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Suurthusen church.
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The battle for the most-tilted-tower title has gotten downright medieval, with a 13th-century German church flattening the circa-1372 Leaning Tower of Pisa's record, Guinness World Records announced this week. Compromised by a wooden foundation and sodden soil, the Suurhusen church's 15th-century steeple addition tilts at a 5.07-degree angle, versus the Italian tower's current 3.97 degrees, according to Olaf Kuchenbecker of Guinness World Records' German office. "When you lay photos of the two next to each other, you can see it relatively clearly," Kuchenbecker told the Reuters news agency. The ornate 185-foot-tall (56-meter-tall) Pisa edifice, though, would tower over the 84-foot-tall (26-meter-tall) village landmark. A woozy foundation isn't all the two landmarks have in common. Today both are mainly tourist attractions, with the Suurhusen church hosting services only on major holidays. And both were stabilized in the 1990s. The Leaning Tower of Pisa was actually somewhat straightened, perhaps depriving it of Guinness fame.
Giant Catfish Caught in Cambodia
November 19, 2007—Captured just before midnight on November 13 by fishers in Cambodia, this Mekong Gain Catfish is 8 feet long (2.4 meters long) ands weighs 450 pounds (204 kilograms).
After collecting data on the fish, Hogan released it unharmed.
PASS THE BUCK"To pass the buck" is some of the special American expressions, it has been used almost 100 years. It means refusing to take responsibility, letting others decide and act for you. President Harry S. Truman made that expression famous more than 25 years ago. Mr. Truman had a sign on his desk which said "The buck stops here." The message was clear. If the President of the United States could not act and make the final decision on important national matters, who else could? A President who refused to take the responsibility and pass the buck to someone else would soon find himself in serious trouble. Where did the expression come from? Well, it seems to have come from the card game of poker, where the players one after the other mix and pass out the cards. The phrase seems to have come to life in the gambling houses of the West. There, a silver dollar or buck was put in front of a player to show that he would be the next dealer to pass out the cards. A dollar, silver or paper, was called a buck. It still is. Why? Nobody seems to know. Forceful leaders, of course, make decisions, take risks and responsibility. The risks can be great. Every choice at times may lead to disaster. In a military leader, it may be defeat and ruin; in business, financial failure, loss of a job. Therefore, it is easier to pass the responsibility and let others take the risks. Nobody, however, likes a man who passes the buck. He is soon found out and given an unpleasant name, "buck-passer." Nevertheless, buck-passers are found among us everywhere. Perhaps the most famous buck-passer in history has been the devil. That is the picture we get of him from the ancient myths. The only time he seems to have acted for himself was when he rebelled and tried to seize God's throne, but God cast him out. And since then, he has spent most of his energy in passing the buck, letting others do his work for him. Barnstorm"To barnstorm" meaning to travel across the country to get the widest public support for a political or economic program. Before television, American Presidents found it difficult to reach the people of the small towns and villages for political support --grass-roots support as it is called. At first, political leaders or candidates for office had to travel by train to small out-of-the-way places. They were called whistle stops because trains did not usually stop there. You had to use a special whistle to make them do so. With the arrival of the train, a small group of country people would gather around the back of the last car of the train. On the open platform, the President or presidential candidate would speak directly to those who came to hear him. It was an event to be remembered. Whistle-stop campaigning was an old political tradition that came from the earliest days of American independence. Of course, train-travel was slow. But, then, travel by air came into use. It was faster, and a candidate could cover much more ground. That was "barnstorming" in the old sense of the word. And many Presidents and candidates were very successful because they showed a special skill in being able to talk to grass-roots groups -- to the farmers and agricultural workers of the nation and to the industrial workers of small towns. Some modern Presidents went barnstorming when they could not get the approval of Congress for important programs, or failed to get legislative support in the field of foreign policy. The phrase, "to barnstorm," is an old expression that was taken from the theater. It goes far back to the time when there were few theaters or halls for traveling actors or entertainers. They produced their plays in the barns of country villages. Many of these traveling players were ham actors. That is how many people felt about them. They seemed to overact and spoke their lines like amateurs and badly trained actors. But they thought their acting was so effective that they took their audiences by storm. Thus, the phrase, "to barnstorm." Some of these village-barn audiences, however, liked this noisy style of acting and speaking, and groups of ham actors took the barns by storm like soldiers. Some time around the middle 1800es "barnstorming" became part of American political language to describe quick visits by political speakers to small country towns. Some may have made speeches in barns, but usually they were made in the village square, out in the open. Barnstorming, as we have long known it, is slowly disappearing. In most out-of-the-way villages, people can listen to the President or political candidates on television. Still, many political candidates like meeting people face to face and talking directly to them. Moreover, television is very costly, and many candidates do not have the money to campaign by TV. So, the old methods of campaigning are not completely dead. There is more life to "barnstorming" than the cold, stagy image of a television screen. "The Cask of Amontillado." (Edgar Allan Poe.) Storyteller: Fortunato and I both were members of very old and important Italian families. We used to play together when we were children. Fortunato was bigger, richer and more handsome than I was. And he enjoyed making me look like a fool. He hurt my feelings a thousand times during the years of my childhood. I never showed my anger, however. So, he thought we were good friends. But I promised myself that one day I would punish Fortunato for his insults to me. Many years passed. Fortunato married a rich and beautiful woman who gave him sons. Deep in my heart I hated him, but I never said or did anything that showed him how I really felt. When I smiled at him, he thought it was because we were friends. He did not know it was the thought of his death that made me smile. Everyone in our town respected Fortunato. Some men were afraid of him because he was so rich and powerful. He had a weak spot, however. He thought he was an excellent judge of wine. I also was an expert on wine. I spent a lot of money buying rare and costly wines. I stored the wines in the dark rooms under my family's palace. Our palace was one of the oldest buildings in the town. The Montresor family had lived in it for hundreds of years. We had buried our dead in the rooms under the palace. These tombs were quiet, dark places that no one but myself ever visited. Late one evening during carnival season, I happened to meet Fortunato on the street. He was going home alone from a party. Fortunato was beautiful in his silk suit made of many colors: yellow, green, purple and red. On his head he wore an orange cap, covered with little silver bells. I could see he had been drinking too much wine. He threw his arms around me. He said he was glad to see me. I said I was glad to see him, too because I had a little problem. "My dear Fortunato," I said, "I'm afraid I have been very stupid. The man who sells me wine said he had a rare barrel of Amontillado wine. I believed him and I bought it from him. But now, I am not so sure that the wine is really Amontillado." "Yes, I was very stupid. I paid the wine man the full price he wanted without asking you to taste the wine first. But I couldn't find you and I was afraid he would sell the cask of Amontillado to someone else. So I bought it." "A cask of Amontillado!" Fortunato repeated. "Where is it?" I pretended I didn't hear his question. Instead I told him I was going to visit our friend Lucresi. "He will be able to tell me if the wine is really Amontillado," I said. Fortunato laughed in my face. "Lucresi cannot tell Amontillado from vinegar." Fortunato turned, and still holding me by the arm, pulled me down the street to my home. The building was empty. My servants were enjoying carnival. I knew they would be gone all night. I took two large candles, lit them and gave one to Fortunato. I started down the dark, twisting stairway with Fortunato close behind me. At the bottom of the stairs, the damp air wrapped itself around our bodies. "It is," I said. "The wine cellar is just beyond these tombs where the dead of my family are kept. Surely, you are not afraid of walking through the tombs. He turned and looked into my eyes. "Tombs?" he said. He began to cough. The silver bells on his cap jingled. "My poor friend," I said, "how long have you had that cough?" "No!" he cried. "This cough is nothing. It will not kill me. I won't die from a cough." "Here we are," I said. "I hid the cask of Amontillado in there." I pointed to the smaller room. Fortunato lifted his candle and stepped into the tiny room. I immediately followed him. He stood stupidly staring at two iron handcuffs chained to a wall of the tiny room. I grabbed his arms and locked them into the metal handcuffs. It took only a moment. He was too surprised to fight me. I stepped outside the small room. "Where is the Amontillado?" he cried. "Ah yes," I said, "the cask of Amontillado." I leaned over and began pushing aside the pile of bones against the wall. Under the bones was a basket of stone blocks, some cement and a small shovel. I had hidden the materials there earlier. I began to fill the doorway of the tiny room with stones and cement. By the time I laid the first row of stones Fortunato was no longer drunk. I heard him moaning inside the tiny room for ten minutes. Then there was a long silence. I smiled to myself and stopped working so that I could better enjoy listening to the noise. After a few minutes, he stopped. I finished the fifth, the sixth and the seventh rows of stones. The wall I was building in the doorway was now almost up to my shoulders. It was now almost midnight. I finished the eighth, the ninth and the tenth rows. All that was left was a stone for the last hole in the wall. I was about to push it in when I heard a low laugh from behind the stones. He said, "Well, you have played a good joke on me. We will laugh about it soon over a glass of that Amontillado. But isn't it getting late. My wife and my friends will be waiting for us. Let us go." "Yes," I replied, "let us go." I waited for him to say something else. I heard only my own breathing. "Fortunato!" I called. No answer. I called again. "Fortunato!" Still no answer. I hurried to put the last stone into the wall and put the cement around it. Then I pushed the pile of bones in front of the new wall I had built. That was fifty years ago. For half a century now, no one has touched those bones. "May he rest in peace!" The word 'Bogus' and its storiesWords and Their Stories today is "bogus". Anything that is bogus is not real. It pretends to be real and may even look real, but it is not. In fact, the only thing that is real about "bogus" is that it is pure American-born in the early 1800's. No one is sure where the word came from. The first time it appeared in print was in 1827 in Ohio. At that time police found a group of men who were coining false or counterfeit money. A large crowd gathered around to look at the strange machine that was used to make the money. Someone in the crowd said that the machine looked like a bogus. Well, the next day, the local newspaper used the word, "bogus," and it became part of the language. From then on, the machine used by counterfeiters was called a "bogus press." Of course, it was easy to widen the use of the word now that it had been invented. Counterfeit or false money was soon called "bogus money." And as the years passed, any article that was not the real was called "bogus." But that is only one story about the birth of bogus. The Boston Courier, a newspaper that died a long time ago, said that the word, "bogus," came from a famous swindler with the Italian name of Borghese. "Borghese," the paper said, "became famous by writing bad checks, cashing them at banks and stores, then leaving town in a hurry. In 1837, Borghese was known throughout the South and the West for his worthless checks, bills of exchange, and notes." In time," the newspaper said, "the name, Borghese, was shortened to become "bogus". Today, we have "bogus money," "bogus mines," "bogus hair," "bogus diamonds," and so on. Speaking of bogus diamonds reminds me of a vacation I took many years ago in New York City. I was waiting for a train home after two delightful weeks in the city, when a man came up to me and asked softly if I would like to buy a genuine diamond ring. His manner led me to believe that perhaps he had found the ring and wanted money quickly. Little did I realize that he was what is known as a small-time swindler, a cheat, a con man. He showed me the ring and asked for $15. It looked real, but then I said, "A real diamond will scratch glass, won't it?" He pulled me over to a store window and scratched the diamond against the glass and made a deep cut. I gave him the money. I put the ring on my finger and got on the train, feeling I had made a good bargain. Why, the diamond would pay for my trip! When I got home, I showed the ring to my wife. She asked me to take it off my finger which I did. My finger was green. The ring itself was copper, not gold or gold plate. The diamond was a bogus diamond. I started to get angry. "Why that cheat!" I said. "That swindler!" My wife looked at me and smiled. "Yes" she said, "he was a swindler but so were you. You knew, when you paid him $15, that a real diamond is worth much more than that. So both of you were trying to get the better of the other. Only you lost." I looked at my bogus diamond and then put it away. I still have it just to remind myself that what might seem real could be bogus. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow(Written by Washington Irving)
"The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" is about something strange that happed long ago in a valley called "Sleepy Hollow".
Narrator: The valley known as Sleepy Hollow hides from the world in the high hills of New York state. There are many stories told about the quiet valley. But the story that people believe most is about a man who rides a horse at night. The story says the man died many years ago during the American revolutionary war. His head was shot off. Every night he rises from his burial place, jumps on his horse and rides through the valley looking for his lost head.
Near Sleepy Hollow is a village called Tarry Town. It was settled many years ago by people from Holland. The village had a small school. And one teacher, named Ichabod Crane. Ichabod Crane was a good name for him, because he looked like a tall bird, a crane. He was tall and thin like a crane. His shoulders were small, joined two long arms. His head was small, too, and flat on top. He had big ears, large glassy green eyes and a long nose.
Ichabod did not make much money as a teacher. And although he was tall and thin, he ate like a fat man. To help him pay for his food he earned extra money teaching young people to sing. Every
Sunday after church Ichabod taught singing.
 Among the ladies Ichabod taught was one Katrina Van Tassel. She was the only daughter of a rich Dutch farmer. She was a girl in bloom…much like a round red, rosy apple. Ichabod had a soft and foolish heart for the ladies, and soon found himself interested in Miss Van Tassel.
Ichabod's eyes opened wide when he saw the riches of Katrina's farm: the miles of apple trees and wheat fields, and hundreds of fat farm animals. He saw himself as master of the Van Tassel farm with Katrina as his wife.
But there were many problems blocking the road to Katrina's heart. One was a strong young man named Brom Van Brunt. Brom was a hero to all the young ladies. His shoulders were big. His back was wide. And his hair was short and curly. He always won the horse races in Tarry Town and earned many prizes. Brom was never seen without a horse.
Sometimes late at night Brom and his friends would rush through town shouting loudly from the backs of their horses. Tired old ladies would awaken from their sleep and say: "Why, there goes Brom Van Brunt leading his wild group again!"
Such was the enemy Ichabod had to defeat for Katrina's heart.
Stronger and wiser men would not have tried. But Ichabod had a plan. He could not fight his enemy in the open. So he did it silently and secretly. He made many visits to Katrina's farm and made her think he was helping her to sing better.
Time passed, and the town people thought Ichabod was winning. Brom's horse was never seen at Katrina's house on Sunday nights anymore.
One day in autumn Ichabod was asked to come to a big party at the Van Tassel home. He dressed in his best clothes. A farmer loaned him an old horse for the long trip to the party.
The house was filled with farmers and their wives, red-faced daughters and clean, washed sons. The tables were filled with different things to eat. Wine filled many glasses.
Brom Van Brunt rode to the party on his fastest horse called Daredevil. All the young ladies smiled happily when they saw him. Soon music filled the rooms and everyone began to dance and sing.
Ichabod was happy dancing with Katrina as Brom looked at them with a jealous heart. The night passed. The music stopped, and the young people sat together to tell stories about the revolutionary war.
Soon stories about Sleepy Hollow were told. The most feared story was about the rider looking for his lost head. One farmer told how he raced the headless man on a horse. The farmer ran his horse faster and faster. The horseman followed over bush and stone until they came to the end of the valley. There the headless horseman suddenly stopped. Gone were his clothes and his skin. All that was left was a man with white bones shining in the moonlight.
The stories ended and time came to leave the party. Ichabod seemed very happy until he said goodnight to Katrina. Was she ending their romance? He left feeling very sad. Had Katrina been seeing Ichabod just to make Brom Van Brunt jealous so he would marry her?
Well, Ichabod began his long ride home on the hills that surround Tarry Town. He had never felt so lonely in his life. He began to whistle as he came close to the tree where a man had been killed years ago by rebels.
He thought he saw something white move in the tree. But no, it was only the moonlight shining and moving on the tree. Then he heard a noise. His body shook. He kicked his horse faster. The old horse tried to run, but almost fell in the river, instead. Ichabod hit the horse again. The horse ran fast and then suddenly stopped, almost throwing Ichabod forward to the ground.
There, in the dark woods on the side of the river where the bushes grow low, stood an ugly thing. Big and black. It did not move, but seemed ready to jump like a giant monster.
Ichabod's hair stood straight up. It was too late to run, and in his fear, he did the only thing he could. His shaking voice broke the silent valley.
"Who are you?" The thing did not answer. Ichabod asked again. Still no answer. Ichabod's old horse began to move forward. The black thing began to move along the side of Ichabod's horse in the dark. Ichabod made his horse run faster. The black thing moved with them. Side by side they moved, slowly at first. And not a word was said.
Ichabod felt his heart sink. Up a hill they moved above the shadow of the trees. For a moment the moon shown down and to Ichabod's horror he saw it was a horse. And it had a rider. But the rider's head was not on his body. It was in front of the rider, resting on the horse.
Ichabod kicked and hit his old horse with all his power. Away they rushed through bushes and trees across the valley of Sleepy Hollow. Up ahead was the old church bridge where the headless horseman stops and returns to his burial place.
"If only I can get there first, I am safe," thought Ichabod. He kicked his horse again. The horse jumped on to the bridge and raced over it like the sound of thunder. Ichabod looked back to see if the headless man had stopped. He saw the man pick up his head and throw it with a powerful force. The head hit Ichabod in the face and knocked him off his horse to the dirt below.
They found Ichabod's horse the next day peacefully eating grass. They could not find Ichabod.
They walked all across the valley. They saw the foot marks of Ichabod's horse as it had raced through the valley. They even found Ichabod's old hat in the dust near the bridge. But they did not find Ichabod. The only other thing they found was lying near Ichabod's hat.
It was the broken pieces of a round orange pumpkin.
The town people talked about Ichabod for many weeks. They remembered the frightening stories of the valley. And finally they came to believe that the headless horseman had carried Ichabod away.
Much later an old farmer returned from a visit to New York City. He said he was sure he saw Ichabod there. He thought Ichabod silently left Sleepy Hollow because he had lost Katrina.
As for Katrina, her mother and father gave her a big wedding when she married Brom Van Brunt. Many people who went to the wedding saw that Brom smiled whenever Ichabod's name was spoken. And they wondered why he laughed out loud when anyone talked about the broken orange pumpkin found lying near Ichabod's old dusty hat.
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