The young outlaw known as Billy the Kid spent the winter of 1880-1881 in Santa Fe-trying desperately to get out of its jail. He hired lawyers. He wrote the governor. He even tried digging his way out! Nothing worked. Billy only "escaped" the "safest jail in the Territory" in March 1881, when deputies finally escorted him to the railroad station for a trip to southern New Mexico-where a jury of his peers waited to convict him of murder. But just where was this invincible Santa Fe jail? Today, in Santa Fe, two plaques mark the spot, or rather, two competing spots . . . Lynn Michelsohn tracks down historical sources to identify the long-disputed location of Billy the Kid's Santa Fe jail and to provide this brief glimpse of life in the Wild West on the Southwestern Frontier. (10,000 words; 16 photographs, drawings, and maps) Recommended for Western history buffs, Billy the Kid aficionados, and anyone who loves Santa Fe.
Santa In A Stetson â€” Rebecca Winters
This is a comprehensive, authoritative and innovative account of Pythagoras and Pythagoreanism, one of the most enigmatic and influential philosophies in the West. In twenty-one chapters covering a timespan from the sixth century BC to the seventeenth century AD, leading scholars construct a number of different images of Pythagoras and his community, assessing current scholarship and offering new answers to central problems. Chapters are devoted to the early Pythagoreans, and the full breadth of Pythagorean thought is explored including politics, religion, music theory, science, mathematics and magic. Separate chapters consider Pythagoreanism in Plato, Aristotle, the Peripatetics and the later Academic tradition, while others describe Pythagoreanism in the historical tradition, in Rome and in the pseudo-Pythagorean writings. The three great lives of Pythagoras by Diogenes Laertius, Porphyry and Iamblichus are also discussed in detail, as is the significance of Pythagoras for the Middle Ages and Renaissance.
Holly Hill was a place for Christmas! Holly Hill, the old rambling Stratford homestead in Virginia, on its high hill, looking down the long slope and across the wide fields to the far woods rimming the sky. From Bob, the veteran, within a month of his teens, down to brown-eyed Evelyn, with her golden hair floating all around her, when Christmas came everyone hung up a stocking, and the visit of Santa Claus was the event of the year. They went to sleep the night before Christmas-or rather they went to bed, for sleep was long far from their bright eyes-with delightful expectations and thrills along their backs, and with little squeakings and gurglings, like so many little white mice, and if Santa Claus had not always been so very prompt in disappearing up the chimney before daybreak he must certainly have been caught. For by the time the chickens were crowing in the morning there would be an answering twitter through the house, and with a patter of little feet and subdued laughter small, white-clad figures would steal through the dim light of dusky rooms and cold passages, opening doors with sudden bursts, and shouting "Christmas gift!" into darkened chambers, at still sleeping elders. Then they would scurry away in the gray light to rake open the hickory embers and revel in the exploration of their bulging, overcrowded stockings.
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