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Thus he found himself the rescued instead of the rescuer; and neither role was one for which he had much relish. For he did not, he would have said, care for women; he never felt at home or at ease with them; and that monstrous creature beginning to be talked about, the New Woman of the nineties, filled him with horror. He was a quiet, conventional person, and the world, viewed from the haven of Brookfield, seemed to him full of distasteful innovations; there was a fellow named Bernard Shaw who had the strangest and most reprehensible opinions; there was Ibsen, too, with his disturbing plays; and there was this new craze for bicycling which was being taken up by women equally with men.

Chips did not hold with all this modern newness and freedom. He had a vague notion, if he ever formulated it, that nice women were weak, timid, and delicate, and that nice men treated them with a polite but rather distant chivalry. He had not, therefore, expected to find a woman on Great Gable; but, having encountered one who seemed to need masculine help, it was even more terrifying that she should turn the tables by helping him. For she did. She and her friend had to. He could scarcely walk, and it was a hard job getting him down the steep track to Wasdale. Her name was Katherine Bridges; she was twenty-five—young enough to be Chips's daughter.

She had blue, flashing eyes and freckled cheeks and smooth straw-colored hair. She too was staying at a farm, on holiday with a girl friend, and as she considered herself responsible for Chips's accident, she used to bicycle along the side of the lake to the house in which the quiet, middle-aged, serious-looking man lay resting. That was how she thought of him at first. And he, because she rode a bicycle and was unafraid to visit a man alone in a farmhouse sitting room, wondered vaguely what the world was coming to. His sprain put him at her mercy, and it was soon revealed to him how much he might need that mercy.

She was a governess out of a job, with a little money saved up; she read and admired Ibsen; she believed that women ought to be admitted to the universities; she even thought they ought to have a vote. In politics she was a radical, with leanings toward the views of people like Bernard Shaw and William Morris. All her ideas and opinions she poured out to Chips during those summer afternoons at Wasdale Head; and he, because he was not very articulate, did not at first think it worth while to contradict them.

He used to hobble with sticks along a footpath leading to the tiny church; there was a stone slab on the wall, and it was comfortable to sit down, facing the sunlight and the green-brown majesty of the Gable and listening to the chatter of—well, yes, Chips had to admit it— a very beautiful girl. He had never met anyone like her. He had always thought that the modern type, this "new woman" business, would repel him; and here she was, making him positively look forward to the glimpse of her safety bicycle careering along the lakeside road. And she, too, had never met anyone like HIM. She had always thought that middle-aged men who read the Times and disapproved of modernity were terrible bores; yet here he was, claiming her interest and attention far more than youths of her own age.

She liked him, initially, because he was so hard to get to know, because he had gentle and quiet manners, because his opinions dated from those utterly impossible seventies and eighties and even earlier—yet were, for all that, so thoroughly honest; and because—because his eyes were brown and he looked charming when he smiled.

Within a week they were head over heels in love; before Chips could walk without a stick, they considered themselves engaged; and they were married in London a week before the beginning of the autumn term. When Chips, dreaming through the hours at Mrs. Wickett's, recollected those days, he used to look down at his feet and wonder which one it was that had performed so signal a service. That, the trivial cause of so many momentous happenings, was the one thing of which details evaded him. But he resaw the glorious hump of the Gable he had never visited the Lake District since , and the mouse-gray depths of Wastwater under the Screes; he could resmell the washed air after heavy rain, and refollow the ribbon of the pass across to Sty Head.

So clearly it lingered, that time of dizzy happiness, those evening strolls by the waterside, her cool voice and her gay laughter. She had been a very happy person, always. They had both been so eager, planning a future together; but he had been rather serious about it, even a little awed. It would be all right, of course, her coming to Brookfield; other housemasters were married. And she liked boys, she told him, and would enjoy living among them. I was afraid you were a solicitor or a stockbroker or a dentist or a man with a big cotton business in Manchester.

When I first met you, I mean. Schoolmastering's so different, so important, don't you think? To be influencing those who are going to grow up and matter to the world Chips said he hadn't thought of it like that—or, at least, not often. He did his best; that was all anyone could do in any job.

And one morning—another memory gem-clear when he turned to it —he had for some reason been afflicted with an acute desire to depreciate himself and all his attainments. He had told her of his only mediocre degree, of his occasional difficulties of discipline, of the certainty that he would never get a promotion, and of his complete ineligibility to marry a young and ambitious girl. And at the end of it all she had laughed in answer.

She had no parents and was married from the house of an aunt in Ealing. On the night before the wedding, when Chips left the house to return to his hotel, she said, with mock gravity: "This is an occasion, you know— this last farewell of ours. I feel rather like a new boy beginning his first term with you. Not scared, mind you—but just, for once, in a thoroughly respectful mood. Shall I call you 'sir'—or would 'Mr.

Chips' be the right thing? Chips,' I think. Good-bye, then— good-bye, Mr. A hansom clop-clopping in the roadway; green-pale gas lamps flickering on a wet pavement; newsboys shouting something about South Africa; Sherlock Holmes in Baker Street. There had followed then a time of such happiness that Chips, remembering it long afterward, hardly believed it could ever have happened before or since in the world. For his marriage was a triumphant success. Katherine conquered Brookfield as she had conquered Chips; she was immensely popular with boys and masters alike.

Even the wives of the masters, tempted at first to be jealous of one so young and lovely, could not long resist her charms. But most remarkable of all was the change she made in Chips. Till his marriage he had been a dry and rather neutral sort of person; liked and thought well of by Brookfield in general, but not of the stuff that makes for great popularity or that stirs great affection. He had been at Brookfield for over a quarter of a century, long enough to have established himself as a decent fellow and a hard worker; but just too long for anyone to believe him capable of ever being much more.

He had, in fact, already begun to sink into that creeping dry rot of pedagogy which is the worst and ultimate pitfall of the profession; giving the same lessons year after year had formed a groove into which the other affairs of his life adjusted themselves with insidious ease. He worked well; he was conscientious; he was a fixture that gave service, satisfaction, confidence, everything except inspiration. And then came this astonishing girl-wife whom nobody had expected— least of all Chips himself.

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She made him, to all appearances, a new man; though most of the newness was really a warming to life of things that were old, imprisoned, and unguessed. His eyes gained sparkle; his mind, which was adequately if not brilliantly equipped, began to move more adventurously. The one thing he had always had, a sense of humor, blossomed into a sudden richness to which his years lent maturity. He began to feel a greater sureness; his discipline improved to a point at which it could become, in a sense, less rigid; he became more popular.

When he had first come to Brookfield he had aimed to be loved, honored, and obeyed—but obeyed, at any rate. Obedience he had secured, and honor had been granted him; but only now came love, the sudden love of boys for a man who was kind without being soft, who understood them well enough, but not too much, and whose private happiness linked them with their own. He began to make little jokes, the sort that schoolboys like—mnemonics and puns that raised laughs and at the same time imprinted something in the mind. There was one that never failed to please, though it was only a sample of many others.

Whenever his Roman History forms came to deal with the Lex Canuleia, the law that permitted patricians to marry plebeians, Chips used to add: "So that, you see, if Miss Plebs wanted Mr. Patrician to marry her, and he said he couldn't, she probably replied: 'Oh yes, you can, you liar!

Goodbye Mr Chips

And Kathie broadened his views and opinions, also, giving him an outlook far beyond the roofs and turrets of Brookfield, so that he saw his country as something deep and gracious to which Brookfield was but one of many feeding streams. She had a cleverer brain than his, and he could not confuse her ideas even if and when he disagreed with them; he remained, for instance, a Conservative in politics, despite all her radical-socialist talk. But even where he did not accept, he absorbed; her young idealism worked upon his maturity to produce an amalgam very gentle and wise. Sometimes she persuaded him completely.

Brookfield, for example, ran a mission in East London, to which boys and parents contributed generously with money but rarely with personal contact. It was Katherine who suggested that a team from the mission should come up to Brookfield and play one of the School's elevens at soccer. The idea was so revolutionary that from anyone but Katherine it could not have survived its first frosty reception.

To introduce a group of slum boys to the serene pleasaunces of better-class youngsters seemed at first a wanton stirring of all kinds of things that had better be left untouched. The whole staff was against it, and the School, if its opinion could have been taken, was probably against it too. Everyone was certain that the East End lads would be hooligans, or else that they would be made to feel uncomfortable; anyhow, there would be "incidents," and everyone would be confused and upset.

Yet Katherine persisted. I'm looking ahead to the future, they and you are looking back to the past. England isn't always going to be divided into officers and 'other ranks. You've got to have them here, Chips. You can't satisfy your conscience by writing a check for a few guineas and keeping them at arm's length. Besides, they're proud of Brookfield—just as you are. Years hence, maybe, boys of that sort will be coming here—a few of them, at any rate.

Why not? Why ever not? Chips, dear, remember this is eighteen-ninety-seven—not sixty-seven, when you were up at Cambridge. You got your ideas well stuck in those days, and good ideas they were too, a lot of them. But a few— just a few, Chips—want unsticking Rather to her surprise, he gave way and suddenly became a keen advocate of the proposal, and the volte-face was so complete that the authorities were taken unawares and found themselves consenting to the dangerous experiment.

The boys from Poplar arrived at Brookfield one Saturday afternoon, played soccer with the School's second team, were honorably defeated by seven goals to five, and later had high tea with the School team in the Dining Hall. They then met the Head and were shown over the School, and Chips saw them off at the railway station in the evening.

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Everything had passed without the slightest hitch of any kind, and it was clear that the visitors were taking away with them as fine an impression as they had left behind. They took back with them also the memory of a charming woman who had met them and talked to them; for once, years later, during the War, a private stationed at a big military camp near Brookfield called on Chips and said he had been one of that first visiting team. Chips gave him tea and chatted with him, till at length, shaking hands, the man said: "And 'ow's the missus, sir? I remember her very well.

And Chips replied: "They don't, you know. At least, not here. Boys come and go; new faces all the time; memories don't last. Even masters don't stay forever. Since last year—when old Gribble retired—he's —um—the School butler—there hasn't been anyone here who ever saw my wife.

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She died, you know, less than a year after your visit. In ninety-eight. There's two or three o' my pals, anyhow, who remember 'er clear as anything, though we did only see 'er that wunst. Yes, we remember 'er, all right. Wish it was then and not nah—straight, I do.

I'm off to Frawnce to-morrer. And so it stood, a warm and vivid patch in his life, casting a radiance that glowed in a thousand recollections. Twilight at Mrs. Wickett's, when the School bell clanged for call-over, brought them back to him in a cloud —Katherine scampering along the stone corridors, laughing beside him at some "howler" in an essay he was marking, taking the cello part in a Mozart trio for the School concert, her creamy arm sweeping over the brown sheen of the instrument.

She had been a good player and a fine musician. And Katherine furred and muffed for the December house matches, Katherine at the Garden Party that followed Speech Day Prize-giving, Katherine tendering her advice in any little problem that arose. Good advice, too—which he did not always take, but which always influenced him. So that when anything does occur that oughtn't to, don't you think it's a bit unfair to come down on them as if it were their own fault for being here?

One black sheep can contaminate others. After all, that's what probably DID happen, isn't it? We can't help it. Anyhow, I believe Brookfield is better than a lot of other schools. All the more reason to keep it so. After all—apart from this business—isn't he rather a nice boy? And so on. About once in ten times he was adamant and wouldn't be persuaded. In about half of these exceptional cases he afterward rather wished he had taken her advice. And years later, whenever he had trouble with a boy, he was always at the mercy of a softening wave of reminiscence; the boy would stand there, waiting to be told his punishment, and would see, if he were observant, the brown eyes twinkle into a shine that told him all was well.

But she had not always pleaded for leniency. On rather rare occasions she urged severity where Chips was inclined to be forgiving. He's too cocksure of himself. If he's looking for trouble I should certainly let him have it. What a host of little incidents, all deep-buried in the past— problems that had once been urgent, arguments that had once been keen, anecdotes that were funny only because one remembered the fun. Did any emotion really matter when the last trace of it had vanished from human memory; and if that were so, what a crowd of emotions clung to him as to their last home before annihilation!

He must be kind to them, must treasure them in his mind before their long sleep. That affair of Archer's resignation, for instance—a queer business, that was. And that affair about the rat that Dunster put in the organ loft while old Ogilvie was taking choir practice. Ogilvie was dead and Dunster drowned at Jutland; of others who had witnessed or heard of the incident, probably most had forgotten.

And it had been like that, with other incidents, for centuries. He had a sudden vision of thousands and thousands of boys, from the age of Elizabeth onward; dynasty upon dynasty of masters; long epochs of Brookfield history that had left not even a ghostly record.

Wave Me Goodbye

Who knew why the old fifth-form room was called "the Pit"? There was probably a reason, to begin with; but it had since been lost—lost like the lost books of Livy. And what happened at Brookfield when Cromwell fought at Naseby, near by? How did Brookfield react to the great scare of the "Forty-Five"? Was there a whole holiday when news came of Waterloo? And so on, up to the earliest time that he himself could remember—, and Wetherby saying, by way of small talk after their first and only interview: "Looks as if we shall have to settle with the Prussians ourselves one of these fine days, eh?

When Chips remembered things like this he often felt that he would write them down and make a book of them; and during his years at Mrs. Wickett's he sometimes went even so far as to make desultory notes in an exercise book. But he was soon brought up against difficulties—the chief one being that writing tired him, both mentally and physically. Somehow, too, his recollections lost much of their flavor when they were written down; that story about Rushton and the sack of potatoes, for instance—it would seem quite tame in print, but Lord, how funny it had been at the time!

It was funny, too, to remember it; though perhaps if you didn't remember Rushton It was such a long time ago Wickett, did you ever know a fellow named Rushton? Before your time, I dare say Very funny fellow, Rushton And there he was, dreaming again before the fire, dreaming of times and incidents in which he alone could take secret interest. Funny and sad, comic and tragic, they all mixed up in his mind, and some day, however hard it proved, he WOULD sort them out and make a book of them And there was always in his mind that spring day in ninety- eight when he had paced through Brookfield village as in some horrifying nightmare, half struggling to escape into an outside world where the sun still shone and where everything had happened differently.

Young Faulkner had met him there in the lane outside the School. My people are coming up. He nearly answered: "You can go to blazes for all I care. My wife is dead and my child is dead, and I wish I were dead myself. Actually he nodded and stumbled on. He did not want to talk to anybody or to receive condolences; he wanted to get used to things, if he could, before facing the kind words of others. He took his fourth form as usual after call-over, setting them grammar to learn by heart while he himself stayed at his desk in a cold, continuing trance.

Suddenly someone said: "Please, sir, there are a lot of letters for you. So there were; he had been leaning his elbows on them; they were all addressed to him by name. He tore them open one after the other, but each contained nothing but a blank sheet of paper. He thought in a distant way that it was rather peculiar, but he made no comment; the incident gave hardly an impact upon his vastly greater preoccupations.

Not till days afterward did he realize that it had been a piece of April-foolery. Chips changed his more commodious apartments in School House for his old original bachelor quarters. He thought at first he would give up his housemastership, but the Head persuaded him otherwise; and later he was glad. The work gave him something to do, filled up an emptiness in his mind and heart. He was different; everyone noticed it. Just as marriage had added something, so did bereavement; after the first stupor of grief he became suddenly the kind of man whom boys, at any rate, unhesitatingly classed as "old.

Actually, too, his hair had been graying for years; yet now, for the first time, people seemed to notice it. He was fifty. Once, after some energetic fives, during which he had played as well as many a fellow half his age, he overheard a boy saying: "Not half bad for an old chap like him. Chips, when he was over eighty, used to recount that incident with many chuckles. Umph—it was Naylor who said that, and Naylor can't be far short of fifty himself by now!

I wonder if he still thinks that fifty's such an age? Last I heard of him, he was lawyering, and lawyers live long—look at Halsbury—umph—Chancellor at eighty-two, and died at ninety-nine.

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There's an—umph—age for you! I was myself And there was a sense in which it was true. For with the new century there settled upon Chips a mellowness that gathered all his developing mannerisms and his oft-repeated jokes into a single harmony. No longer did he have those slight and occasional disciplinary troubles, or feel diffident about his own work and worth. He found that his pride in Brookfield reflected back, giving him cause for pride in himself and his position. It was a service that gave him freedom to be supremely and completely himself. He had won, by seniority and ripeness, an uncharted no-man's-land of privilege; he had acquired the right to those gentle eccentricities that so often attack schoolmasters and parsons.

He wore his gown till it was almost too tattered to hold together; and when he stood on the wooden bench by Big Hall steps to take call-over, it was with an air of mystic abandonment to ritual. He held the School List, a long sheet curling over a board; and each boy, as he passed, spoke his own name for Chips to verify and then tick off on the list. That verifying glance was an easy and favorite subject of mimicry throughout the School— steel-rimmed spectacles slipping down the nose, eyebrows lifted, one a little higher than the other, a gaze half rapt, half quizzical.

And on windy days, with gown and white hair and School List fluttering in uproarious confusion, the whole thing became a comic turn sandwiched between afternoon games and the return to classes. Some of those names, in little snatches of a chorus, recurred to him ever afterward without any effort of memory And yet another that comprised, as he used to tell his fourth-form Latinists, an excellent example of a hexameter:—. Where had they all gone to, he often pondered; those threads he had once held together, how far had they scattered, some to break, others to weave into unknown patterns?

The strange randomness of the world beguiled him, that randomness which never would, so long as the world lasted, give meaning to those choruses again. And behind Brookfield, as one may glimpse a mountain behind another mountain when the mist clears, he saw the world of change and conflict; and he saw it, more than he realized, with the remembered eyes of Kathie. She had not been able to bequeath him all her mind, still less the brilliance of it; but she had left him with a calmness and a poise that accorded well with his own inward emotions.

It was typical of him that he did not share the general jingo bitterness against the Boers. Not that he was a pro-Boer—he was far too traditional for that, and he disliked the kind of people who WERE pro-Boers; but still, it did cross his mind at times that the Boers were engaged in a struggle that had a curious similarity to those of certain English history-book heroes—Hereward the Wake, for instance, or Caractacus. He once tried to shock his fifth form by suggesting this, but they only thought it was one of his little jokes.

However heretical he might be about the Boers, he was orthodox about Mr. Lloyd George and the famous Budget. He did not care for either of them. And when, years later, L. Lloyd George, I am nearly old enough—umph—to remember you as a young man, and— umph—I confess that you seem to me—umph—to have improved—umph—a great deal. I suppose at that age anything you say to anybody is all right In old Meldrum, who had succeeded Wetherby as Head and had held office for three decades, died suddenly from pneumonia; and in the interval before the appointment of a successor, Chips became Acting Head of Brookfield.

There was just the faintest chance that the Governors might make the appointment a permanent one; but Chips was not really disappointed when they brought in a youngster of thirty-seven, glittering with Firsts and Blues and with the kind of personality that could reduce Big Hall to silence by the mere lifting of an eyebrow. Chips was not in the running with that kind of person; he never had been and never would be, and he knew it. He was an altogether milder and less ferocious animal. A May morning; the clang of the School bell at an unaccustomed time; everyone summoned to assemble in Big Hall.

Ralston, the new Head, very pontifical and aware of himself, fixing the multitude with a cold, presaging severity. There will be no school this afternoon, but a service will be held in the Chapel at four-thirty. A summer morning on the railway line near Brookfield. The railwaymen were on strike, soldiers were driving the engines, stones had been thrown at trains. Brookfield boys were patrolling the line, thinking the whole business great fun. Chips, who was in charge, stood a little way off, talking to a man at the gate of a cottage. Young Cricklade approached.

God bless the boy—he talked of them as if they were queer animals out of a zoo! Jones—he's a striker. When he's on duty he has charge of the signal box at the station. You've put your life in his hands many a time. Afterward the story went round the School: There was Chips, talking to a striker. Talking to a striker. Might have been quite friendly, the way they were talking together. Chips, thinking it over a good many times, always added to himself that Kathie would have approved, and would also have been amused.

Because always, whatever happened and however the avenues of politics twisted and curved, he had faith in England, in English flesh and blood, and in Brookfield as a place whose ultimate worth depended on whether she fitted herself into the English scene with dignity and without disproportion. He had been left a vision that grew clearer with each year—of an England for which days of ease were nearly over, of a nation steering into channels where a hair's breadth of error might be catastrophic.

He remembered the Diamond Jubilee; there had been a whole holiday at Brookfield, and he had taken Kathie to London to see the procession. That old and legendary lady, sitting in her carriage like some crumbling wooden doll, had symbolized impressively so many things that, like herself, were nearing an end. Was it only the century, or was it an epoch? And then that frenzied Edwardian decade, like an electric lamp that goes brighter and whiter just before it burns itself out. Strikes and lockouts, champagne suppers and unemployed marchers, Chinese labor, tariff reform, H.

An April evening, windy and rainy; the fourth form construing Vergil, not very intelligently, for there was exciting news in the papers; young Grayson, in particular, was careless and preoccupied. A quiet, nervous boy. Is anything the matter? Next morning it was noised around the School that Grayson's father had sailed on the Titanic, and that no news had yet come through as to his fate. Grayson was excused lessons; for a whole day the School centred emotionally upon his anxieties. Then came news that his father had been among those rescued.

Chips shook hands with the boy. A happy ending. You must be feeling pretty pleased with life.

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And it was Grayson Senior, not Junior, with whom Chips was destined later to condole. And then the row with Ralston. Funny thing, Chips had never liked him; he was efficient, ruthless, ambitious, but not, somehow, very likable. He had, admittedly, raised the status of Brookfield as a school, and for the first time in memory there was a longish waiting list. Ralston was a live wire; a fine power transmitter, but you had to beware of him. Chips had never bothered to beware of him; he was not attracted by the man, but he served him willingly enough and quite loyally.

Or, rather, he served Brookfield. He knew that Ralston did not like him, either; but that didn't seem to matter. He felt himself sufficiently protected by age and seniority from the fate of other masters whom Ralston had failed to like. Then suddenly, in , when he had just turned sixty, came Ralston's urbane ultimatum. Chipping, have you ever thought you would like to retire?

Chips stared about him in that book-lined study, startled by the question, wondering why Ralston should have asked it. He said, at length: "No— umph—I can't say that—umph—I have thought much about it—umph—yet. Chipping, the suggestion is there for you to consider. The Governors would, of course, agree to your being adequately pensioned. Abruptly Chips flamed up. I don't—umph—need to consider it.

And then they set to, Ralston getting cooler and harder, Chips getting warmer and more passionate, till at last Ralston said, icily: "Since you force me to use plain words, Mr. Chipping, you shall have them. For some time past, you haven't been pulling your weight here. Your methods of teaching are slack and old-fashioned; your personal habits are slovenly; and you ignore my instructions in a way which, in a younger man, I should regard as rank insubordination. It won't do, Mr. Chipping, and you must ascribe it to my forbearance that I have put up with it so long.

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I happen to know that that gown of yours is a subject of continual amusement throughout the School. Let's All Go Posh Ee, By Gum!

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John Henry 5. Waiting For A Train 6. Ain't She Sweet 7. Old Country Stomp 8. Carolina Moon Bonaparte's Retreat Tom Dooley John Hardy Ramona You Rascal You Happy Days Are Here Again Puttin' On The Ritz Love Letters In The Sand Don't Blame Me The Yellow Rose Of Texas Blue Moon Tracks of Disc 2 1. Smoke Gets In Your Eyes 2. Isle Of Capri 3. Red Sails In The Sunset 5. Mama Don't Allow It 6. Goody Goody 7.

Pennies From Heaven 8. Keep A Knockin' 9. Note, in most cases of plurals ending in -nde, the "d" falls away in the informal pronunciation and spelling and the "n" is duplicated in. Eva Marie Saint born July 4, is an American actress. She was inducted into the high school's hall of fame in She studied acting at Bowlin. Sissel is considered one of the world's top crossover sopranos and her combined solo record sales not including soundtracks and other albums to which she contributed amount to 10 million albums sold, most of them in Norway, a country with 5 million people.

Her albums have also sold well in Scandinavia, the US and Japan. The following is a list of musical films by year. A musical film is a film genre in which songs sung by the characters are interwoven into the narrative, sometimes accompanied by dancing. Daniel Dodd "Dan" Wilson born May 20, is an American musician, singer, songwriter, producer, and visual artist. In addition to being the leader of Semisonic, Wilson has released several solo recordings, including the release Re-Covered.

He was also a member of the Minneapolis psychedelic rock band Trip Shakespeare. Louis Park, Minnesota. Wilson attended Harvard University, where he studied visual arts with a focus on printmaking[2] and from which he graduated B. Burge, which originally aired from to It follows the lives of three sisters—Macy Madeleine Mantock , Mel Melonie Diaz and Maggie Sarah Jeffery —who, after the death of their mother, discover they are The Charmed Ones, the most powerful trio of good witches, who are destined to protect humankind from demons and other dark forces in their fictional college town of Hilltowne, Michigan.

Each sister has an individual magical power, which is noticeably stronger when all three sisters work together as the "Power of Three". First released in , they are an internationally renowned resource for jazz education. Each book and disk combination begin with tuning notes, followed by the tracks listed below. The release coincided with Sinatra's 80th birthday celebration.

The original packaging had the 20 discs encased in a small, leather-bound trunk. When it was re-released in , it was repackaged in a more-standard and cheaper cardboard format. Features As the title implies, the set claims to contain every song ever recorded in the studio during Sinatra's career with Reprise Records, but misses the second "I'm Getting Sentimental Over You Reprise " included as the closing track from the album I Remember Tommy and also leaves off a remake of "Body and Soul" and "Leave It All To Me" a song written by Paul Anka , in addition to several alternate versions of songs included in the set.

The set is the largest ever released for Sinatra to-date, containing tracks on twenty compact discs. The albums represented are: Ring-a-Di. Born in the United States to Japanese parents, record producer Utada Teruzane and enka singer Keiko Fuji, Utada began to write music and lyrics at an early age and often traveled to Tokyo, as a result of her father's job.

Backed by the massive success of singles "Automatic", "Time Will Tell" and "Movin' On Without You", the album sold two million copies in its first week in Japan, topped the Oricon charts for six non-consecutive weeks and went on to sell six million more throughout t. Overview With the exception of the Halloween show - Episode 26 - introduced by comedian Steven Wright, all the episodes in Season One were introduced by an uncredited Ellen Barkin who would open with the lines, "It's night or night time in the Big City" and then describe a city scene - such as a woman walking in the rain, a shopkeeper closing his doors, angry hookers arguing on a street corner - before introducing the show and "your host, Bob Dylan.

Barkin was officially named as the show's introductory announcer in an XM press release for Season Two. Interspersed bet. It airs live every Sunday. The show features some of the latest and most popular artists who perform on stage. It was later revived in with its original title and format. In , the chart format was removed and was replaced by Take 7, where seven of the most popular artists from the week are featured and the most popular artist receives the award for Mutizen Song. In spring , the program changed from a recorded broadcast to a live broadcast in an effort to boost ratings, as well as changing the English name to The Music Trend.

On November 2, , the program moved from pm to pm Sunday afternoons, airing before Good Sunday, also t. Final Fantasy XIII - a role-playing game released by Square Enix in - revolves around the struggles of a group of humans over a predestined fate. In video game publications and among the staff at Square Enix, the three games have come to be referred to as the "Lightning Saga",[1][2][3] and the core concepts they contain are drawn from the mythos of the Fabula Nova Crystallis subseries.

The visuals of the original characters were designed by Tetsuya Nomura and Nao Ikeda, while many later characters were created by other designers, including Hideo Minaba, Yusuke Naora and Toshiyuki Itahana. Their original stories were created. The following is a sortable table of all songs by Frank Sinatra: The column Song lists the song title. The column Year lists the year in which the song was recorded.

Songs from the musical, such as "Almost Like Being in Love", have become standards. The story involves two American tourists who stumble upon Brigadoon, a mysterious Scottish village that appears for only one day every years. Tommy, one of the tourists, falls in love with Fiona, a young woman from Brigadoon. The original production opened at the Ziegfeld Theatre [3] on Broadway in and ran for performances.

In , Brigadoon opened at the West End theatre and ran for performances; many revivals have followed. Lurene Tuttle August 29, — May 28, was an American character actress and acting coach, who made the transition from vaudeville to radio, and later films and television. Her most enduring impact was as one of network radio's more versatile actresses. Often appearing in 15 shows per week,[1] comedies, dramas, thrillers, soap operas, and crime dramas, she became known as the "First Lady of Radio".

Early years Tuttle was born August 29, , at Pleasant Lake, Indiana, into a family with strong ties to entertainment. Her father, Clair Vivien Tuttle — , had been a performer in minstrel shows before becoming a station agent for a railroad. Her grandfather, Frank Tuttle, managed an opera house and taught drama. Her mother was Verna Sylvia Long Tuttle. She discovered her own knack for acting after moving with her family to Glendale, Arizona.

She later credited a drama coach there for "making me aware of life as it really is—by making me study life in real situations. He is referred to as the "first superstar" of Indian Cinema. During his career he appeared in more than feature films and 12 short films. This is a list of notable events in music that took place in the year Specific locations in British music in Norwegian music Specific genres in country music in jazz Events January 1 — The Beatles and Brian Poole and the Tremeloes both audition at Decca Records in London which has the option of signing one group only.

The Beatles are rejected, mainly as they come from Liverpool and the others are Dagenham-based, nearer London. February 16 — Conductor Bruno Walter, the day before his death, ends his last letter with: "Despite all the dark experiences of today I am still confident that Palestrina will remain.

The work has all the elements of immortality". The history and the discography of the Island Records label can conveniently be divided into three phases: The Jamaican Years, covering the label's releases from to The New Ground Years, covering to approximately The Consolidation Years, covering onwards.

In , Chris Blackwell sold Island Records to Polygram, which resulted in a remarketing of the Island back catalogue on compact disc under the Island Masters brand. Jamaican releases - Blackwell released 28 singles and three LPs in this period. It is arranged in alphabetical order, but can be rearranged in chronological order by clicking at the top of that column.

You may also click twice at the top of the "click to play" column, to bring those items to the top of the list. Furthermore, you can click on the last column to bring to the top those songs that have Wikipedia articles about them. Sources vary as to the number of songs actually written by Berlin, but a article in TIME put the figure at around 1, Of these, 25 tunes reached 1 on the pop charts. The list is incomplete but gives a sense of Berlin's evolution as a songwriter over a period of decades.

It shows "real people in modified situations, saying unscripted lines but in a structured way. Due to popularity, the show was extended to minute episodes and renewed for a year's airing. On 28 February , with the announcement of the cast for the show's twentieth series, it was confirmed that instead of the usual three series per year, ITVBe would only be airing two series, but with more episod.