Brunswick Phonograph Serial Numbers 2021

Brunswick Phonograph Serial Numbers 2021

Click Here ->->->-> https://byltly.com/2ti36V

An early 20th century Brunswick console crank phonograph, model 110, serial number 422684. The console has pullout shelving. Together with a collection of record albums. Not guaranteed to be operational.

LOOK FOR THE DOG- by Robert Baumbach; All Victor Talking Machines pictured and described in full detail, as they were in original catalogues. Front and rear mount external horn models, Victrolas, Orthophonics, Electrolas, and Radiolas. 1901 to 1929. Everything a Victor enthusiast could ever want, including a 'Tour Of The Factory'. 320 Glossy color pages Softcover ... $38.00 THE VICTOR DATA BOOK - by Robert Baumbach; Companion book to Look for the Dog, a compilation of data from the Victor archives, covering 1901 to 1930. Covers experimental products, Victor in the foreign market, methods of identification, record albums, serial numbers, product changes, reproducers & horns, and more! Illustrations and photos. Invaluable, incredible information. 335 pages.Full size. Soft cover...$38.95 COLUMBIA PHONOGRAPH COMPAGNION: VOL 1 : CYLINDER GRAPHOPHONES: by Howard Hazelcorn; Comprehensive book covering the history of company, color pictures of all models with descriptions and details, reproducer, horn, rarity and price charts.

ByO,TOCopyright. 1907, by' Thmat H. ifcK.SPRING winked a vitreous optic at EditorWestbrook. of the Minerva Magazine, anddeflected him from his course. lie hadlunched In his favorite corner of a Broadway hotel and was returning to his offlcowhen his feet became entangled In the lure of thevernal coquette. Which Is by way of saying thathe turned eastward in Twenty-sixth street, safelyforded the spring freshet of vehicles In Fifth avenue, and meandered along the walks of buddingMadison Square.The lenient air and the settings of the little parkalmost formed a pastoral; the color motif waspreen the presiding shade at the creation of manand vegetation.The callow grass between the walks was thecolor of verdigris, a poisonous green, reminiscentof the horde of derelict humans that had breathedupon the soil during the summer and autumn. Thebursting tree buds looked strangely familiar tothose who had botanized among the garnishlngsof the fish course of a forty-cent .dinner. The skybbove was of that pale aquamarine tint that hall100m poets rhyme with \"true\" and \"Sue\" and\"coo.\" The one natural and frank color visiblewas the ostensible green of the newly-paintedIff is 1 mIT MAY NOT BE ART;tenches a shade between the color of a pickledcucumber and that of a last year's fast-blackcravenette raincoat. But to the city-bred eye ofEditor Westbrook, the landscape appeared a masterpiece. And now, whether you are of those who rush In,Dr of the-gentle concourse that fears to tread, youJnust follow in a brief Invasion of the editor'sxnir.d.Editor Westbrook's spirit waa contented andserene. The April number of the Minerva had soldIts entlr edition before the tenth day of the month.a newsdealer In Keokuk had written that heco ili hare sold fifty copies more if he had had'em. Tie owners of the magazine had raised his(the editor's) salary; he had just installed In hishome a Jewe. of a recently Imported cook who wasHfraid Qfpollcomen; and the morning papers hadpublished in full a speech he had made at a pubUshers banquet. Also there were echoing in hisblind the Jubilant notes of a splendid song thathis charming young wife had sung to him beforhe left his up-town apartment that morning. SheHas taking enthusiastic interest in her muslo oflate, practising early and diligently. \"When he hadcomplimented her on the improvement In her voicehe had fairly hugged him for Joy at his praise.tie felt, too. the benign, tonic medicament of thegrained nurse, Spring, trippins softly adown thefcrard of th3 convalescent city.While Editor Westbrook watf sauntering between the rows of park benches (already fillingMth vagrants and the guardians of lawless childhood) he felt his sleeve grasped and held. Suspecting that he was about to be panhandled, hoturned a cold and unprofitable face, and saw thath!s captor was Dawe Shackleford Dawe, ding7.fchnost ragged, the genteel scarcely visible in himthrough the deeper lines of tho shabby.While the editor is pulling himself out of hislurprlae, a flashlight biography of Dawe is offered.He was a fiction writer, one of Westbrook's oldj&cqualntances. At one time they might havetailed each other old friends. Dawe had somafcnoney In those days, and llred in a decent apart-jnent-housenear Westbrook's. The two familiesoften went to theatres and dinners together. Mrs.Dawe and Mrs. Westbrook became \"dearest\"friends. Then one day a little tentacle of the octopus Just to amuse Itself, Ingurgitated Dawe's capi-NEXT WEEKtal, and be moved to the Gramercy Park neighborhood where one, for a few groats per week, may situpon one's trunk under eight-branched chandeliersand opposite Carrara marble mantles and watchthe mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought tolive by writing fiction. Now and then he sold astory. lie submitted many to Westbrook. TheMinerva printed one or two of them; the rest werereturned. Westbrook sent a careful and conscientious personal letter with each rejected manuscript,pointing out In detail his reasons for consideringit unavailable. Editor Westbrook had his ownclear conception of what constituted good fiction.So had Dawe. Mrs. Dawe was mainly concernedabout the constituents of the scanty dishes of foodthat she managed to scrape together. One dayDawe had been spouting to her about the excellencies of certain French writers. At dinner theysat down to a dish that a hungry schoolboy couldhave encompassed at a gulp. Dawe commented.\"It's Maupassant hash,\" said Mrs. Dawe. \"1$may not be art, but I do wish you would do a fivecourse Marlon Crawford serial with an EllaWheeler Wilcox sonnet for dessert. I'm hungry.\"As far as this from success was ShacklefordDawe when he plucks Editor Westbrook's sleeveBUT I'M HUNGRY.In Madison Square. That was the first time theeditor had seen Dawe In several months.\"Wrhy, Shack, is this you\" said Westbrbok,somewhat awkwardly, for the form of his phraseseemed to touch upon the other's changed appearance. \"Sit down for a minute,\" said Dawe, tugging athis sleeve. \"This is my office. I can't come toyours, looking as I do. Oh, sit down you won'tbe disgraced. Those half-plucked birds on theother benches will take you for a swell porchclimber. They won't know you are only an editor.\"\"Smoke, Shack\" eald Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon the virulent green bench. Healways yielded gracefully when he did yield.Dawe snapped at the cigar as a kingfisher dartsat a snn-perch, or a girl pecks at a chocolate cream.\"I have Just began the editor.\"Oh, I know; don't finish,\" said Dawe. \"Giveme a match. You hare Just ten minutes to spare.How did you manage to get past my office-boy andinvade my sanctum There he goes now,\" throwing his club at a dog. that couldn't read the \"KeepOff the Grass\" signs.\"How goes the writing\" asked the editor.\"Look at me,\" said Dawe, \"for your answer.Now don't put on that embarrassed, friendly-but-honestlook and ask me why I don't get a job asa wine agent or a cab driver. I'm in the fight to afinish. I know I can write good fiction and I'llforce you fellows to admit It yet. I'll make youchange the spelling of Tegrets' to 'cheque beforeI'm done with you.\"Editor Westbrook gazed through his noseglatses with a sweetly sorrowful, omniscient, sympathetic, skeptical expression the copyrighted expression of the editor beleaguered by the unavailable contributor.\"Have you read the last story I sent you TheAlarum of the Soul'\" asked Dawe.\"Carefully. I hesitated OTer that 6tory, Shack,really I did. It had some good points. I waswriting you a letter to send with it when It goesback to you. I regret \"\"Never mind the regrets,\" said Dawe, grimly.\"There's neither salve nor sting In 'em any more.What I want is to know why. Come, now; outwith the good points first.\"\"The story,\" said Westbrook, deliberately, aftera suppressed sigh, \"is written around an almost66An9orfgfnal plot. Characterization the best you havedone. Construction almost as good, except fora few weak points which might be strengthenedby a few changes and touches. It was a good story,except \"\"I can write English, can't I\" Interrupted Dawe.\"I have always told you,\" said the editor, \"thatyou had a style.\"\"Then the trouble is the \"\"Same old thing,\" said Editor Westbrook. \"Youwork up to your climax like an artist. And then,you turn yourself Into a photographer. I don'tknow what form of obstinate madness possessesyou. Shack, but that is what you do with everything that you write. No, I will retract the comparison with the photographer. Now and thenphotography, in spite of Its Impossible perspective,manages to record a fleeting glimpse of truth. Butyou spoil every denouement by those flat, drab,obliterating strokes of your brush that I have sooften complained of. If you would rise to theliterary pinnacle of your dramatic scenes, and paintthem in the high colors that art requires, the postman would leave fewer bulky, self-ad dressed envelopes at your door.\"\"Oh, fiddles and footlights!\" cried Dawe. derisively. \"You've got that old sawmill drama kinkin your brain yet. When the man with the blackmustache kidnaps golden-haired Bessie you arebound to have the mother kneel 'and raise herhands in the spotlight and say: 'May high heavenwitness that I will rest neither night nor day tillthe heartless villain that has stolen me child feelsthe weight of a mother's vengeance!' \"Editor Westbrook conceded a smile of Impervious complacency.\"I think, said he, \"that In real life the womanwould express herself in those words or in verysimilar ones.\"\"Not in a six hundred nights' run anywhere buton the stage,\" said Dawe, hotly. \"I'll tell you whatshe'd say in real life. She'd say: 'What! Bessieled away by a strange man Good Lord! It'sone trouble after another! Get my other hat, Imust hurry around to the police-station. Whywasn't somebody looking after her, I'd like toknow For God's sake, get out of my way or I'llnever get ready. Not that hat the brown onewith ' the velvet bows. Bessie must have beencrazy; she's usually shy of strangers. Is that toomuch powder Lordy! How I'm upset!\"\"That's the way she'd talk,\" continued Dawe.\"People in real life don't fly Into heroics and blankverse at emotional crises. They simply can't doit. If they talk at all on such occasions they draw\"from the same vocabulary that they use every day,and muddle up their words and ideas a little more,that's all.\"\"Shack,\" said Editor Westbrook Impressively,\"did you ever pick up the mangled and lifeless formof a child from under the fender of a street-car,and carry it in your arms and lay It down beforethe distracted mother Did you ever do that andlisten to the words of grief and despair as theyflowed spontaneously from her Hps\"\"I never did,\" said Dawe. \"Did you\"\"Well, no,\" said Editor Westbrook, with a slightfrown. \"But I can well imagine what she wouldsay.\"\"So can I,\" said Dawe.And now the fitting time had come for EditorWestbrook to play the oracle and silence hisopinionated contributor. It was not for an unarrived fictionist to dictate words to be uttered bythe heroes and heroines of the Minerva Magazine,contrary to the theories of the editor thereof.\"My dear Shack,\" said he, \"if I know anythingof life I know that every sudden, deep and tragicemotion in the human heart calls forth an apposite,concordant, comformable and proportionate expression of feeling. How much of this Inevitable accordbetween expression and feeling should be attributedto nature, and how much to the Influence of art. Itwould be difficult to say. The sublimely terribleroar of the lioness that has been deprived of hercubs I3 dramatically as far above her customarywhine and purr as the kingly and transcendentutterances of Lear are above the level of his senilevaporings. But it is also true that all men andwomen have what may be called a sub-consciousdramatic sense that is awakened by a sufficientlydeep and powerful emotion a sense unconsciouslyacquired from literature and the stage that promptsthem to express those emotions in language befitting their Importance and hlstorionic value.\"\"And, in the name of the seven sacred saddleblankets of Sagittarius, where did the stage andliterature get the stunt\" asked Dawe.\"From life,\" answered the editor, triumphantly.The story writer rose from the bench and gesticulated eloquently but dumbly. lie was beggaredfor words with which to formulate adequately hladissent.On a bench near by a frowsy loafer opened hisred eyes and perceived that his moral support wasdue a downtrodden brother,.\"Punch him one. Jack,\" he called hoarsely toDawe. \"Wat's he come makln' a noise like a pennyarcade for amongst gen'leraen that comes in theSquare to set and think\"Editor Westbrook looked at his watch with anaffected show of leisure.\"Tell me,\" asked Dawe, with truculent anxiety,\"what especial faults In 'The Alarum of the Soulcaused you to throw it down\"\"When Gabriel Murray,\" said Westbrook, \"goesto his telephone and is told that his fiancee hasbeen shot by a burglar, he says I do not recall theexact words, but \"\"I do,\" said Dawe. \"He says: 'Damn Central;she always cuts me off.' (And then tohis friend)'Say. Tommy, does a thirty-two bullet make a bighole It's kind of hard luck, ain't it Could youget me a drink from the sideboard. Tommy No;straight; nothing on the side. \"\"And again.\" continued the editor, without1 pausing for argument, \"when Berenice opens theImpromptu' \" \" By Zletter from her husband informing her that he hasBed with the manicure girl, her words are let mesee \"\"She says,\" Interposed the author, \" 'Well,what do you think of that!\"\"Absurdly Inappropriate words.\" said Westbrook, \"presenting an anti-climax plunging thestory Into hopeless bathos. Worse yet; they mirror life falsely. No human being ever uttered banalcolloquialisms when confronted by sudden tragedy.\"Wrong,\" said Dawe. closing his unshaven Jawsdoggedly. \"I say r.o man or woman ever spouts'highfalutin talk when they go up against a realclimax. They talk naturally and a little worse.\"The editor rose from the bench with h!s a!r ofIndulgence and Inside information.\"Say, Westbrook,\" said Dawe, pinning him bythe lapel, \"would you have accepted 'The Alaruir.of the Soul if you had believed that the actions andwords of the characters were true to life in theparts of the story that we discussed\"\"It is very likely that I would, if I believed thatway,\" said the editor. \"But I have explained toyou that I do not.\"\"If I could prove to you that I am right\"\"I'm sorry, Shack, but I'm afraid I haven't timeto argue any further just now.\"\"I don't want to argue,\" said Dawe. \"I wani. todemonstrate to you from life itself that my viewis the correct one.\"\"How could you do that\" asked Westbrook, ina surprised tone.\"Listen,\" said the writer, seriously. \"I havethought of a way. It is important to me that mytheory of true-to-life fiction be recognized ascorrect by the magazines. I've fought for it forthree 3 ears, and I'm down to my last dollar, with1 two months' rent due.\"\"I have applied the opposite of your theory,\"said the editor, \"in selecting the fiction for theMinerva Magazine. The circulation has gone upfrom ninety thousand to \"\"Four hundred thousand,\" said Dawe. \"Whereas It should have been boosted to a million.\"\"Yoa said something to me just now aboutdemonstrating your pet theory.\"Mi 'II 1 IK \"mAIN'T IT TOUGIT,T will. If youll give me about half an hour ofyour time I'll prove to you that I am right. 111prove It by Louise.\"\"Your wife!\" exclaimed Westbrook. \"How\"\"Well, not exactly by her, but with her,\" saidDawe. \"Now, you know how devoted and lovingLouise has always been. She thinks I'm the onlygenuine preparation on the market that bears theold doctor's signature. She's been fonder and morefaithful than ever, since I've been cast for theneglected genius part.\"\"Indeed, she is a charming and admirable lifecompanion,\" agreed the editor. \"I remember whatinseparable friends sha and Mrs. Westbrook oncewere. We are both lucky chaps. Shack, to have6uch wives. You must bring Mrs. Dawe up someevening soon, and we'll have one of those Informalchafing-dish suppers that we used to enjoy bomuch.\"\"Later,\" said Dawe. \"When I get another shirt.And now I'll tell you my scheme. When I wasabout to leave home after breakfast if you cancall tea and oatmeal breakfast Louise told me shewas going to visit her aunt in Eighty-ninth street.She said she would return home at three o'clock,\"he is always on time to a minute. It is now \"Dawe glanced toward the editor's watch pocket.\"Twenty-seven minutes to three,\" said TTesVbrook, scanning his tlmerlece.\"We have Just enough time.\" said Dawe. \"Wwill go to my fiat at once. I will write a not,address It to her and leave it on the table whereshe will see It as she enters the door. You and Iwill be la the dining-room concealed by the portieres. In that note I'll say that I have fled fromher forever with an affinity who understands thneeds o' ny artistic soul as she never did. Whemshe reads it we will observe her actions and hefher wcrds. Then we will know which theory is ttocorrect one yours or mine.\"\"Oh, never!\" exclaimed the editor, shaking hishead. \"That would be inexcusably cruel. I couldnot consent to have Mrs. Dawe's feelings playedupon in such a manner.\"\"Brace up.\" said the writer. \"I guess 1 think asuuch of her as you do. It's for her benefit as well Mmine. I've got to get a market for my stories Inseme way. It won't hurt Louise. She's healthyand sound. Her heart goes as strong as a nlnety-elght-centwatch. It'll last for only a minute, andthen I'll step out and explain to her. You reallyowe It to me to give me the chance, Westbrook.\"Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though buthalf willingly. And in the half of him that consented lurked the vivlsectlonist that is in all ofus. Let him who has not used the scalpel rise andstand in his place. Pity 'tis that there are notenough rabbits and guinea-pigs to go around.The two experimenters in Art left the Squareand hurried eastward and then to the south untiltfcev arrived in the Gramercy neighborhood. Within its high iron railings the little park had put onits smart coat of vernal green, and was admiringitself in its fountain mirror. Outalde the railings the hollow square of crumbling houses, shellsof a bvgone gentry, leaned as if In ghostly gossipover the forgotten doings of the vanished quality.Sic transit gloria urbis.A block or two north of the Park Dawe steeredthe editor again eastward, then, after covering ashort distance, into a lofty but narrow flathouseburdened with a floridly over-decorated facade. Tothe fifth story they toiled, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latch-key Into the door of one of the frontflats.When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw.with feelings of pity, how meanly and meagrely therooms were furnished.NOW, SHACK . AIN'T IT7\"Get a chair. If you can find one,\" said Daw,\"while I hunt up pen and Ink. Hello, what's thisHere's a note from Louise. She must have leftIt there when she went out this morning.\"He picked up an envelope that lay on the centertable and tore it open. He began to read the letterthat he drew out of it; and once having begun Italoud he read it through to the end. These arethe words that Editor Westbrook heard:Dear Shackleford:By the time you get this I will be about a hundred miles away and still a-going. I've got a placeIn the chorus of the Occidental Opera Co., and westart on the road to-day at twelve o'clock. I didn'twant to starve to death, and so I decided to makemy own living. I'm not coming back. Mrs Westbrook is rolng with me. She said she was tired ofliving with a combination phonograph, iceberg anddictionary, and she's not coming back either. We'vebeen practising the songs and dances for twomonths on the quiet. I hope you will be successful,and get along all right. Good-by. Louise.Dawe dropped the letter, covered his face withhis trembling hands, and cried out in a deep, vibrating voice :\"My God, why hast thon given me this cup todrink Since she is false, then let Thy Heaven'sfairest gifts, faith and love, become the Jesting bywords of traitors and fiends!\"Editor Westbrook's glasses fell to the floor. Thefingers of one hand fumbled with a button on hitcoat as he blurted between his pale Hps:. \"Fay, Shack, wouldn't that knock you off routperch Ain't it tough, now. Shack ain't it\"Model1ona. Qmle 153554b96e

https://en.elitusacademy.com/group/elitus-academy-question-corner-eritasuakademi-zhi-wenkona/discussion/21bb24d1-279d-4153-9002-1396f7789f5a

https://es.iajems.org/group/mysite-200-group/discussion/61ad31d0-4ba9-47c9-b0f9-1285da4fc2f3

https://www.projectataraxia.org/forum/welcome-to-the-forum/download-film-jism-3-1-full-movie