Dwnload Full Process Systems Analysis and Control 3rd Edition Coughanowr Solutions Manual PDF
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Dwnload Full Process Systems Analysis and Control 3rd Edition Coughanowr Solutions Manual PDF
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oughanowr-solutions-manual/
∞
π π
∫e
− st
2.1a) L [ u ( t ) sin (2 t + )] = sin(2 t + ) dt = I
4 0
4
Integrating by parts:
∞ ∞
1 π 1 π
I = e (− ) cos(2t + ) − ∫ − se − st (− ) cos(2t + )dt
− st
2 4 0 0 2 4
∞
1 1 s π
I = − [0 − ] − ∫ e − st cos(2t + )dt
2 2 20 4
s 1
1 1 s2
I= − ( )(0 − )− I
2 2 2 2 2 4
s2 2+ s
I (1 + )=
4 4 2
1
s 2+ 2
I=2 2
( s + 4)
laplace(sin(2*t+pi/4))
ans =
(1/2*s*2^(1/2)+2^(1/2))/(s^2+4)
pretty (ans)
1/2 1/2
1/2 s 2 + 2
-----------------
2
s + 4
Integrating by parts:
∞ ∞
1 1
I=e − t ( s +1)
( ) sin(2t ) − ∫ −( s + 1)e− t ( s +1) ( ) sin(2t )dt
2 0 0
2
∞
I = ( s + 1) ∫ e − t ( s +1) sin(2t )dt
0
∞
( s + 1) cos 2t ( s + 1) 2
I= − I
4 e − t ( s +1) 0 4
( s + 1) 2 s +1
I (1 + )=
4 4
s +1
I=
( s + 1) 2 + 4
laplace(exp(-t)*cos(2*t))
ans =
(s+1)/((s+1)^2+4)
pretty(ans)
s + 1
------------
2
(s + 1) + 4
3
2.2a) =3
s
MATLAB Solution
ilaplace(3/s)
ans = 3
3
2.2b) = 3e −2t
( s + 2)
MATLAB Solution
ilaplace (3/(s+2))
ans = 3*exp(-2*t)
3 1
2.2c) =3 = 3te −2t
( s + 2) 2
( s + 2)1+1
MATLAB Solution
ilaplace(3/(s+2)^2)
ans =3*t*exp(-2*t)
3 3 2 3
2.2d) 3
= 2 +1
= t2
s 2s 2
MATLAB Solution
ilaplace(3/s^3)
ans =3/2*t^2
1
2 1 3 1
2.2e) = = sin 3t
( s + 9) 6 s + 3
2 2 2
6
MATLAB Solution
ilaplace(0.5/(s^2+9))
ans = 1/18*9^(1/2)*sin(9^(1/2)*t)
simplify(ans)
ans = 1/6*sin(3*t)
3 3 3 2 3
2.2f) = = = e −2t sin 2t
s + 4s + 8 ( s + 2) + 2
2 2 2
2 ( s + 2) + 2
2 2
2
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Language: English
Grandfer's
Wonderful Garden
BY
ELEANORA H. STOOKE
CHAPTER
I. TRAVELLING COMPANIONS
IV. SUNDAY
V. BILLY'S PRESENT
VI. GARDENING
X. SPRING
XII. CONCLUSION
GRANDFER'S WONDERFUL
GARDEN.
CHAPTER I.
TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.
"No, sonny," he said, smiling; "it's all right, I assure you. I've been
over this line many times, and the train always puts on speed about
here."
"Was that your father who saw you off at Paddington?" he asked
pleasantly.
"Oh, no!" the little boy replied. "My father died years ago. That was
the master of—of the Institution where I've been staying since—
since my mother was killed. She was killed in the Zeppelin raid last
month. She—she—"
He broke off with a choking sob, whilst a tear rolled down his cheek.
He brushed the tear away with the back of his hand, and bit his
quivering lip.
"William Brown. I was called after my father, and he was called after
his father. Mother always called me Billy."
"I like the name Billy," declared the young soldier. "My name's Tom—
Tom Turpin. I've got leave from 'somewhere in France' for a few
days, and am on my way home—that's a farm some miles from
Exeter. My father's a farmer. I was to have been a farmer too but the
year after I left school on came the war, and I enlisted right away in
the Devons. I've been in several engagements already, and so far
have come off without so much as a scratch."
"I am," he said simply, "and more grateful to God than I can express.
It would be a blow to my parents if anything happened to me—they
not having another child; but they'd bear it bravely if it came to them,
knowing it was for the best."
"Oh, how could it be for the best?" cried Billy. "Was it for the best that
my mother was killed? I can't think that!"
"Not now, perhaps, but you may some day—though perhaps that
day won't be till you see God face to face and understand—oh, a lot
of things that are just one big mystery now!"
"If I live to see the end of the war I shall most likely lay aside the
sword for the plough, for I love everything to do with the country—
from being country born and bred, I suppose. You're town-bred,
aren't you?"
"Indeed?"
"Oh, he'll find you, I expect. But don't worry—it is always a bad plan
to go to meet trouble. We shall find your grandfather all right, I've no
doubt. Have you any idea what he's like?"
The train was swaying less now, and Billy was no longer in fear that
it was running away. He grew very confidential with Tom Turpin. By-
and-by he spoke of the Zeppelin raid again.
"I don't remember much about it," he said. "It seems now just like a
dream—a very bad dream. It was in the night, you see. I didn't know
at the time that mother was killed, because I was stunned. I didn't
know anything till I woke up in the hospital. I thought mother might
be there, too, but she wasn't—she was dead. Then they took me to
the Institution—that's the workhouse—and, afterwards, I told them
about grandfather, and now—"
"And now I hope your troubles are nearly over," broke in the young
soldier. "Come, cheer up! By the way, have you any sisters or
brothers?"
Billy shook his head. "There was only mother and me," he replied
with a stifled sob.
The mist was lifting slightly, so that they could see they were
approaching beautifully wooded country. Tom Turpin's eyes smiled
as they noted this.
The young soldier was silent for several minutes, evidently not quite
knowing what to say.
"Look here," he said at length, "there's just one thing I should like to
ask you. Are you a Christian? Do you believe in Jesus Christ?"
"Well, then, you ought to know that you're only separated from your
mother for a time. 'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ
our Lord.' You'll be with your mother through all Eternity."
Billy looked at Tom Turpin with a brightening countenance. Why had
he not thought of this before?
This Billy was very glad to do. When, the train having slackened
speed gradually and stopped, he and Tom Turpin alighted on the
platform at Exeter, he kept close to his new-found friend, whilst he
looked about him anxiously. There were not a great many people on
the platform, and in a minute he noticed a middle-sized man of about
sixty, with a ruddy, good-tempered countenance and grizzled hair,
who was clad in corduroy breeches and thick leggings, going from
carriage to carriage, apparently in search of someone. The instant
Tom Turpin caught sight of this individual he stepped up to him and
clapped him on the shoulder, whilst he exclaimed—
"I'm back again like a bad penny, you see! How are you, Brown?"
The ruddy-faced man turned quickly, then caught the young soldier's
hand and wrung it.
"Won't they?" smiled Tom. "But I'm keeping you! Are you going on?"
"No, sir. I'm here to meet my grandson—my dead son's little boy—
who's just lost his mother, poor child!"
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Tom Turpin. "Now, why didn't I guess who
he was? But he didn't say you lived at Ashleigh! And there are so
many Browns! Why, we've travelled down from Paddington together
and got quite friendly. And, now, how are you going to get home—by
train?"
"No, sir. I've Jenny and the market trap outside the station."
"Oh, I see! Well, I'm going by train—shall be home before you most
likely. Good-bye, both of you! See you again, Billy!"
He and his grandfather watched the alert khaki-clad figure run up the
stairs to get to another platform, then they looked for and found
Billy's luggage—a box which William Brown shouldered quite easily.
Three minutes later found them outside the station.
"Here's Jenny!" said William Brown. "Tired of waiting, eh, old girl?"
"I promise I won't!" exclaimed Billy. "What a fine donkey she is! I
never saw such a large one before. Please, may I stroke her,
Grandfather?"
"If you like. But don't let her nip you—she's quite capable of doing it."
Billy spoke to the donkey softly, and patted her on the side. To his
grandfather's surprise Jenny stood quite still, and allowed herself to
be caressed.
"She knows I won't hurt her," the little boy said. "What a long, grave
face she has! And how thoughtful she looks! I am sure she is very
wise."
"Aye, that she is!" William Brown agreed, taking the reins in his hand
and climbing into the market cart. "Get in, Billy! The afternoons are
short now, and we've nigh seven miles to drive. As it is it'll be dark
before we get home. If we're late for tea the Missus will have a word
to say about it. Here, give me your hand!"
CHAPTER II.
THE JOURNEY'S END.
"I wouldn't change her for the best pony in Devonshire!" he declared.
"I had her as a foal, and broke her in myself. You'll have to learn to
drive her, Billy."
"Shall I?" cried Billy, his pale face aglow with pleasure.
"I'm thinking of your father," he said, as the little boy looked at him
inquiringly; "you're like what he was at your age, except that you're
delicate looking and he was the picture of health. I'm real glad to see
you, Billy, but I wish your poor mother'd come with you. Often I've
wanted to invite you both to visit us, but the Missus don't take much
to strangers, and—well, I let the time slip by—" He broke off, a
regretful, troubled expression on his good-natured countenance.
The little boy looked curious. He knew that his father's mother had
died when his father had been a baby, and that his father had had a
stepmother, but he had been told nothing about his grandfather's
second wife.
"But you must try to please her and obey her as much as though she
was," William Brown said quickly.
"Oh, of course I will," Billy agreed.
"She was a widow when I married her, with one little girl," his
grandfather explained. "That little girl's the wife of John Dingle, the
postmaster now—they keep the village shop. They've two children—
Harold, about your age, and poor little May."
"Because she's rather wanting here," William Brown said, tapping his
forehead meaningly; "not silly exactly, but—well, you'll see for
yourself. Cut along, Jenny!"
There was no need to tell Jenny that. Fast and faster she trotted. By-
and-by her master pulled her up, descended, and lit the lamps of the
market cart. A minute later they were off again.
"I didn't know a donkey could go so well!" cried Billy, who was
enjoying this new experience exceedingly.
"Oh, yes, indeed, Grandfather! And I don't mind the rain at all! It's so
soft! And so's the wind! Have we much further to go?"
"Here we are!" William Brown said, getting down and opening the
gate; whereupon Jenny passed through the gateway, and began the
descent of a hill.
"Stay where you are!" he commanded. "I'm going to lead Jenny
down—there's a cart track through the field by the hedge which
leads right into our yard. Hold tight!"
Billy, who was secretly rather nervous, did hold tight. Daylight had
quite failed now, but, looking far down into what seemed dense
darkness, he saw a light. As the market cart proceeded, every now
and again jolting over a stone, he held his breath, fearing that it
would upset or that Jenny would stumble and fall. But no accident
happened. The yard was reached in safety, and the donkey came to
a standstill before an open door through which a light was shining
from the kitchen within.
"This is Scout," he said; "I leave him in charge here on market days
when I go to Exeter. Don't be afraid of him—he won't hurt you."
Scout was sniffing Billy's legs. The little boy spoke to him, calling him
by name, then extended his hand to him fearlessly. The dog sniffed
the hand and licked it. At that moment a woman appeared in the
doorway.
Billy's eyes followed the direction of her pointing finger, and saw a
little girl seated on a wooden stool near the fire, into which she was
gazing.
The child rose and came to her. She was a beautiful little creature of
about eight years old, with a fair complexion, fair curly hair, and eyes
so deeply blue that they looked quite purple.
"This boy is going to live with your grandfather and me," her
grandmother said; "his name's Billy. Will you remember?"
May nodded.
"Billy," she said softly, "Billy." She spoke as though trying to impress
the name on her memory.
"He's not a cousin," Mrs. Brown went on to explain, "but he'll be just
like one. He's lost his mother—" She paused as her husband
entered the kitchen, carrying Billy's box, then exclaimed sharply:
"Mind to wipe your boots, William!"
"Oh, the dear little fellow!" she cried, hugging him and half crying. "To
think of all he's gone through—the poor, motherless lamb!"
"Aunt Elizabeth to you, my dear!" said Mrs. Dingle, kissing the little
boy once more before she released him.
Billy looked at her with glowing eyes. He liked her, he had no doubt
about that. She had a fresh, rosy face, and eyes as deeply blue as
her little daughter's; but what won his heart so quickly was her
expression—it was so motherly and kind.
"Well, tea's ready!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, rather impatiently. "If you
won't stay, Elizabeth—"
"I'd best go at once," interrupted Mrs. Dingle. "All right, mother! Oh,
you've put May on her coat and hat! Ready, my birdie?"
"The poor little boy's lost his mother, mummy," she said, as her
mother took her by the hand to lead her away.
She hurried the child out of the kitchen, and shut the door quickly.
Mrs. Brown was already seated at the head of the table. She
motioned Billy to a chair on her left, whilst her husband took one on
her right. William Brown said grace very reverently, and the meal
began.
After tea Mrs. Brown took Billy upstairs with her, and unpacked his
box. She showed him where he was to keep his belongings, and told
him she would be seriously displeased if he was not tidy. Then, as
he was very tired, she advised him to go to bed, and left him,
returning later to take away his candle. He was just going to get into
bed.
"'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord,'" he
whispered to himself, and was comforted.
CHAPTER III.
BILLY HAS A FRIGHT.
BILLY'S grandfather was a prosperous market-gardener now-a-days,
but before his second marriage he had been only a farm labourer.
He had married the widow of the former tenant of Rowley Cottage,
and together they had worked hard to save money, and were now in
a comfortable position. Billy's father had not got on with his
stepmother, so he had never gone home after he had settled in
London and married.
Billy's first morning in his new home was a dull one. It rained hard,
so he had to stay indoors. After breakfast his grandfather, clad in
oilskins, went out, and did not return till dinner-time. He then said
that there was a prospect of the weather clearing.
"If it does I'll show you about a bit," he said to Billy. "We might get as
far as the post office—Elizabeth will give us some tea. Won't you
come with us, Maria?" he asked his wife.
About three o'clock the rain began to cease, and a little later the sun
shone out. Billy and his grandfather left the house by the front door.
They stood for a minute under the porch, whilst William Brown
pointed out a house—the only human habitation in sight—almost on
the summit of the opposite hill.
"That's Mount Farm," he said, "farmer Turpin's place. You can see
Exeter from there. I used to work for farmer Turpin's father when I
was a lad. Ah, the wind's rising! We shall have no more rain for a bit!
Come along, Billy!"
He led the way to a little green gate in the garden hedge, by which
they passed into an orchard. There was a footpath through the
orchard to steep ploughed fields beyond, and a footpath through the
fields to a gateway which led into the high road.
Billy was panting when at length the high road was reached, so that
his grandfather had to wait for him to regain his breath.
"You'll get accustomed to mud," he said; "but you must have thicker
boots. I must take you to Exeter one day and get you fitted out
properly for bad weather."
Mrs. Dingle nodded to her stepfather, and kissed Billy, telling them
she had been on the look-out for them ever since dinner.
"And here's Uncle John!" she cried, pulling Billy inside the door and
presenting him to a little dark man wearing spectacles, who came
from behind the shop counter and peered at him in a near-sighted
way.
"He's been through enough to make him pale!" broke in his wife.
"Come into the parlour, Billy, and talk to me whilst I get tea."
"I wish I'd known her!" she sighed. "Often I used to think I'd write to
her, but I never did—not being much of a hand with my pen. And
now it's too late! Hark! The children are out of school!"
"Have you found her?" she cried, her blue eyes fixed anxiously on
Billy's face.
"You mustn't mind if she questions you about your mother. May is
backward for her age—there are many things she can't understand,
though she's sharp enough in some ways. She learns hardly
anything at school. She can't read, or write, or do sums. The
mistress doesn't bother her to learn, for she knows she can't. Still, it's
good for her to be with other children. By-and-by, perhaps, but God
only knows—"
She broke off abruptly, May having returned, followed by her brother.
Harold was very like his mother in appearance, being a stout, rosy-
cheeked boy. His blue eyes had a merry twinkle in them, and he
looked full of fun.
Tea now being quite ready the two men were called from the shop,
the lace curtain was pulled back from the glass-top door, and, grace
having been said, the meal began.
"Thank you, Mr. Dingle!" Billy replied, his eyes alight with gratitude.
"Thank you, Uncle John!" he said, adding: "Oh, I wish mother knew
how kind you all are to me!"
Twice during tea customers came to the shop, and the postmaster
had to go to serve them. On the second occasion Billy thought he
recognised the customer's voice, and glanced quickly at his
grandfather.
A smiling face peeped around the half-open glass-top door, whilst its
owner said—
"What a jolly tea-party! Mrs. Dingle, won't you please give me a cup
of tea?"
Mrs. Dingle was answering that she would be delighted, when there
was the sound of a loud report at no great distance, and Billy sprang
to his feet with a terrified shriek.
"No, no, no!" Tom Turpin assured him, "nothing of the kind! It's
blasting—that is, blowing up rock with dynamite—at the stone
quarry. Don't be frightened! Really, there's nothing to be alarmed at.
You won't hear the noise, this afternoon, again."
Billy sank into his chair. He was white to the lips, and shaking. The
elders of the party looked at him with sympathy and much concern.
May's eyes expressed only wonderment, but Harold's sparkled with
amusement and scorn.
Billy shook his head. It was with difficulty he kept from crying. He sat
in miserable silence whilst Tom Turpin talked with the others and
took his tea, and, when the young soldier left, his voice was
unsteady as he said "good-bye" to him. He was sure Tom must
despise him for having shown such fear.
It was dark long before Billy and his grandfather started for home. A
walk in complete darkness was a novel experience for the little boy,
but he was not timid, because his grandfather was with him. He said
so, adding, as the hand which held his tightened its clasp—
"Aye," William Brown assented, "to the best of my power. And there's
One above, Billy, Who'll look after us both. You'll soon learn to find
your way about in the darkness, and won't mind it—why, even little
May doesn't."
"You know it says in one of the psalms, 'The Lord my God shall
make my darkness to be light,'" his grandfather said thoughtfully;
"and I think that, though there's a sort of cloud over May's mind,
behind the cloud there's God's own light. The soul that has that light
knows no fear."
CHAPTER IV.
SUNDAY.
"I hope to call at Rowley Cottage to-morrow," the young soldier told
William Brown; "I want to go around your garden and see everything.
Father tells me you're doing your 'bit' to help win the war."
On their way home Billy asked his grandfather what Tom Turpin had
meant by this remark. William Brown explained that food was likely
to be very short on account of the German submarines, which were
torpedoing so many food ships, and that he was doing his "bit" to
help win the war by cultivating every inch of his garden, and growing
as many vegetables as he could.
"The worst of it is I can get so little help," he said; "there isn't a fit
man left in the village for me to employ. That means that I shall have
to work doubly hard during the coming winter and spring."
"Don't you think I could help you, Grandfer?" Billy inquired eagerly.
"You?" William Brown looked at his grandson with a slightly amused
smile. "Well, I don't know about that," he said doubtfully. "Harold
helps his father in his allotment garden, but he's very strong for his
age, whilst you're such a delicate little chap—"
"Oh, Grandfer," Billy burst in, "I do believe I'm stronger than I look!
Oh, let me help you! Let me try, at any rate! I want so much to do
something to help win the war!"
"Well, we'll see what you're fit to do," was the cautious response.
With that Billy had to be satisfied for the time. They were descending
the hill to Rowley Cottage by way of the pathfields now, and a few
minutes later found them in the orchard, where Jenny was browsing
contentedly. She allowed Billy to put his arm around her neck and
caress her. His grandfather looked on, rather anxiously at first, then
with great satisfaction.
"Shall I?" cried Billy, delighted. "Do you think she'd let me ride her,
Grandfer?"
"I shouldn't wonder! You shall try one of these days, perhaps!"
They entered the house by the back door. Mrs. Brown was in the
kitchen, dishing dinner. She was very hot, and looked exceedingly ill-
tempered.
"Oh, it's well for you, I daresay," she retorted, "you who've had an
easy morning; but what about me who's been cooking all the time
you've been at church? There, take your seats! Dinner's ready!"