Hubtex Forklift DQ-45 Electrical

Hydraulic Schematic_DE
To download the complete and correct content, please visit:

https://manualpost.com/download/hubtex-forklift-dq-45-electrical-hydraulic-schema
tic_de

Hubtex Forklift DQ-45 Electrical Hydraulic Schematic_DESize : 110 MBFormat :

PDF, JPGLanguage : DeutschBrand: HubtexType of machine: ForkliftType of
document: Electrical Hydraulic SchematicModel: Hubtex Forklift
DQ-45Content:DQ45ElektrikGas-AnlageHydraulikMechanik
Download all on: manualpost.com.
 [Unrelated content]
Another random document on
Internet:
“But his little companion only laughed right merrily. Then
taking Harry’s hand, she ran him off to show him more
wonders—great horses that looked to the London boy as big
as elephants; enormous oxen as big as rhinoceroses;
donkeys that looked wiser than he could have believed it
possible for a donkey to look; and goats that looked simply
mischievous and nothing else. What a blessing it was for
Harry that he had such a wise little guardian and mentor as
his Cousin Lizzie. She went everywhere with him, and
explained away all his doubts and difficulties. Ay, and she
chaffed him not a little either, and laughed at all his queer
mistakes; but I think she pitied him a good deal at the
same time. ‘Poor boy,’ Lizzie used to think to herself, ‘he has
never been out of London before. What can he know?’

“Little Lizzie had the same kind pity on Harry’s physical

weakness as she had for his mental. Her cousin couldn’t
climb the broom-clad hills as she could—not at first, at all
events; but after one month’s stay in this wild, free country,
new life and spirit seemed to be instilled into him. He could
climb hills now fast enough; and he was never tired
wandering in the dark pine forests, or over the mountains
that were now bedecked in the glorious purple of the
heather’s bloom.

“Harry’s uncle gave him many a bit of good advice, which

went far to dispel both his doubts and fears, and that
means his ignorance; for only the very ignorant dare to
doubt what they cannot understand. ‘There are more things
in heaven and earth,’ said his uncle one day, ‘than we have
dreamed of in our philosophy. What would you think of my
honest dog there if he told you the electric telegraph was an
impossibility, simply because he couldn’t understand it?
Have faith, boy, have faith.’
“But would it be believed that this boy, this London boy,
didn’t know where chickens came from? He really didn’t.
Very little things sometimes form the turning-point in the
history of great men, and lead them to a better train of
thought. For remember that our mighty rivers that bear
great navies to the ocean, like mighty thoughts, have very
small beginnings.

“Harry observed a hen one day in a very great blaze of

excitement. Her chickens were hatching. One after another
they were popping out of the shell, and going directly to
seek for food. One little fellow, who had just come out, was
clapping his wings and stretching himself as coolly as if he
had just come by train, and was glad the journey was over.
This was all very wonderful to Harry; it led him to think; the
thought led to wisdom and faith.
“Harry took a long walk that day in his favourite pine forest,
and for the first time in his life, it struck him that every
creature he saw there had some avocation; flies, beetles,
and birds, all were working. Says Harry to himself, ‘I, too,
will be industrious. I may yet be something in this great
world, in which I am now convinced everything is well
ordained.’

“He kept that resolve firmly, unflinchingly; he is, while I

write, one of the wealthiest merchants in London city; he is
happy enough in this world, and has something in his breast
which enables him to look beyond.”

“Now one other,” said Ida; “I know you have lots of pretty
tales in that old portfolio.”

“Well,” I said, smiling, “here goes; and then you’ll sleep.”

King John; or, The Tale of a Tub.

“King John, he called himself, but every human being about

the farm of Buttercup Hill called him Jock—simply that, and
nothing else. But Jock, or King John, there was one thing
that nobody could deny—he was not only the chief among
all the other fowls around him, but he thought himself a
very important and a very exalted bird indeed; and no
wonder that he clapped his wings and crowed defiance at
any one who chanced to take particular notice of him, or
that he asked in defiant tones, ‘Kok aik uk uk?’ with strong
emphasis on the ‘aik,’ and which in English means, ‘How
dare you stand and stare at me?’

“King John’s tail was a mass of nodding plumage of the

darkest purple, his wattles and comb were of the rosiest
red, his wings and neck were crimson and gold, and his
batonlike legs were armed with spurs as long as one’s little
finger, and stronger and sharper than polished steel. Had
you dared to go too near any one of his feathered
companions—that is, those whom he cared about—you
would have repented it the very next minute, and King
John’s spurs would have been brought into play. But Jock
wouldn’t have objected to your admiring them, so long as
you kept at a respectable distance, on the other side of the
fence, for instance. And pretty fowls they were—most of
them young too—golden-pencilled Hamburgs, sprightly
Spaniards, and sedate-looking Dorkings, to say nothing of
two ancient grand hens of no particular breed at all, but
who, being extremely fat and imposing in appearance, were
admitted to the high honour of roosting every night one on
each side of the king, and were moreover taken into
consultation by him, in every matter likely to affect the
interests of his dynasty, or the welfare of the junior
members of the farmyard.

“Now Jock was deeply impressed with the dignity of the

office he held. He was a very proud king—though, to his
credit be it said, he was also a very good king. And never
since he had first mounted his throne—an old water-tub, by
the way—and sounded his shrill clarion, shouting a
challenge to every cock or king within hearing—never, I say,
had he been known to fill his own crop of a morning until
the crops of all the hens about him were well packed with
all good comestibles. Such then was Jock, such was King
John. But, mind you, this gallant bird had not been a king
all his life. No, and neither had he been born a prince. There
was a mystery about his real origin and species. Judging
from the colour of the egg from which he was hatched, Jock
ought to have been a Cochin. But Jock was nothing of the
sort, as one glance at our picture will be sufficient to
convince you. But I think it highly probable that the egg in
question was stained by some unprincipled person, to cause
it to look like that of the favourite Cochin. Be that as it may,
Jock was duly hatched, and in course of time was fully
fledged, and one day attempted to crow, for which little
performance he was not only pecked on the back by the two
fat old hens, but chased all round the yard by King
Cockeroo, who was then lord and master of the farmyard.
When he grew a little older he used to betake himself to
places remote from observance, and study the song of
chanticleer. But the older he grew the prettier he grew, and
the prettier he grew the more King Cockeroo seemed to
dislike him; indeed, he thrashed him every morning and
every evening, and at odd times during the day, so that at
last Jock’s life became most unbearable. One morning,
however, when glancing downwards at his legs, he observed
that his spurs had grown long and strong and sharp, and
after this he determined to throw off for ever the yoke of
allegiance to cruel King Cockeroo; he resolved to try the
fortune of war even, and if he lost the battle, he thought to
himself he would be no worse off than before.

“Now on the following day young Jock happened to find a

nice large potato, and said he to himself, ‘Hullo! I’m
fortunate to-day; I’ll have such a nice breakfast.’

“‘Will you indeed?’ cried a harsh voice quite close to his ear,
and he found himself in the dread presence of King
Cockeroo, a very large yellow Cochin China. ‘Will you
indeed?’ repeated his majesty. ‘How dare you attempt to
eat a whole potato. Put it down at once and leave the yard.’

“‘I won’t,’ cried the little cock, quite bravely.

“‘Then I’ll make you,’ roared the big one.

“‘Then I shan’t,’ was the bold reply.

“Now, like all bullies, King Cockeroo was a coward at heart,

so the battle that followed was of short duration, but very
decisive for all that, and in less than five minutes King
Cockeroo was flying in confusion before his young but
victorious enemy.

“When he had left the yard, the long-persecuted but now

triumphant Jock mounted his throne—the afore-mentioned
water-butt—and crew and crew and crew, until he was so
hoarse that he couldn’t crow any longer; then he jumped
down and received the congratulations of all the inhabitants
of the farmyard. And that is how Jock became King John.

“The poor deposed monarch never afterwards dared to

come near the yard, in which he had at one time reigned so
happily. He slept no longer on his old roost, but was fain to
perch all alone on the edge of the garden barrow in the
tool-house. He found no pleasure now in his sad and
sorrowful life, except in eating; and having no one to share
his meals with him, he began to get lazy and fat, and every
day he got lazier and fatter, till at last it was all he could do
to move about with anything like comfort. When he wanted
to relieve his mind by crowing, he had to waddle away to a
safe distance from the yard, or else King John would have
flown upon him and pecked him most cruelly.

“And now those very fowls, who once thought so much of

him, used to laugh when they heard him crowing, and
remark to young King John—

“‘Just listen to that asthmatical old silly,’ for his articulation

was not so distinct as it formerly was.

“‘Kurr-r-r!’ the new king would reply, ‘he’d better keep at a

respectable distance, or cock-a-ro-ri-ko! I’ll—I’ll eat him
entirely up!’

“‘I think,’ said the farmer of Buttercup Hill one day to his
wife—‘I think we’d better have t’ould cock for our Sunday’s
dinner.’

“‘Won’t he be a bit tough?’ his good wife replied.

“‘Maybe, my dear,’ said the farmer, ‘but fine and fat, and
plenty of him, at any rate.’
“Poor Cockeroo, what a fall was his! And oh! the sad irony
of fate, for on the very morning of this deposed monarch’s
execution, the sun was shining, the birds singing, the corn
springing up and looking so green and bonny; and probably
the last thing he heard in life was King John crowing, as he
proudly perched himself on the edge of his water-tub
throne. One could almost afford to drop a tear of pity for
the dead King Cockeroo, were it possible to forget that,
while in life and in power, he had been both a bully and a
coward.

“But bad as bullying and cowardice are, there are other

faults in many beings which, if not eradicated, are apt to
lead the possessors thereof to a bad end. I have nothing to
say against ambition, so long as it is lawful and kept within
due bounds, but pride is a bad trait in the character of even
old or young; and if you listen I will tell you how this failing
brought even brave and gallant King John to an untimely
end.

“After the death of King Cockeroo the pride of Jack knew no

bounds. His greatest enemy was gone, and there was not—
so he thought—another cock in creation who would dare to
face him; for did they not all prefer crowing at a distance,
and did he not always answer them day or night, and defy
them? His bearing towards the other fowls began to change.
He still collected food for the hens, it is true, but he no
longer tried to coax them to eat it. They would doubtless,
he said, partake of it if they were hungry, and if they were
not hungry, why, they could simply leave it.

“Jack had never had much respect for human beings—they!

poor helpless things, had no wings to clap, and they
couldn’t crow; they had no pretty plumage of their own, but
were fain to clothe themselves in sheep’s raiment or the
cocoons of caterpillars; and now he wholly despised them,
and showed it too, for he spurred the legs of Gosling the
ploughboy, and rent into ribbons the new dress of Mary the
milkmaid, because she had invaded his territory in search of
eggs. Even the death of the two favourite hens I have told
you of, which took place somewhat suddenly one Saturday
morning, failed to sober him or tone down his rampant
pride. He installed two other very fat hens in their place on
the perch, and then crowed more loudly than ever.

“He spent much of his time now on his old throne; for it was
always well filled with water, which served the purpose of a
looking-glass, and reflected his gay and sprightly person,
his rosy comb, and his nodding plumes. He would
sometimes invite a favourite fowl to share the honours of
his throne with him, but I really believe it was merely that
its plainer reflection might make his own beautiful image
the more apparent.

“‘Oh!’ he would cry, ‘don’t I look lovely, and don’t you look
dowdy beside me? Kurr! Kurr-r-r! Am I not perfection
itself?’

“Of course no one of the fowls in the yard dared to

contradict him or gainsay a word he spoke, but still I doubt
whether they believed him to be altogether such a very
exalted personage as he tried to make himself out.

“And now my little tale draws speedily to its dark, but not, I
trust, uninstructive close.

“The sun rose among clouds of brightest crimson one lovely

summer’s morning, and his beams flooded all the beautiful
country, making every creature and everything glad, birds
and beasts, flowers and trees, and rippling streams. Alas!
how often in this world of ours is the sunrise in glory
followed by a sunset in gloom. Noon had hardly passed ere
rock-shaped clouds began to bank up in the south and
obscure the sun, the wind fell to a dead calm, and the
stillness became oppressive; but it was broken at length by
a loud peal of thunder, that seemed to rend the earth to its
very foundations. Then the sky grew darker and darker;
and the darker it grew, the more vividly the lightning
flashed, the more loudly pealed the thunder. Then the rain
came down, such rain as neither the good farmer of
Buttercup Hill nor his wife ever remembered seeing before.
King John was fain to seek shelter for himself and his
companions under the garden seat, but even there they
were drenched, and a very miserable sight they presented.

“‘Oh I what a terrible storm!’ cried a wise old hen.

“‘Who is afraid?’ said the proud King John, stepping out into
the midst of it. ‘Behold my throne; it shall never be moved.’

“Dread omen! at that very moment a hoop suddenly sprang

up with a loud bang, the staves began to separate, and the
water came pouring out between them, deluging all the
place, and well-nigh drowning one of the two hens which
had bravely tried to share Jock’s peril with him!
“‘Kur-r-r!’ cried the king, astonishment and rage depicted on
every lineament of his countenance. ‘Kurr! kurr! what
trickery is this? But, behold, I have but to mount my throne
and crow, and at once the thunder and the rain will cease,
and the sun will shine again!’

“He suited the action to the word, but, alas! the sun never
shone again for him. His additional weight completed the
mischief, and the tottering throne gave way with a crash.

“There was woe in the farmyard that day, for under the
ruins of his throne lay the lifeless body of Jock—the once
proud, the once mighty King John.”

“Oh!” cried Ida, “but that is too short. Pray, just one little
one more, then I will sleep. You shall play me to sleep. Let
it be about a dog,” she continued. “You can always tell a
story about a dog.”

I looked once more into the old portfolio, and found this—
 Sindbad; or, The Dog of Penellan.

“Unless you go far, very far north indeed, you will hardly
find a more primitive place than the little village of Penellan,
which nestles quite close to the sea on the southern coast
of Cornwall. I say it nestles, and so it does, and nice and
cosy it looks down there, in a kind of glen, with green hills
rising on either side of it, with its pebbly beach and the
ever-sounding sea in front of it.

“It was at Widow Webber’s hostelry that there arrived,

many years ago, the hero, or rather heroes, of this short
tale. Spring was coming in, the gardens were already gay
with flowers, and the roses that trailed around the windows
and porches of the pilchard fishermen’s huts were all in bud,
and promised soon to show a wealth of bloom.

“Now, not only Widow Webber herself, but the whole village,
were on tiptoe to find out who the two strangers were and
what could possibly be their reason for coming to such a
little outlying place—fifteen miles, mind you, from the
nearest railway town. It appeared they were not likely soon
to be satisfied, for the human stranger—the other was his
beautiful Newfoundland retriever, ‘Sindbad’—simply took the
widow’s best room for three months, and in less than a
week he seemed to have settled down as entirely in the
place, as though he had been born there, and had never
been out of it. The most curious part of the business was
that he never told his name, and he never even received a
letter or a visitor. He walked about much out of doors, and
over the hills, and he hired a boat by the month, and used
to go long cruises among the rocks, at times not returning
until sun was set, and the bright stars twinkling in the sky.
He sketched a great deal, too—made pictures, the pilchard
fishermen called it. Was he an artist? Perhaps.
“The ‘gentleman,’ as he was always called, had a kind word
and a pleasant smile, for every one, and his dog Sindbad
was a universal favourite with the village children. How they
laughed to see him go splashing into the water! And the
wilder the sea, and the bigger the waves, the more the dog
seemed to enjoy the fun.

“Being so quiet and neighbourly, it might have been thought

that the gentleman would have been as much a favourite
with the grown-up people as Sindbad was with the young
folk. Alas! for the charity of this world, he was not so at
first. Where, they wondered, did he come from? Why didn’t
he give his name, and tell his story? It couldn’t possibly be
all right, they felt sure of that.

“But when the summer wore away, and winter came round,
and those policemen, whom they fully expected to one day
take the gentleman away, never came, and when the
gentleman seemed more a fixture than ever, they began to
soften down, and to treat him as quite one of themselves.
Sindbad had been one of them for a very long time, ever
since he had pulled the baker’s little Polly out of the sea
when she fell over a rock, and would assuredly have been
drowned except for the gallant dog’s timely aid.

“So they were content at last to take the gentleman just as

they had him.

“‘Concerts!’ cried Widow Webber one evening, in reply to a

remark made by the stranger. ‘Why, sir, concerts in our little
village! Whoever will sing?’

“But the stranger only laid down his book with a quiet smile,
and asked the widow to take a seat near the fire, and he
would tell her all about it.
“With honest Sindbad asleep on the hearthrug, and pussy
singing beside him, and the kettle singing too, and a bright
fire in the grate, the room looked quite cosy and snug-like.
So the poor widow sat down, and the stranger unfolded all
his plans.

“And it all fell out just as the stranger wished it. He was an
accomplished pianist, and also a good performer on the
violin. And he had good-humour and tact, and the way he
kept his class together, and drew them out, and made them
all feel contented with their efforts and happy, was perfectly
wonderful. The first concert was a grand success, a crowded
house, though the front seats were only sixpence and the
back twopence. And all the proceeds were handed over to
the clergyman to buy books and magazines.

“So the winter passed more quickly and cheerfully than any
one ever remembered a winter to pass before, and summer
came once more.

“It would need volumes, not pages, to tell of all poor

Sindbad’s clever ways. Indeed, he became quite the village
dog; he would go errands for any one, and always went to
the right shop with his basket. Every morning, with a penny
in his mouth, he went trotting away to the carrier’s and
bought a paper for his master; after that he was free to
romp and play all the livelong day with the children on the
beach. It might be said of Sindbad as Professor Wilson said
of his beautiful dog—‘Not a child of three years old and
upwards in the neighbourhood that had not hung by his
mane and played with his paws, and been affectionately
worried by him on the flowery greensward.’

“Another winter went by quite as cheerily as the last, and

the stranger was by this time as much a favourite as his
dog. The villagers had found out now that he was not by
any means a rich man, although he had enough to live on;
but they liked him none the less for that.

“The Easter moon was full, and even on the wane, for it did
not, at the time I refer to, rise till late in the evening. A gale
had been blowing all day, the sea was mountains high, for
the wind roared wildly from off the broad Atlantic. One
hundred years ago, if the truth must be told, the villagers of
Penellan would have welcomed such a gale; it might bring
them wealth. They had been wreckers.

“Every one was about retiring for rest, when boom boom!
from out of the darkness seaward came the roar of a
minute gun. Some great ship was on the rocks not far off.
Boom! and no assistance could be given. There was no
rocket, no lifeboat, and no ordinary boat could live in that
sea. Boom! Everybody was down on the beach, and ere
long the great red moon rose and showed, as had been
expected, the dark hull of a ship fast on the rocks, with her
masts gone by the board, and the sea making a clean
breach over her. The villagers were brave; they attempted
to launch a boat. It was staved, and dashed back on the
beach.

“‘Come round to the point, men,’ cried the stranger. ‘I will

send Sindbad with a line.’

“The point was a rocky promontory almost to windward of

the stranded vessel.

“The mariners on board saw the fire lighted there, and they
saw that preparations of some kind were being made to
save them, and at last they discerned some dark object
rising and falling on the waves, but steadily approaching
them. It was Sindbad; the piece of wood he bore in his
mouth had attached to it a thin line.
“For a long time—it seemed ages to those poor sailors—the
dog struggled on and on towards them. And now he is
alongside.

“‘Good dog!’ they cry, and a sailor is lowered to catch the

morsel of wood. He does so, and tries hard to catch the dog
as well. But Sindbad has now done his duty, and prepares
to swim back.

“Poor faithful, foolish fellow! if he had but allowed the sea to

carry him towards the distant beach. But no; he must battle
against it with the firelight as his beacon.
“And in battling he died.

“But communication was effected by Sindbad betwixt the

ship and the shore, and all on board were landed safely.

“Need I tell of the grief of that dog’s master? Need I speak

of the sorrow of the villagers? No; but if you go to Penellan,
if you inquire about Sindbad, children even yet will show
you his grave, in a green nook near the beach, where the
crimson sea-pinks bloom.

“And older folk will point you out ‘the gentleman’s grave’ in
the old churchyard. He did not very long survive Sindbad.

“The grey-bearded old pilchard fisherman who showed it to

me only two summers ago, when I was there, said—

“‘Ay, sir! there he do lie, and the sod never hid a warmer
heart than his. The lifeboat, sir? Yes, sir, it’s down yonder;
his money bought it. There is more than me, sir, has shed a
tear over him. You see, we weren’t charitable to him at first.
Ah, sir! what a blessed thing charity do be!’”
 Chapter Thirty Three.

A Short, Because a Sad One.

“Why do summer roses fade,

If not to show how fleeting
All things bright and fair are made,
To bloom awhile as half afraid
 To join our summer greeting?”

“Now,” said Frank one evening to me, “a little change is all

that is needed to make the child as well again as ever she
was in her life.”

“I think you are right, Frank,” was my reply; “change will do

it—a few weeks’ residence in a bracing atmosphere; and it
would do us all good too; for of course you would be of the
party, Frank?”

“I’ll go with you like a shot,” said this honest-hearted, blunt

old sailor.

“What say you, then, to the Highlands?”

“Just the thing,” replied Frank. “Just the place—

“‘My heart’s in the Hielans.

My heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Hielans, chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer and following the roe—
My heart’s in the Hielans, wherever I go.’”

“Bravo! Frank,” I cried; “now let us consider the matter as

practically settled. And let us go in for division of labour in
the matter of preparation for this journey due north. You
two old folks shall do the packing and all that sort of thing,
and Ida and I will—get the tickets.”

And, truth to tell, that is really all Ida and myself did do;
but we knew we were in good hands, and a better caterer
for comfort on a journey, or a better baggage-master than
Frank never lived.