claims she has "nothing to wear", and as you'll see, it even has something to do with words! Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, Has made three separate journeys to Paris, And her father assures me, each time she was there, That she and her friend Mrs. Harris (Not the lady whose name is so famous in history, But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery) Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping, In one continuous round of shopping; Shopping alone, and shopping together, At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather; For all manner of things that a woman can put On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot, Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow, In front or behind, above or below: For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls; Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls; Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in; Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in; Dresses in which to do nothing at all; Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall; All of them different in color and pattern, Silk, muslin, and lace, crepe, velvet, and satin, Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material, Quite as expensive and much more ethereal; In short, for all things that could ever be thought of, Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of, From ten-thousand-francs to twenty-sous frills; In all quarters of Paris, and to every store, While M'Flimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore, They footed the streets, and he footed the bills. (to be continued ... ) | ||
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The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Arago Formed, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, Sufficient to fill the largest sized chest, Which did not appear on the ship's manifest, But for which the ladies themselves manifested Such particular interest, that they invested Their own proper persons in layers and rows Of muslins, embroideries, worked under-clothes, Gloves, hankerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those; Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties, Gave good-by to the ship, and go-by to the duties. Her relations at home all marveled no doubt, Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout For an actual belle and a possible bride; But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out, And the truth came to light, and the dry goods beside, Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-house sentry, Had entered the port without any entry. And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway, This same Miss M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, The last time we met, was in utter despair, Because she had nothing whatever to wear! NOTHING TO WEAR! Now, as this is a true ditty, I do not assert--this, you know, is between us-- That she's in a state of absolute nudity, Like Powers' Greek Slave or the Medici Venus; But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare, When at the same moment she had on a dress Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less, And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess, That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear! (more to come ... ) | |||
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Hic, I know the poem, and it is a great one. Thanks! | |||
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Thanks, Kalleh! I wasn't sure if this was appropriate. Readers are probably wondering who the speaker of the poem is, and why does he care about the adorable Ms. M'Flimsey? He explains.
Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, I had just been selected as he who should throw all The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections, Of those fossil remains which she called "her affections," And that rather decayed, but well-known work of art, Which Miss Flora persisted in styling "her heart." So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted, Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove, But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted, Beneath the gas-fixtures we whispered our love. Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs, Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes, Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions, It was one of the quietest business transactions, With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any, And one very large diamond imported by Tiffany. On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis, And by way of putting me quite at my ease, "You know, I'm to polka as much as I please, And flirt when I like--now stop, don't you speak-- And you must not come here more than twice in the week, Or talk to me either at party or ball, But always be ready to come when I call; So don't prose to me about duty and stuff, If we don't break this off, there will be time enough For that sort of thing; but the bargain must be That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free, For this is a sort of engagement, you see, Which is binding on you but not binding on me." | |||
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I like the poem . . . don't like Flora much, though! Is there more? ******* "Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions. ~Dalai Lama | |||
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Well, having thus wooed Miss M'Flimsey and gained her, With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder At least in the property, and the best right To appear as its escort by day and by night; And it being the week of the Stuckup's grand ball-- Their cards had been out a fortnight or so, And set all the Avenue on tip-toe-- I considered it my duty to call, And see if Miss Flora intended to go. I found her--as ladies are apt to be found, When the time intervening between the first sound Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter Than usual--I found; I won't say--I caught her-- Intent on the pier-glass, undoubted meaning To see if pehaps it didn't need cleaning. She turned as I entered-- "Why, Harry, you sinner, I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!" "So I did," I replied, "but the dinner is swallowed, And digested, I trust, for tis now nine and more, So being relieved from that duty, I followed Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. And now will your ladyship so condescend As just to inform me if you intend Your beauty, and graces, and presence to lend, (All which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) to the Stuckup's, whose party, you know is to-morrow?" The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air, And answered quite promptly, "Why Harry, mon cher, I should like above all things to go with you there; But really and truly--I've nothing to wear." "Nothing to wear! Go just as you are; Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, I engage, the most bright and particular star On the Stuckup horizon"--I stopped, for her eye, Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, Opened on me at once a most terrible battery Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose (That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say, "How absurd that any sane man should suppose That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, No matter how fine, that she wears every day!" | |||
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I wasn't sure if this was appropriate. Absolutely it is, Hic. I wish more people would post creative writing here in this forum...poems, DDs, limericks, and the like. I heard about William Carlos Williams this weekend, and I intend to post some of his poems. | |||
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Recall that you were promised that this was word-related? Here, after the colored part, we come our hero's suggestions of appropriate words. I cannot conceive why his helpfulness was received so poorly. But the lady does seem to have fine command of other parts of speech.
(Second turn up of nose)—"That 's too dark by a shade." "Your blue silk"—"That's too heavy." "Your pink"—"That's too light." "Wear tulle over satin"—"I can't endure white." "Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch—" "I haven't a thread of point lace to match." "Your brown moire antique"—"Yes, and look like a Quaker." "The pearl-colored"—"I would, but that plaguy dressmaker Has had it a week." "Then that exquisite lilac, In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock"— (Here the nose took again the same elevation)— "I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." "Why not? It's my fancy, there 's nothing could strike it As more comme il faut"—"Yes, but, dear me, that lean Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen." "Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine; That superb point d'aiguille, that imperial green, That zephyr-like tarletan, that rich grenadine"— "Not one of all which is fit to be seen," Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. "Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed Opposition, "that gorgeous toilette which you sported In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation, And by all the grand court were so very much courted." The end of the nose was portentously tipped up, And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation, As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation, "I have worn it three times, at the least calculation, And that and most of my dresses are ripped up!" Here I ripped out something, perhaps rather rash, Quite innocent, though; but, to use an expression More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," And proved very soon the last act of our session. "Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling Doesn't fall down and crush you—you men have no feeling; You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers, Your silly pretence—why, what a mere guess it is! Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities? I have told you and shown you I 've nothing to wear, And it 's perfectly plain you not only don't care, But you do not believe me"—(here the nose went still higher)— "I suppose, if you dared, you would call me a liar. Our engagement is ended, sir—yes, on the spot; You 're a brute, and a monster, and—I don't know what." I mildly suggested the words Hottentot, Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief, As gentle expletives which might give relief; But this only proved as a spark to the powder, And the storm I had raised came faster and louder; It blew and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed To express the abusive, and then its arrears Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears, And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs. | |||
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wow - not exactly the kind of person i'd wanna have a cuppa with . . . ******* "Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions. ~Dalai Lama | |||
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One of the problems is, of course, is that the chap is speaking English and the lady is speaking "woman". These two languages, in spite of their apparent similarity, are so different that it is surprising that men and women can communicate at all! Richard English | |||
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One of the problems is, of course, is that the chap is speaking English and the lady is speaking "woman". You're probably right. While I am certainly not as dramatic about it as the woman in the poem, I will admit that I get up each morning thinking, "I have nothing to wear." BTW, you are definitely speaking English English as very few Americans, I believe, would use the word "chap." | |||
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Abroad in society, I've instituted A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough, On this vital subject, and find, to my horror, That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising, But that there exists the greatest distress In our female community, solely arising From this unsupplied destitution of dress, Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear." Researches in some of the "Upper Ten" districts Reveal the most painful and startling statistics, Of which let me mention only a few: In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue, Three young ladies were found, all below twenty-two, Who have been three whole weeks without anything new In the way of flounced silks, and thus left in the lurch Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church. In another large mansion, near the same place, Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case Of entire destitution of Brussels point-lace. In a neighboring block there was found, in three calls, Total want, long continued, of camel's-hair shawls; And a suffering family, whose case exhibits The most pressing need of real ermine tippets; One deserving young lady almost unable To survive for the want of a new Russian sable; (tune in tomorrow for still more harrowing tales of destitution and deprivation) | |||
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quote: Thanks for the comments, Professor Higgins. ******* "Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions. ~Dalai Lama | |||
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(avert any tender eyes, as tales of unspeakable woe continue)
Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific, In which were engulfed, not friend or relation (For whose fate she perhaps might have found consolation, Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation), But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and collars Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars, And all as to style most recherché and rare, The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear, And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic, For she touchingly says that this sort of grief Cannot find in Religion the slightest relief, And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare For victims of such overwhelming despair. But the saddest, by far, of all these sad features Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatures By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Timons, Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamonds By their wives and their daughters, and leave them for days Unsupplied with new jewelry, fans, or bouquets, Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a chance, And deride their demands as useless extravagance. One case of a bride was brought to my view, Too sad for belief, but, alas! 't was too true, Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon, To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sharon. The consequence was, that when she got there, At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear, And when she proposed to finish the season At Newport, the monster refused, out and out, For his infamous conduct alleging no reason, Except that the waters were good for his gout; Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course, And proceedings are now going on for divorce. | |||
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But dry the incipient tear. A solution is at hand to this distress.
From these scenes of woe? Enough, it is certain, Has here been disposed to stir up the pity Of every benevolent heart in the city, And spur up Humanity into a canter To rush and relieve these sad cases instanter. Won't somebody, moved by this touching description, Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription? Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is So needed at once by these indigent ladies, Take charge of the matter? Or won't Peter Cooper The corner-stone lay of some new splendid super- Structure, like that which to-day links his name In the Union unending of Honor and Fame, And found a new charity just for the care Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear, Which, in view of the cash which would daily be claimed, The Laying-out Hospital well might be named? Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers, Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters? Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses, And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and dresses, Ere the want of them makes it much rougher and thornier? Won't some one discover a new California? | |||
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The mood shifts suddenly, startlingly. For humor is not the point of the poem.
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, And the temples of Trade which tower on each side, To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt Their children have gathered, their city have built; Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey, Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair; Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt, Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt, Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold; See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet, All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street; Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor; Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell, As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door; Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare— Spoiled children of fashion—you 've nothing to wear! | |||
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Aha - the moral - as if we didn't see it coming. Really good poem. Thanks for all that typing. ******* "Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions. ~Dalai Lama | |||
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A stripper who came from Eau Clair Said, "I really have nothing to wear." She expressed her deep loathing For all kinds of clothing. Said, "It's more than a body can bear." | |||
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Very cool! Good find, Tinny! ******* "Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions. ~Dalai Lama | |||
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I shall nevermore lament the lack of clothes in my closet! Good Christmas poem, Tinman... it puts the brake on things!! | |||
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Not quite done, folks.
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here, Where the glare and the glitter and tinsel of Time Fade and die in the light of that region sublime, Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, Unscreened by its trappings and shows and pretence, Must be clothed for the life and the service above, With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love, O daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware! Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear! William Allen Butler (1825–1902) | |||
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That same little gal from Eau Clair Said, while brushing her hair, "I'd go camp with nudists, Eschewing all prudists, But the truth is, I've nothing to wear." ~~~ jerry thomas (1930 - ????) | |||
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Another great little ditty, Jerry. I do like the long one, though, Hic. What occured that you came across it? ******* "Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions. ~Dalai Lama | |||
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quote:Hmmmmm.... Given the known and obvious fact that a woman will, on average, speak approximately 2.47 times as many words per day as a man, I'd think the official language has to be attributed to woman, its greater user. In other words, the woman was speaking English, and the man was speaking "man". [PS: no comma before 'English' in that last sentence, Richard. ] | |||
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Given the known and obvious fact that a woman will, on average, speak approximately 2.47 times as many words per day as a man 2.47 times as many words, huh? That sounds very scientific. Let's have the source so that we can see the study design, sampling technique, and the statisitical analysis. While surely there are differences between men and women, I don't believe that women talk more than men. | |||
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quote: Oh, shufitz, you rogue! Give her back her undies at least! | ||
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It's not how much you talk that counts. Some people talk a lot and say little. Others talk little and say a lot. Tinman | |||
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Perfectly said, Tinman. I call it the EF Hutton phenonemon (i.e., when EF Hutton talks, everyone listens!). I facilitate a meeting where a number of people yammer and yammer on about nothing. However, there are one or two who say little, but we all sit up and listen when they make their points. | |||
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quote:Dear Amelia Bedelia: Surely the spurious air of precision about what I called a supposed 'known and obvious fact' would alert you that my tongue was squarely in my cheek? By the way, where is your tongue, dear? | |||
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By the way, where is your tongue, dear? Sticking it out at you! Okay, you got me. My literalism got in the way. | |||
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Kalleh and Shu, My hubby always says the same thing each time I (like a brat) stick my tongue out at him. "Put that thing away unless you intend to use it." ******* "Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions. ~Dalai Lama | |||
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There was a young lady called Claire Who found out she'd nothing to wear She looked there down low Thank she wasn't on flow She'd nothing to put there but a pear. I do not no whether that is right but i made it up myself | |||
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Purdie's Limerick inspires a stare But her style we'd know anywhere. And in this rendition We see definition Of the expression "Oh, Pear!" | |||
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Well, ten out of ten for effort. The cunning thing with a limerick is to make it mean something and preferably to have a twist in the last line. Work on L4 and L5 to improve them and you'll be fine. Richard English | |||
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To Purdie, our new Limericist: If the au pair tends to resist, Follow Richard's advice Hold it tight, like a vise, Then give it a sort of a twist. | |||
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There was a young lady called Claire Who said, "I don't like that damp air, Lying next to my skin, Where I'm naked and thin..." I can't think why she cuddles that pear. Richard English | |||
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I confess that I've nothing to wear From my toes right on up to my hair For my shape has a flair it compares to a pear Think I spend too much time in my chair? ******* "Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions. ~Dalai Lama | |||
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Calum Has Nothink to wear " Oh My " Calum Then Wears a Pair " Oh My " Calum looks down " Oh My " Calum know knows he was Bear " Oh My " Hope You Like it Thankyou For Reading it | |||
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What might be quite interesting is for some of these submissions to be analysed for purpose and merit. I attended a poetry class last night (in the Victoria, Arnie, Cat, jheem, Kalleh) and we had a fascinating discussion on how poetry can have many meanings according to the reader's interpretation. I will ask our tutor whether she might consider joining us here. Richard English | |||
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I attended a poetry class last night (in the Victoria, Arnie, Cat, jheem, Kalleh) Which reminds me I still have some photos to publish online of Wordcrafters in the Victoria. and we had a fascinating discussion on how poetry can have many meanings according to the reader's interpretation. One of the first books I read about poetry, for an introductory English composition class in college, was called How Does a Poem Mean? It was an oldish textbook, even then, written by John Ciardi, a practising poet and literary critic. I did not get along well with the professor who taught the class, but he was an interesting lecturer. I was also introduced to one of my favorite authors, James Joyce, at that time. We read and discussed Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Poetry purposely takes advantage of connotation rather than denotation and privileging rhetoric and ambiguity. Poetry is more than meter, prosody, and stichometry, though most poetry is formalist in nature. It is writing that appeals to our emotions. [Fixed ancient howlers.]This message has been edited. Last edited by: jheem, | |||
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Given the known and obvious fact that a woman will, on average, speak approximately 2.47 times as many words per day as a man Bill Poser over at Language Log mentions an article in Science which takes on this old bromide. Of course, no matter what, I realize that nobody's mind will be changed. This message has been edited. Last edited by: zmježd, —Ceci n'est pas un seing. | |||
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Zmj, I couldn't get the link to work. I am very interested in this subject, as Shu and I have discussed it at length. | |||
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A glitch. Try it now. —Ceci n'est pas un seing. | |||
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Allan and Barbara Pease also make this claim in their book "Why men don't listen and why women can't read maps". They also suggest that there is a difference between men's and women's reasons for speaking, claiming that men tend to speak to exchange information whereas women speak as a social act. The theory is tempting but sadly no sources are quoted. My own impression is that there is truth in the hypothesis, but a hypothesis it must surely remain until more data is available. Richard English | |||
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From Bill Poser's blog entry about the article in Science:
I'd like to read the article, but I have to walk over to the local library and read the bricks and mortar version. —Ceci n'est pas un seing. | |||
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A follow-up blog entry posted by Mark Liberman at Language Log. One of his earlier entries is cited in the Science article. He includes many more links to related posts at the bottom of the entry. —Ceci n'est pas un seing. | |||
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I am going to read the article because I find it fascinating. There was a front-page article on this in the Chicago Tribune today. The design of this study (210 women and 186 men, college aged) was excellent in that they actually taped 30-second snippets every 12.5 minutes. The researchers acknowledged that they could only generalize to this age group, but the assumption is that there's a good chance it would be comparable to other stages in life. At any rate, the men spoke an average of 15,669 words per day, with the women's average being 16,215, and this difference was not statistically different. They cited Language Log's Mark Liberman saying that the commonly cited discrepancy began as an "educated guess" (by men, I am sure!) and turned into an urban legend. Is this on Snopes, does anyone know? I loved Liberman's quote at the end of the article: ""When a pop psychologist or a journalist starts to tell you something about biological or social differences between groups -- men versus women, old people versus young people, black people versus white people -- put your hand on your wallet," Liberman said. | |||
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Pease Speaking of the Peases, the come up in a number of Language Log posts. —Ceci n'est pas un seing. | |||
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I tried searching the site and the forums without luck. Build a man a fire and he's warm for a day. Set a man on fire and he's warm for the rest of his life. | |||
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