Reza1969
13-04-2006, 12:57
You can post nice short stories here.
مشاهده نسخه کامل
: Short Stories
Reza1969
13-04-2006, 14:31
When a young teen moves back to his hometown, he gets caught up in a game of kill or be killed with his friends.
This is a story of corruption, greed, lust, and death. Be warned that
there will be strong, offensive language and violence.
* = not real
Adolescent Innocence
As I watched the city disappear into the horizon, the shocking truth of
what I had really done haunted me. All had ended well in the game and I
was not blamed for the deaths of my so called "friends". Still the pain
and guilt hammered me. I knew that I would remember the past 3 months
for the rest of my life.....
3 months earlier....
I had mixed feelings about my families recent move back to my home town.
It had been 4 years since I lived in *Portersville and now we were
moving back. I had spent the past 4 years in *Thomastown with my mother
and brother. My dad was locked in the state penitentiary for some shit
he didn't even do, but I'll get to that later. We were nearly there,
school started for me tomorrow and I couldn't hardly wait to see some
of my old friends. I was excited to see everyone except one person. Let
me go back, about 10 years ago, I was 4 at the time, but my dad was
working for this big shot construction supervisor by the name of Daniel
Frosteg. Frosteg was a mean guy who loved using his power on the town's
residents and his staff. He owned over half of the towns houses and
apartments. My dad had worked for him for 20 long years and he was
looking to get promoted when Frosteg was looking for a vice president
for the business. Now everyone knew my dad was right for the job, even
Frosteg. But he hired some new white recruit of 3 weeks for the job and
laid off my father. My dad planned to steal some computer files that
could send Frosteg to jail for his illegal acts on his houses, like
embezzlement. But somehow Frosteg's son, Garret, warned his dad about
my father's plan. My dad was framed for the illegal acts, along with
espionage and he was sentenced 15 years in the slammer. Ain't that
fucked up? Since then, Garret has been my nemesis, and I was not too
glad to see him or Frosteg.
We neared out two-story house at about 8:00 pm. The moving van had
already unloaded and the decorators had already set up our stuff. Yeah,
yeah, I know what you're saying. How can these people have all this?
Well my mom is an independent woman, enough said. " Mom, this is great.
I only wish dad could be with us." I said. She blew a puff of air.
"Yeah you are right. But things will work out for him and us. Now let's
go relax in the house!" she said enthusiastically.
The next day I was staring at all the unfamiliar faces and a weird
looking school. This was all new to me because when I left, it was my
5th grade year. Now in the middle of my 8th, I was a bit confused until
a hand clapped on my shoulder. " Hey, who in the hell..." I started to
reply, but I was cut off by the young boy that had his hand on my
shoulder. " Who are you and why do you have your hand on my shoulder?"
I said questioningly. " You should know me man. I'll give you a hint. I
used to call myself The Great Caucasion." Then I remembered with a
flash. It was my old friend Heith Parker. " Hey man, how's it going?
You've changed a lot." I said. " It's cool man. Talk about me changing,
you have really changed. You should see yourself. You have gone from
skinny stick to buff beef man. " Maybe I have changed. Heith and I were
best friends back in the days. We had so much in common it was hard not
to be friends. We have the same age (14), we like the same things
(girls, hip-hop, cutting class), and we both get in trouble around the
school house also. The only difference we have is our race in which I'm
African-american and he's Caucasion. " Man, everyone knew you were
coming back. You were like a star at elementary school, and everyone
likes you. I can tell you right now, with your looks and everything,
you are going to get a lot of pussy thrown at you." He said. I really
didn't care much about --- though. I wanted to wait for the right time
and the right person. That meant that I was not going to tell Heith
that I was a virgin, even though I have been in some situations where I
had to back out before intercourse. Heith was about to say something
when the bell rung. " Hey, I'll see you in lunch, ok?" he shouted over
the bell. As the remaining students ran to their classes, I started to
jog to my own room.
The school day was awesome. I got about 14 digits(phone numbers) from
the finest of the fine girls at the school. I met my old companions and
had fun. All was peachy keen until after the last period. Me and Heith
were chilling against the lockers talking about stuff when all of a
sudden two other girls were interested in us. " Wow, he has grown." One
said. " Yeah, he is kinda cute also. Garret has some competition now."
The other replied. Garret! I despised him and hatred came upon me at
the sound of his name. " Who gives a fuck about that preppy ass
anyways. " said Heith. " We were not talking to you, you wannabe
Eminem. " said the tall one. They were twins, except one had longer
hair and more beauty. They were both green eyed, thick thighed, and
both had creamy skin. " You remember Tyler and Tess Andrews don't ya
Lee? " Heith said. Oh yeah I remembered them from the get go. Who could
forget a more beautiful pair of sisters who seduced you in front of
their own boyfriends? Heith told me that he got the shit beat out of
him for talking to one of the sisters and he also warned me to watch my
back. " Lee you have turned so handsome. Why don't you give me a call?
" Tyler said as she wrote the # on a slip of paper. I was astounded.
This was jungle fever and I wasn't making any of the moves! As I
reached out for the number, two vagabonds arrived. They were both guys
our age and both were built like a couple of rednecks. " Whats up boy.
" the larger one said simply. Who the hell did he think he was,
racially discriminating me in my own face. " Don't be funny cracker. "
I said acidly. I already knew who this fellow was. It was Garret and
his sidekick Jay. " Lee, I'm sorry. " he said with fake sempathy. " We
got off to a bad start. We have so many bad starts. Like your dad. I
bet he got off to a bad start when he got fucked in the ass for the
first time. " he said with a laugh. That was it. I blew up. Like a bolt
of lightning, I ran at Garret and caught him by surprise. He uttered an
" oof " as the air rushed out of his lungs. I had him on my shoulder
when I slammed him on the locker doors. He was on the ground trying to
catch his breath when I prepared to kick him until a pair of hands
grabbed me and pushed me against the locker doors. It was Jay. " Chill
out before you get laid out you fuc-", he couldn't finish his sentence
because my knee had crushed him right into his genitals. He fell to the
floor with a dull moan. Garret reared his head up," Guys, come get
these assholes! " he said. Then I saw 3 jocks running toward us.
Probably some of Garret's bitches. Before they could help Garret and
Jay up, me and Heith had dipped out of there and left the scene with
the dumb jocks and the awestruck girls.
Ring ring! The phone was ringing off the hook. It was 6:30 that
afternoon. I was feeling kinda cocky with my ordeal and so was Heith.
He said I had just done what so many guys at the school were afraid of
doing. What was to be afraid of from Garret? I was soon to find out.
Lee: Yeah? Person on Phone: Hey Lee. This is Tyler. Lee: Hey girl.
Wassup? Tyler: Oh nothing. I'm just kinda still shocked from what
happened today. Lee: Yeah. I'm sorry you had to see that. He shouldn't
have said anything about my dad. Tyler: Don't worry about Garret. He is
such a prick. Lee: I thought you went out with him. Tyler: Of course
not! Did he say that? That sexist pig. Tess goes out with him. Jay
likes me but I have a new interest now. Lee: And who's that, Heith?
Tyler: Of course not silly. It's you. Lee I really missed you when you
moved. I want to make it up and start over. Saturday there is going to
be a party at the park. I would love for you to come. Lee: Ok. Thanks,
I'll guess I will see you then. Tyler: Sure. We exchanged goodbyes and
hung up. Wow, the sexist girl in the school invited me to a party!
Little did I knew that if I wouldn't have went to that party and got
caught up in the game, I would not be a ruthless killer now...
Saturday
At 5:00pm I arrived at the park. The park is huge, spanning over 6 miles
of trails, a beautiful lake, and lots of land. I found Tyler with Tess
by some tables talking to some other kids. A loud stereo was playing
mixed tunes with the volume turned all the way up. There was about 70
people out there having fun and being wild. Tyler grabbed me by the arm
and hustled me to some tables. " It is too loud here. Let's go
somewhere we can talk in peace. " She said loudly as she started
leading me into the beginning of a trail. Oh man! This was way awesome.
She looked back at me seductively." Come on, I don't want to go alone.
" She said silkily. Portersville was getting better and better everday.
I thought to myself as I admired Tyler's curves on her body. " We're
almost there. Just a bit further as she pulled my hands around her
side. I made my mind up just then. Tyler was going to be my first. But
my thoughts were interrupted when we neared a clearing. In the clearing
there was a circle of benches with a fire burning in the middle.
Sitting in those benches was Tess, Heith, a guy named Cory, and Jay. "
Nice to see ya boy. " came a voice from behind me. When I looked, it
turned out to be my nemesis, Garret. " What the hell are you guys doing
here and why are we here Tyler? " I yelled. I was mad as hell. To be
absolute and truthwise, I was fucking horny and now I was fucking angry
to be in the same spot with Garret. " Just chill out and take a seat
Lee. " she said softly. I took one. Maybe this was some initiation or
some shit like that. " I brought you all here to play a little game. I
sent for you because I thought you would all be competive opponents."
Garret said. " What are we playing? I thought this was a party man.
I've got no time for kids games. " I said with a sneer. " Oh believe
me. This is no kids game. The game is this: We all divide up into two
teams. The team that does the most damage to the other team is the
winner. The remaining members of the winning team get the codes for my
fathers online account, worth about $500,000 dollars in untraced
money.'' I couldn't believe this. You'd have to be a fool to believe
any of this gibberish. " How can someone do that Garret? Huh?! You are
making fools of us man. We would get sent to jail for this kind of
stuff." I said skeptically. " NO, it is true. " he said harshly. "
Because this is the embezzlement money my father took and then framed
your deadbeat dad for! " He shouted. No way in hell this was true. This
was the clue that my father had been innocent! Suddenly I sprang to my
feet, preparing to fight Garret. As I got ran at him, he quickly pulled
out a black glock .9 ( a gun ) and leveled it at me. Reality hit me
like a sack of bricks. " Stay back man. I swear I will kill you. " He
said wildly with a funny look in his eyes. This was all too real. "
Look, I don't want to play your game. You guys do whatever you want.
Just leave me out of it. " I said quickly while I was backing away from
the gun with fear. " Lee, you are the sole character in this game. You
will play it. " Jay said. The gun was still leveled at me, but I had a
plan. As I was nearing the fire, I stepped backwards and kicked the
sparks into Garret's face. " Aaargh! " he screamed, grabbing his eyes.
I was running by the time he looked towards me and out of sight within
seconds.
That night, I thought of going to the police with what I heard when a
scream came from upstairs. CRASH! BOOM! I hurried upstairs to see what
was the matter. When I reached all the ruckus, I say my mother
defending herself with a broom and a dressed in all black figure
attacking her. He had a knife in one hand as he tried to slash my mom.
I saw my chance and rushed him into the mirror. His head broke the
glass and it splintered everywhere. As he got up I took a long shard of
the glass and slashed the hand with the knife in it. " Aaaaah! " he
yelled. I kicked him in the chest and slammed him into the floor.
WHUMP! Then with my mom's help, we tilted the dresser drawer and
dropped it onto his back. BLAM! The attacker layed still. " Call the
police. " I said to my mom. She rushed out of the room. I looked at the
black hood he had over his face. I decided to take it off. I was
astonished to find that the person in the hood was none other than
Cory.
The next day at school everyone was drooling their sympathies and
acknowledgements at my ordeal with the attacker. I didn't tell anyone
that it was Cory who did the attacking, but that didn't help one bit
because it was on the front page of the Portersville newspaper:
HOUSEHOLD ATTACKED BY YOUNG VIGILANTE
Wow. In the newspaper, it said that Cory had broken the glass and
appeared to attack my mom when I appeared and me and my mom kicked his
ass. I still didn't get it though. Why would Cory try to harm us? I
mean, I never really talked to him, he was just an acquaintance that I
knew from around. What was with this? Just then Heith showed up. " Hey
dude. I heard about you and Cory. " he said. " Do you know anything
about if Cory had any beef with me grudge he had to settle with me? " I
said suspiciously. " That's what I came here to tell you man. Meet at
the library after school. It's important man. " he said as he left.
Yes. Now maybe I can see why that fool attacked us. I thought. Heith
had never been this serious before. He was always joking or laid back.
What was with everyone?
After school, I went to the school library to see what was up. It was
empty and quiet. No one in their right mind would stay after school
just to go to the library. Then I saw Heith motion at me to come into
the quiet room. The quiet room is a soundproof room where you can study
or talk without anyone listening or interrupting. As I walked in, I saw
Tyler, Tess, Jay and Garret sitting down in seats. " Are you guys my
own personal fan club or something? Heith why do you keep hanging out
with these guys? " I said almost angrily. I noticed that there was one
less person : Cory. " I hope you liked my little surprise the other
night. " Garret said. " You mean Cory?! Are you trying to kill me or
something? I getting tired of your shit Garret. Anymore stunts like
that and I will kill your ass. " I said. " Cory was meant to be a
warning to you. You will play this game. " he said with a frown. " You
guys are with him aren't you? All you guys probably planned this. Nice
game, you play with peoples lives for fun. " I said sarcastically. "
Not necessarily Lee. " Tyler said. " We needed you so it would be even
sides. See, all of us have been either pressured to play or we have
already played and we are hooked. " What kind of sick person would find
this kind of game addictive? " You guys are wackos. Fuck Cory, fuck
this game, and FUCK you guys, peace. " I said as I walked toward the
door. " One thing you need to know Lee, I still have many associates
that would love to do my bidding. " Garret said. " That means, until
you join the game, I will have your loved ones hurt, harmed, or killed.
" he said with an evil smile. " You touch my family, and I will stuff
you head so far down you throat, you will have to stick a toothbrush up
you ass to brush you teeth. Who do you think you are? Huh?! Who the
fuck you think you are? " I said as I got ready for another
confrontation. " I am the lifetaker. " he said as he stuck a videotape
inside the VCR and pressed play. Suddely, my mom was on the screen
walking toward her car. Then, it showed a clip of my brother getting on
the school bus to his elementary school. It showed more and more clips
of my family. I just sat there staring at how Garret was right when he
said he could take my families lives. " Is this enough proof, or do I
need to send another bandit to ramshackle you family? " Garret said as
he turned off the T.V. I lowered my head and looked defeated. I didn't
want my family to get hurt because of me. " What do I need to know
about this game? " I said. " What was that? I didn't hear you. " he
said cheerfully. I know he fucking heard me. I thought. " What do I
need to know about this game? " I said through clenched teeth. " Right
now there are 6 of us. We will divide up into teams of 3 and then, we
will start the game. The first team that destroys the other team will
be the victor of my father's, oops, I mean Lee's father's embezzlement
money. " he said with a laugh. I said nothing, soon I would have my
revenge. I will let him have his joy now. But I will make a vow to
myself that I will kill Garret and free my father. I thought. " There
will be two captains of the teams. Me and Lee are the captains. "
Garret said as he stood up. " The team captains cannot drop out of the
game at all. The others can, but they must not have any more contact
with the captains or the other team members anymore. " Jay explained. "
Why can't the captains drop out? " I said, trying to find a necessary
escape. " The captains already have too much dirt on them. If Lee
dropped out, I could find a way to blame him for the death of his
family after I send someone to kill them and frame Lee." He said. " But
if I dropped out, then Lee could go to the authorities. " he added. I
hope he is enjoying this. I thought. " Now we will choose teams. All on
my side, come to me. " Garret said. Jay and Tess joined Garret. At
least Tyler and Heith respect me. " Now my side." I said weakly. Only
Tyler joined me. " I'm sorry Lee man. I can't do this. " he said as he
grabbed his stuff and ran from the room. " Some friend. " Garret said.
" The sides are picked. We will begin the game tomorrow. Your team
should plan out their strategy. Good bye. " Garret said as I walked
away. " Oh and good luck. " he said fakely. I didn't care about the
others. All I wanted to do was strangle Garret until he sputtered and
died in my hands.
That following night, Heith came over. " What the fuck do you want
friend. " I said meanly. " I want to fucking talk to you about that.
Come on man, I had a reason for doing that. I could help you win this
game. " he said seriously. I told him to come in and we went to my
room, closed the door and locked it. " So what do you want? " I said. "
Today at the meeting, I was fibbing. I am going to help you put Garret
and his father in jail secretly. " he said. " Wow thanks man. But to
tell you the truth, Garret hasn't really done anything except having a
gun and sending Cory, no one can trace that. Everyone thinks he is a
perfect angel. " I said. " HE IS NOT! " Heith yelled. " Garret has
played this game before. He is an expert in it. His father also helps
out. They are a bunch of fucked up killers man! 4 other kids have been
killed in this game by Garret's side! His father can cover it up and
protect him. " he said shrillily. " Garret threatened us all about this
and he has all of us on strings. I can help you do this man. " Oh man.
This was not some unorganized setup. This was a crime game. " Mr.
Frosteg works with some of the underground mafia. People are getting
rich off of us. They make bets and we die. " Heith said. " Man we got
to tell the police about this. " I said." A guy named Kris already
tried that. He was found with 30 bullet holes in his body. We got to
move secretly. Look, you pretend to hold off Garret's team for a day or
two, then I will have faxed the necessary clues that would put The
Frosteg's away for a long time, ok? " he said. " Alright. You be
careful man. " I told him. " You also. Watch your back. " he said as he
left the room. What Heith didn't notice was a figure in the trees
videotaping him. " Heith, Heith, when will you learn? " the figure said
quietly.
Heith's house, that night
As I looked over the information that would but The Frosteg's away, I
accidentally dropped a yearbook from last year. Inside of it, I had
stuffed some pictures from some of the parties and trips we had taken
in school. " Wow I remember this shit! " I said cheerfully. Then I
noticed that in the picture, Garret was holding Tyler passionately. I
quickly looked at another picture. I saw Tyler holding Garrets hand.
Almost every picture that Tyler and Garret were in, they were holding
hands or embracing. Then I came upon the picture from the party in the
park. This was the first picture that Lee was with us in. In the
picture, Tyler and Garret were separated and Tyler was next to Lee
smiling. Something was up with this. I quickly logged on to the
Internet and emailed Lee a message. Then I took the files, hid them and
left the room. My Eminem CD was playing " Kill You " . I was home
alone, so how did the stereo just come on by itself? Then I saw a
person sitting with their back facing me. " Who the hell are you? " I
said as I stepped nearer to the person. He/she was like 5 feet away. "
Why Heith, this song is so ironic. Who would think that this song would
be exactly what would go down tonight? " the person said. " What the
fuck are you talking about and who the hell are you? " I said
demandingly. " What I'm talking about is, " the person said as the
chair spun around in my direction. I choked on air as the person in the
chair turned out to be Garret. " BITCH I'M GOIN' TO KILL YOU! " he
shouted gleefully as he ran at me. I threw a chair at him and ran
towards the hall. He slowed down but kept coming. I turned around a
corner and picked up a vase. When he came around I smashed him with it.
He punched me in the side. " Ooof! " the air rushed out of me, but
still I fought. I brought up my fist and nailed him in the face. WHUMP!
He thumped the wall. I ran towards the laundry door. He ran in also but
I was ready. I dropped kicked him in the chest and he fell towards the
floor. I ran out of the room and lock him in from the outside. I also
barricaded the door with a chair. " What now bitch? Huh?! " I said in
triumph. Garret showed a small smile and nodded when he looked above my
head. As Heith turned around a figure dressed in black tackeled him to
the ground. Garret smiled as the figure slashed and stabbed Heith until
the white lineoum floor turned blood red and Heith struggled no more. "
Ha ha ha. Nice work Jay. " Garret said with a laugh. " Lee 0 Garret 1.
" Jay said, covered in blood.
The next day I tried to get in touch with Tyler but she was no where to
be found. Neither was Tess. Tyler has been somewhere. She wouldn't
return my calls and Heith was not even home last night. I thought
suspiciously. I eyed Jay. He flashed me a thumbs up sign and raced
away. The days were getting weirder and weirder. Heith was absent,
Tyler and Tess absent, but Jay flashing me a thumbs up sign like he's
my friend. I couldn't wait until I moved back to Thomastown where there
was some sense. After school I went straight home. When I was there, I
got the mail and went to my room. Maybe Heith has some excuse to why he
has disappered. He is taking a big risk for me when he is out there
playing Sherlock Holmes. I thought. As I logged on, I went to check my
email and there was two messages. One from Heith and one from some guy
named shadow. I checked Heith's first. It said:
Lee this is Heith. You are in serious danger. Tyler is a traitor. She is
on Garret's side. Tess is missing. Tyler was trying to get close to you
so she could kill you. Garret wants her to pretend that she hates him.
I should have seen it before but, she and Garret have been close all
the time before you came back. When you did, she acted like Garret was
the most disrespectiful person when she really still went out with him.
Stay away from her and I will talk to you later.
Heith
No. This can't be right. Tyler said it herself that she loved me. Heith
was wrong this time. He had to be. I sighed as I checked the next
message. I almost threw up when I saw the message. It said : YOU ARE
NEXT and it had a picture of a body that looked as if it had been
through a human blender. Was this real? It also said : LOOK IN TODAYS
PAPER. I ran downstairs as fast as I could and looked at the front page
of the paper.
YOUNG TEEN FOUND STABBED TO DEATH IN HOME
When I saw it, It almost made me cry. Heith had been killed last night
by someone who broke in the house. The person was still not to be
found. I knew it had to be Garret. I will kill him right now. I
disposed of the items that would make me suspicious of the murder. Then
I equipped myself in all black and leather gloves. After that I took
the gun my mother had bought to welcome anymore attackers. I hope
you've had fun Garret because now it's my turn. I said as I left the
house with an instinct to kill.
When I arrived at Garret's house, I snuck around to the back. His house
was immense and it was located at the edge of Portersville in the
woods. " Good. Now no one will hear him scream for his life. " I said
eagerly. I jammed the back door open with a screwdriver and walked in.
It was warm inside despite the October weather. No one was about. I
walked towards the living room area and saw a pair of stairs leading
up. Garret's dad is pretty fat in the pockets. I wonder if it is made
off of legal money. I thought doubtfully. I heard a person moan
upstairs. I walked up the stairs quietly. As I neared the top, I heared
another moan. What's Garret doing, jacking off? I thought. The moaning
was coming from the door down the hall. It was open about an inch. What
I saw made me want to shout, cry, and die right there. It was Garret
and Tyler having ---. The moaning continued and I just stood there
uncomfortably. How could she do this to me? Heith was right about her.
I thought. They continued for about 10 more minutes when Garret said, "
Hey, that was good. Now let me go use the little boys room. " he said
as he walked away. I heard a door slam kind of far away. There was
total silence except for Tyler's slow breathing while she tried to doze
in the sheets. Time for me to visit my teammate, I thought gravely. I
opened the door and went in. " Who's there? Garret is that you? " she
said slowly. " No, it's me. " I said with a grin as I flicked the
lights on. " Lee! It's you! I'm so glad. Garret tried to rape me. Come
on, now we can put him to an end! " she said quickly and quietly. Does
this bitch think I'm a total idiot? I thought. " Don't lie. I have been
watching you two for about 10 minutes! What the fuck is going on?! " I
said angrily. " Lee, let me get up and explain. " she said. I noticed
her reaching for the couch ever so sneakily. Instinct made me cautious
of that couch. Before she could react, I ran towards the couch and
grabbed the pillows. But Tyler grabbed me and tried to wrestle me away
from the couch! I quickly bitch-slapped her. BLAAAP! She uttered a cry
as she fell back on the bed, her body exposed. I threw the pillows off
of the couch and found a silver plated 9mm. I had rubber gloves on me,
so I grabbed the gun. " Is this some kind of fucking birthday present?
I WANT ANSWERS NOW! " I shrieked. " Okay! This game isn't about love or
friendship! It is about survival, deceiving, money, and killing your
opponents to get that money! " she said with vengence as she covered
herself with the sheets. " Then it was okay to kill Heith, then?! " I
said. " Jay killed Heith. Who cares about him anyway. He was such a
dipshit. " she said ignorantly. " I just tried to get to you just to
find a vulnerable way to take you down. My bitch sis tried to warn you
the other day. Don't worry about her, she was dumped in the river. In
the end the score will be Garret 3, Lee 0 because you'll be dead you
asshole! I hate you!" she said heatedly. Her anger shocked me. I had
never seen this side of Tyler before. Her words also struck me like
daggers in the heart. " NO. The score is now Garret 2, Lee 1. " I said
as I sucked my emotions back in and tried to hold back tears from what
I was about to do. Before Tyler could think or talk, I exploded. BLAM!
BLAM! BLAMBLAMBLAM! I shot her 5 times with her own gun. I dropped it
and ran. I ran like the devil. But I didn't run fast enough to get out
of Garret's loud cry as he discovered Tyler's body. " NOOOOOOOOOO! " he
echoed. But by then, I was long gone.
Jay: Tyler's dead?! But how?! Garret: I believe Lee did it. I found her
with 5 bullet holes on her upper chest and head. Jay: Man, Garret,
please, let me kill him. Come on! Garret: Ok my friend. But watch your
back. Lee isn't as dumb as I thought he was. Click! Garret hung up. Jay
was getting an adrenaline rush as he got prepared to take another life.
" I think I'll kill Lee with a knife I call, " The Heith Killer"! Jay
said as he went to his dresser drawer to get his trademark blade. But
he couldn't find it. " Where is it? I hope I didn't leave it in Heith's
body somewhere! " he said with a laugh. " Is this it? " said a dark
figure behind him. " Who the hell- "but Jay didn't finish because the
figure grabbed him by the neck and slung him into the mirror.
BRAAAAAAASSSH! Broken glass spintered everywhere. Jay punched the
figure in the side and pulled off the person's hood. " LEE! " Jay
cried. While Jay stood there, mystified, Lee took advantage and laid a
well placed punch in Jay's nose. BROCK! Jay's blood seeped from his
nose. Lee started hitting Jay with combinations now. " How do you like
this?! HUH?! " Lee said as he jacked Jay up by the collar of his shirt.
Jay evened the fight when he took a wastebasket and whacked Lee in the
head. Bump! Jay then rushed Lee towards the stairs with intentions to
throw him down the flights of stairs. But at the last minute, Lee
kicked Jay's legs right from under him and flipped Jay down the stairs.
Whump! Thumpbump-a thump! Jays body finally made impact with the
ground. Jay tried to shake the dizziness from his head, but the stairs
and the loss of blood had given him nausea. When Jay's eyes finally
cooperated, he saw Lee at the top of the stairs with his hands on Jay's
computer moniter. " This is for Heith. " Lee said as he heaved the
monitor at Jay. " NONONON- " were Jay's last words as the computer
monitor smashed into his head. BLAAAAAAASH! KRUNCH! When Lee turned
around, he saw Jay at the bottom of the stairs, his head completely
crushed and broken, and the monitor broken as well. " Lee 2, Garret 2.
Time to break the tie. " Lee sighed as he prepared to leave.
When Lee got home, there was a note waiting for him under the door step.
It said: tonight, the construction site on broad steet, 12:00 a.m. come
alone It has to be from Garret. I thought. At about 8:00, the news came
on. There were two new killings. Tyler Andrews had apparently killed
herself and Jay Barnes was found dead on arrival when lawmen found out
that he was the killer of Heith Parker because of a mysterious knife
delivered to the police station with Jay's prints on it and Heith's
blood. I clicked off the screen. I hate this. This is not what life is
supposed to be about. We should be having fun, getting drunk, going to
dances. We should be having the time of our lives, not killing each
other off. I thought sadly. I had had some long nights where I would
sit up and think about my problems and such. But tonight was the
longest night of my entire life. I had better get some sleep.
At 12:00 a.m., all was deserted in the city. The construction site
spanned about 15 stories and was in the process of getting built. It
was dark and cool out. The steel pillars and equipment stood still and
were perfect hiding places. I quickly ran into the shadows. Garret was
not going to get the best of me. " Thanks for coming. " someone said. "
Garret, we have a tie. I really don't want to kill you so come out and
let's end this fucking madness. " I said hopefully. " This is my game,
my rules, and my win. You will be the one dead tonight Lee. You don't
think I know about Jay? I saw the news. " he said accusingly. " Well
now you know how it feels to lose a friend. Maybe in the next life
you'll think twice about messing with people's friends. " I said. "
Let's get this over with. I can't wait to feel your heart in my hands.
" he said hideously. Suddenly, he swept out of the shadows straight
ahead of me about 20 feet and fired. Theww! Thing! Taack! The bullets
richocheted around me. I straffed from behind the steel pillar shot my
own bullets. Garret had already dodged them and was gone from sight. He
must be up to something. I thought as I eyed the rope leading to the
second story. I started climbing it slowly and soon I was at the top. I
sneaked towards Garret's previous spot. I couldn't see him anywhere. "
Here I am! " he shouted from the third story! He was above me. I shot
at him, and he shot at me. We both missed. But to dodge the bullets, we
both fell down to the ground. Whup! I was back on my feet in a flash.
My gun was lost but I saw Garret. Before he could shoot at me, I lunged
for him and tackled him to the ground. We rolled into a sand pile and
fought like animals. He shoved me into the sand. I grabbed a handful
and threw it into his eyes. As he struggled to see, I kicked him right
in the balls. " A[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]! " he shouted as his strengh left him. He was
about 2 feet away from his gun and he knew it. I ran and jumped over
the sand. Whoof! Whiff! The bullets lanced through the sand. I ran
towards the empty 6 story offices next to the site. I ran inside and
ran all the way up to the top. As I opened the top office, I saw an
intercom and a chair and also a voice recorder.
Garret was up and ready for another bout with Lee. He struggled to see
any shape or person through the darkness and remaining sand in his
eyes. Then suddenly there was a voice. " Garret it's Lee. Come on to
the 6th office for a final face off. " Lee said over the intercom. He
must be the dumbest muthafucka that has ever played this game. Garret
thought as he clenched his gun and ran towards the offices. " I'm right
here you little shit! What? Are you scared? " Lee taunted over the
intercom. Garret raced up the 2nd flight of stairs. " Come out come out
wherever you are. " Lee teased. Garret now neared the 4th flight of
stairs. Almost there. He thought greedily. " You forget Garret, I going
to beat you at your own game. " Lee said again. Garret was now at the
6th and last section. He neared the room where Lee's voice was coming
from. " You are one- " But Lee got cut off as Garret shot through the
door into the tiny room. BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM! Garret emptied the gun
into the bowels of the room. There was silence. " Game, set, match. "
Garret said in triumph. When he opened the door he expected to find a
young, black teen dead on the floor. But all he found was a broken
intercom and a shattered voice recorder over the intercom. It came to
Garret quickly. It was a trick! Lee used the voice recorder to record
all of the taunts and teasing on the recorder then he played it on the
intercom! Just then there was a loud VROOOM! Garret looked out of the
window to see a wrecking ball machine maneuver towards the office.
Driving it was Lee! Then in quick succession, he reared the ball back,
preparing to swing it in Garret's direction! Garret tried to run, but
was too late. The ball smashed into the window and in less than a
second, it had knocked Garret through two walls back outside. Garret
flew through the air and grabbed the wire attached to the wrecking
ball. He hung on for dear life, if he fell, he would fall 20 feet
towards a hard landing on the concrete. Lee moved the ball over the
fusion generators. The fusion generators were tubes of explosive matter
that was used to blow up boulders and clear paths. The ball stopped
directly over the generators. Then it shifted! Rump! Garret looked at
Lee with surprise. Lee only shook his head with reluctantcy. Then he
pressed a button and the ball was released from it's cables!
"Ahhhhhhhhhh! " Garret screamed as him and the ball tumbled towards the
generator field. CLAAASH! KRUNCH! Garret collapsed as one of his legs
was slammed and then trapped under the 5,000 lbs. Wrecking ball.
HISSSSSSSSSSSS! Then he noticed a hissing sound coming from one of the
generators. The wrecking ball had ruptured one of the generators! "
That means...." Garret said fearfully.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! A firery explosion lit up the sky as if it were day
time. I covered my face and eyes as the deadly heat swept over me. A
huge fireball loomed high above my head. Now it's time to make my
disappering act. I thought as I rushed from the scene.
As I snuck home, I noticed a horde of police and firefighters speeding
towards the explosion. " Lee 3, Garret 2. Rest in pieces. " I said
particularly to no one. It's over. The killing, the death is finally
over. I thought with mixed emotions as I arrived home.
2 weeks later..
As the building blocks and the city streets diminished in the horizon,
all the fear completely left me. Well almost. We were moving back to
Thomastown and I was glad. The past 3 months had been a living hell.
The explosion was from an unknown source. Garret was found in the
destruction. After the news told that, I turned it off. I still to this
day don't know if Garret is dead or alive and I don't care. All I care
about is getting away from it all. I wasn't to blame for all of the
coincidences and deaths of some of my companions. But that still didn't
stop the dreams and the realization of what I had done. The sins of my
past will haunt me for the rest of my life. My dad was getting out of
jail in a couple of weeks when I finally got the embezzlement money
that Mr. Frosteg took out in the public. Life was looking up. Hopefully
it will keep looking up and all will go well. Time for a new start.
The End
This is a story of corruption, greed, lust, and death. Be warned that
there will be strong, offensive language and violence.
* = not real
Adolescent Innocence
As I watched the city disappear into the horizon, the shocking truth of
what I had really done haunted me. All had ended well in the game and I
was not blamed for the deaths of my so called "friends". Still the pain
and guilt hammered me. I knew that I would remember the past 3 months
for the rest of my life.....
3 months earlier....
I had mixed feelings about my families recent move back to my home town.
It had been 4 years since I lived in *Portersville and now we were
moving back. I had spent the past 4 years in *Thomastown with my mother
and brother. My dad was locked in the state penitentiary for some shit
he didn't even do, but I'll get to that later. We were nearly there,
school started for me tomorrow and I couldn't hardly wait to see some
of my old friends. I was excited to see everyone except one person. Let
me go back, about 10 years ago, I was 4 at the time, but my dad was
working for this big shot construction supervisor by the name of Daniel
Frosteg. Frosteg was a mean guy who loved using his power on the town's
residents and his staff. He owned over half of the towns houses and
apartments. My dad had worked for him for 20 long years and he was
looking to get promoted when Frosteg was looking for a vice president
for the business. Now everyone knew my dad was right for the job, even
Frosteg. But he hired some new white recruit of 3 weeks for the job and
laid off my father. My dad planned to steal some computer files that
could send Frosteg to jail for his illegal acts on his houses, like
embezzlement. But somehow Frosteg's son, Garret, warned his dad about
my father's plan. My dad was framed for the illegal acts, along with
espionage and he was sentenced 15 years in the slammer. Ain't that
fucked up? Since then, Garret has been my nemesis, and I was not too
glad to see him or Frosteg.
We neared out two-story house at about 8:00 pm. The moving van had
already unloaded and the decorators had already set up our stuff. Yeah,
yeah, I know what you're saying. How can these people have all this?
Well my mom is an independent woman, enough said. " Mom, this is great.
I only wish dad could be with us." I said. She blew a puff of air.
"Yeah you are right. But things will work out for him and us. Now let's
go relax in the house!" she said enthusiastically.
The next day I was staring at all the unfamiliar faces and a weird
looking school. This was all new to me because when I left, it was my
5th grade year. Now in the middle of my 8th, I was a bit confused until
a hand clapped on my shoulder. " Hey, who in the hell..." I started to
reply, but I was cut off by the young boy that had his hand on my
shoulder. " Who are you and why do you have your hand on my shoulder?"
I said questioningly. " You should know me man. I'll give you a hint. I
used to call myself The Great Caucasion." Then I remembered with a
flash. It was my old friend Heith Parker. " Hey man, how's it going?
You've changed a lot." I said. " It's cool man. Talk about me changing,
you have really changed. You should see yourself. You have gone from
skinny stick to buff beef man. " Maybe I have changed. Heith and I were
best friends back in the days. We had so much in common it was hard not
to be friends. We have the same age (14), we like the same things
(girls, hip-hop, cutting class), and we both get in trouble around the
school house also. The only difference we have is our race in which I'm
African-american and he's Caucasion. " Man, everyone knew you were
coming back. You were like a star at elementary school, and everyone
likes you. I can tell you right now, with your looks and everything,
you are going to get a lot of pussy thrown at you." He said. I really
didn't care much about --- though. I wanted to wait for the right time
and the right person. That meant that I was not going to tell Heith
that I was a virgin, even though I have been in some situations where I
had to back out before intercourse. Heith was about to say something
when the bell rung. " Hey, I'll see you in lunch, ok?" he shouted over
the bell. As the remaining students ran to their classes, I started to
jog to my own room.
The school day was awesome. I got about 14 digits(phone numbers) from
the finest of the fine girls at the school. I met my old companions and
had fun. All was peachy keen until after the last period. Me and Heith
were chilling against the lockers talking about stuff when all of a
sudden two other girls were interested in us. " Wow, he has grown." One
said. " Yeah, he is kinda cute also. Garret has some competition now."
The other replied. Garret! I despised him and hatred came upon me at
the sound of his name. " Who gives a fuck about that preppy ass
anyways. " said Heith. " We were not talking to you, you wannabe
Eminem. " said the tall one. They were twins, except one had longer
hair and more beauty. They were both green eyed, thick thighed, and
both had creamy skin. " You remember Tyler and Tess Andrews don't ya
Lee? " Heith said. Oh yeah I remembered them from the get go. Who could
forget a more beautiful pair of sisters who seduced you in front of
their own boyfriends? Heith told me that he got the shit beat out of
him for talking to one of the sisters and he also warned me to watch my
back. " Lee you have turned so handsome. Why don't you give me a call?
" Tyler said as she wrote the # on a slip of paper. I was astounded.
This was jungle fever and I wasn't making any of the moves! As I
reached out for the number, two vagabonds arrived. They were both guys
our age and both were built like a couple of rednecks. " Whats up boy.
" the larger one said simply. Who the hell did he think he was,
racially discriminating me in my own face. " Don't be funny cracker. "
I said acidly. I already knew who this fellow was. It was Garret and
his sidekick Jay. " Lee, I'm sorry. " he said with fake sempathy. " We
got off to a bad start. We have so many bad starts. Like your dad. I
bet he got off to a bad start when he got fucked in the ass for the
first time. " he said with a laugh. That was it. I blew up. Like a bolt
of lightning, I ran at Garret and caught him by surprise. He uttered an
" oof " as the air rushed out of his lungs. I had him on my shoulder
when I slammed him on the locker doors. He was on the ground trying to
catch his breath when I prepared to kick him until a pair of hands
grabbed me and pushed me against the locker doors. It was Jay. " Chill
out before you get laid out you fuc-", he couldn't finish his sentence
because my knee had crushed him right into his genitals. He fell to the
floor with a dull moan. Garret reared his head up," Guys, come get
these assholes! " he said. Then I saw 3 jocks running toward us.
Probably some of Garret's bitches. Before they could help Garret and
Jay up, me and Heith had dipped out of there and left the scene with
the dumb jocks and the awestruck girls.
Ring ring! The phone was ringing off the hook. It was 6:30 that
afternoon. I was feeling kinda cocky with my ordeal and so was Heith.
He said I had just done what so many guys at the school were afraid of
doing. What was to be afraid of from Garret? I was soon to find out.
Lee: Yeah? Person on Phone: Hey Lee. This is Tyler. Lee: Hey girl.
Wassup? Tyler: Oh nothing. I'm just kinda still shocked from what
happened today. Lee: Yeah. I'm sorry you had to see that. He shouldn't
have said anything about my dad. Tyler: Don't worry about Garret. He is
such a prick. Lee: I thought you went out with him. Tyler: Of course
not! Did he say that? That sexist pig. Tess goes out with him. Jay
likes me but I have a new interest now. Lee: And who's that, Heith?
Tyler: Of course not silly. It's you. Lee I really missed you when you
moved. I want to make it up and start over. Saturday there is going to
be a party at the park. I would love for you to come. Lee: Ok. Thanks,
I'll guess I will see you then. Tyler: Sure. We exchanged goodbyes and
hung up. Wow, the sexist girl in the school invited me to a party!
Little did I knew that if I wouldn't have went to that party and got
caught up in the game, I would not be a ruthless killer now...
Saturday
At 5:00pm I arrived at the park. The park is huge, spanning over 6 miles
of trails, a beautiful lake, and lots of land. I found Tyler with Tess
by some tables talking to some other kids. A loud stereo was playing
mixed tunes with the volume turned all the way up. There was about 70
people out there having fun and being wild. Tyler grabbed me by the arm
and hustled me to some tables. " It is too loud here. Let's go
somewhere we can talk in peace. " She said loudly as she started
leading me into the beginning of a trail. Oh man! This was way awesome.
She looked back at me seductively." Come on, I don't want to go alone.
" She said silkily. Portersville was getting better and better everday.
I thought to myself as I admired Tyler's curves on her body. " We're
almost there. Just a bit further as she pulled my hands around her
side. I made my mind up just then. Tyler was going to be my first. But
my thoughts were interrupted when we neared a clearing. In the clearing
there was a circle of benches with a fire burning in the middle.
Sitting in those benches was Tess, Heith, a guy named Cory, and Jay. "
Nice to see ya boy. " came a voice from behind me. When I looked, it
turned out to be my nemesis, Garret. " What the hell are you guys doing
here and why are we here Tyler? " I yelled. I was mad as hell. To be
absolute and truthwise, I was fucking horny and now I was fucking angry
to be in the same spot with Garret. " Just chill out and take a seat
Lee. " she said softly. I took one. Maybe this was some initiation or
some shit like that. " I brought you all here to play a little game. I
sent for you because I thought you would all be competive opponents."
Garret said. " What are we playing? I thought this was a party man.
I've got no time for kids games. " I said with a sneer. " Oh believe
me. This is no kids game. The game is this: We all divide up into two
teams. The team that does the most damage to the other team is the
winner. The remaining members of the winning team get the codes for my
fathers online account, worth about $500,000 dollars in untraced
money.'' I couldn't believe this. You'd have to be a fool to believe
any of this gibberish. " How can someone do that Garret? Huh?! You are
making fools of us man. We would get sent to jail for this kind of
stuff." I said skeptically. " NO, it is true. " he said harshly. "
Because this is the embezzlement money my father took and then framed
your deadbeat dad for! " He shouted. No way in hell this was true. This
was the clue that my father had been innocent! Suddenly I sprang to my
feet, preparing to fight Garret. As I got ran at him, he quickly pulled
out a black glock .9 ( a gun ) and leveled it at me. Reality hit me
like a sack of bricks. " Stay back man. I swear I will kill you. " He
said wildly with a funny look in his eyes. This was all too real. "
Look, I don't want to play your game. You guys do whatever you want.
Just leave me out of it. " I said quickly while I was backing away from
the gun with fear. " Lee, you are the sole character in this game. You
will play it. " Jay said. The gun was still leveled at me, but I had a
plan. As I was nearing the fire, I stepped backwards and kicked the
sparks into Garret's face. " Aaargh! " he screamed, grabbing his eyes.
I was running by the time he looked towards me and out of sight within
seconds.
That night, I thought of going to the police with what I heard when a
scream came from upstairs. CRASH! BOOM! I hurried upstairs to see what
was the matter. When I reached all the ruckus, I say my mother
defending herself with a broom and a dressed in all black figure
attacking her. He had a knife in one hand as he tried to slash my mom.
I saw my chance and rushed him into the mirror. His head broke the
glass and it splintered everywhere. As he got up I took a long shard of
the glass and slashed the hand with the knife in it. " Aaaaah! " he
yelled. I kicked him in the chest and slammed him into the floor.
WHUMP! Then with my mom's help, we tilted the dresser drawer and
dropped it onto his back. BLAM! The attacker layed still. " Call the
police. " I said to my mom. She rushed out of the room. I looked at the
black hood he had over his face. I decided to take it off. I was
astonished to find that the person in the hood was none other than
Cory.
The next day at school everyone was drooling their sympathies and
acknowledgements at my ordeal with the attacker. I didn't tell anyone
that it was Cory who did the attacking, but that didn't help one bit
because it was on the front page of the Portersville newspaper:
HOUSEHOLD ATTACKED BY YOUNG VIGILANTE
Wow. In the newspaper, it said that Cory had broken the glass and
appeared to attack my mom when I appeared and me and my mom kicked his
ass. I still didn't get it though. Why would Cory try to harm us? I
mean, I never really talked to him, he was just an acquaintance that I
knew from around. What was with this? Just then Heith showed up. " Hey
dude. I heard about you and Cory. " he said. " Do you know anything
about if Cory had any beef with me grudge he had to settle with me? " I
said suspiciously. " That's what I came here to tell you man. Meet at
the library after school. It's important man. " he said as he left.
Yes. Now maybe I can see why that fool attacked us. I thought. Heith
had never been this serious before. He was always joking or laid back.
What was with everyone?
After school, I went to the school library to see what was up. It was
empty and quiet. No one in their right mind would stay after school
just to go to the library. Then I saw Heith motion at me to come into
the quiet room. The quiet room is a soundproof room where you can study
or talk without anyone listening or interrupting. As I walked in, I saw
Tyler, Tess, Jay and Garret sitting down in seats. " Are you guys my
own personal fan club or something? Heith why do you keep hanging out
with these guys? " I said almost angrily. I noticed that there was one
less person : Cory. " I hope you liked my little surprise the other
night. " Garret said. " You mean Cory?! Are you trying to kill me or
something? I getting tired of your shit Garret. Anymore stunts like
that and I will kill your ass. " I said. " Cory was meant to be a
warning to you. You will play this game. " he said with a frown. " You
guys are with him aren't you? All you guys probably planned this. Nice
game, you play with peoples lives for fun. " I said sarcastically. "
Not necessarily Lee. " Tyler said. " We needed you so it would be even
sides. See, all of us have been either pressured to play or we have
already played and we are hooked. " What kind of sick person would find
this kind of game addictive? " You guys are wackos. Fuck Cory, fuck
this game, and FUCK you guys, peace. " I said as I walked toward the
door. " One thing you need to know Lee, I still have many associates
that would love to do my bidding. " Garret said. " That means, until
you join the game, I will have your loved ones hurt, harmed, or killed.
" he said with an evil smile. " You touch my family, and I will stuff
you head so far down you throat, you will have to stick a toothbrush up
you ass to brush you teeth. Who do you think you are? Huh?! Who the
fuck you think you are? " I said as I got ready for another
confrontation. " I am the lifetaker. " he said as he stuck a videotape
inside the VCR and pressed play. Suddely, my mom was on the screen
walking toward her car. Then, it showed a clip of my brother getting on
the school bus to his elementary school. It showed more and more clips
of my family. I just sat there staring at how Garret was right when he
said he could take my families lives. " Is this enough proof, or do I
need to send another bandit to ramshackle you family? " Garret said as
he turned off the T.V. I lowered my head and looked defeated. I didn't
want my family to get hurt because of me. " What do I need to know
about this game? " I said. " What was that? I didn't hear you. " he
said cheerfully. I know he fucking heard me. I thought. " What do I
need to know about this game? " I said through clenched teeth. " Right
now there are 6 of us. We will divide up into teams of 3 and then, we
will start the game. The first team that destroys the other team will
be the victor of my father's, oops, I mean Lee's father's embezzlement
money. " he said with a laugh. I said nothing, soon I would have my
revenge. I will let him have his joy now. But I will make a vow to
myself that I will kill Garret and free my father. I thought. " There
will be two captains of the teams. Me and Lee are the captains. "
Garret said as he stood up. " The team captains cannot drop out of the
game at all. The others can, but they must not have any more contact
with the captains or the other team members anymore. " Jay explained. "
Why can't the captains drop out? " I said, trying to find a necessary
escape. " The captains already have too much dirt on them. If Lee
dropped out, I could find a way to blame him for the death of his
family after I send someone to kill them and frame Lee." He said. " But
if I dropped out, then Lee could go to the authorities. " he added. I
hope he is enjoying this. I thought. " Now we will choose teams. All on
my side, come to me. " Garret said. Jay and Tess joined Garret. At
least Tyler and Heith respect me. " Now my side." I said weakly. Only
Tyler joined me. " I'm sorry Lee man. I can't do this. " he said as he
grabbed his stuff and ran from the room. " Some friend. " Garret said.
" The sides are picked. We will begin the game tomorrow. Your team
should plan out their strategy. Good bye. " Garret said as I walked
away. " Oh and good luck. " he said fakely. I didn't care about the
others. All I wanted to do was strangle Garret until he sputtered and
died in my hands.
That following night, Heith came over. " What the fuck do you want
friend. " I said meanly. " I want to fucking talk to you about that.
Come on man, I had a reason for doing that. I could help you win this
game. " he said seriously. I told him to come in and we went to my
room, closed the door and locked it. " So what do you want? " I said. "
Today at the meeting, I was fibbing. I am going to help you put Garret
and his father in jail secretly. " he said. " Wow thanks man. But to
tell you the truth, Garret hasn't really done anything except having a
gun and sending Cory, no one can trace that. Everyone thinks he is a
perfect angel. " I said. " HE IS NOT! " Heith yelled. " Garret has
played this game before. He is an expert in it. His father also helps
out. They are a bunch of fucked up killers man! 4 other kids have been
killed in this game by Garret's side! His father can cover it up and
protect him. " he said shrillily. " Garret threatened us all about this
and he has all of us on strings. I can help you do this man. " Oh man.
This was not some unorganized setup. This was a crime game. " Mr.
Frosteg works with some of the underground mafia. People are getting
rich off of us. They make bets and we die. " Heith said. " Man we got
to tell the police about this. " I said." A guy named Kris already
tried that. He was found with 30 bullet holes in his body. We got to
move secretly. Look, you pretend to hold off Garret's team for a day or
two, then I will have faxed the necessary clues that would put The
Frosteg's away for a long time, ok? " he said. " Alright. You be
careful man. " I told him. " You also. Watch your back. " he said as he
left the room. What Heith didn't notice was a figure in the trees
videotaping him. " Heith, Heith, when will you learn? " the figure said
quietly.
Heith's house, that night
As I looked over the information that would but The Frosteg's away, I
accidentally dropped a yearbook from last year. Inside of it, I had
stuffed some pictures from some of the parties and trips we had taken
in school. " Wow I remember this shit! " I said cheerfully. Then I
noticed that in the picture, Garret was holding Tyler passionately. I
quickly looked at another picture. I saw Tyler holding Garrets hand.
Almost every picture that Tyler and Garret were in, they were holding
hands or embracing. Then I came upon the picture from the party in the
park. This was the first picture that Lee was with us in. In the
picture, Tyler and Garret were separated and Tyler was next to Lee
smiling. Something was up with this. I quickly logged on to the
Internet and emailed Lee a message. Then I took the files, hid them and
left the room. My Eminem CD was playing " Kill You " . I was home
alone, so how did the stereo just come on by itself? Then I saw a
person sitting with their back facing me. " Who the hell are you? " I
said as I stepped nearer to the person. He/she was like 5 feet away. "
Why Heith, this song is so ironic. Who would think that this song would
be exactly what would go down tonight? " the person said. " What the
fuck are you talking about and who the hell are you? " I said
demandingly. " What I'm talking about is, " the person said as the
chair spun around in my direction. I choked on air as the person in the
chair turned out to be Garret. " BITCH I'M GOIN' TO KILL YOU! " he
shouted gleefully as he ran at me. I threw a chair at him and ran
towards the hall. He slowed down but kept coming. I turned around a
corner and picked up a vase. When he came around I smashed him with it.
He punched me in the side. " Ooof! " the air rushed out of me, but
still I fought. I brought up my fist and nailed him in the face. WHUMP!
He thumped the wall. I ran towards the laundry door. He ran in also but
I was ready. I dropped kicked him in the chest and he fell towards the
floor. I ran out of the room and lock him in from the outside. I also
barricaded the door with a chair. " What now bitch? Huh?! " I said in
triumph. Garret showed a small smile and nodded when he looked above my
head. As Heith turned around a figure dressed in black tackeled him to
the ground. Garret smiled as the figure slashed and stabbed Heith until
the white lineoum floor turned blood red and Heith struggled no more. "
Ha ha ha. Nice work Jay. " Garret said with a laugh. " Lee 0 Garret 1.
" Jay said, covered in blood.
The next day I tried to get in touch with Tyler but she was no where to
be found. Neither was Tess. Tyler has been somewhere. She wouldn't
return my calls and Heith was not even home last night. I thought
suspiciously. I eyed Jay. He flashed me a thumbs up sign and raced
away. The days were getting weirder and weirder. Heith was absent,
Tyler and Tess absent, but Jay flashing me a thumbs up sign like he's
my friend. I couldn't wait until I moved back to Thomastown where there
was some sense. After school I went straight home. When I was there, I
got the mail and went to my room. Maybe Heith has some excuse to why he
has disappered. He is taking a big risk for me when he is out there
playing Sherlock Holmes. I thought. As I logged on, I went to check my
email and there was two messages. One from Heith and one from some guy
named shadow. I checked Heith's first. It said:
Lee this is Heith. You are in serious danger. Tyler is a traitor. She is
on Garret's side. Tess is missing. Tyler was trying to get close to you
so she could kill you. Garret wants her to pretend that she hates him.
I should have seen it before but, she and Garret have been close all
the time before you came back. When you did, she acted like Garret was
the most disrespectiful person when she really still went out with him.
Stay away from her and I will talk to you later.
Heith
No. This can't be right. Tyler said it herself that she loved me. Heith
was wrong this time. He had to be. I sighed as I checked the next
message. I almost threw up when I saw the message. It said : YOU ARE
NEXT and it had a picture of a body that looked as if it had been
through a human blender. Was this real? It also said : LOOK IN TODAYS
PAPER. I ran downstairs as fast as I could and looked at the front page
of the paper.
YOUNG TEEN FOUND STABBED TO DEATH IN HOME
When I saw it, It almost made me cry. Heith had been killed last night
by someone who broke in the house. The person was still not to be
found. I knew it had to be Garret. I will kill him right now. I
disposed of the items that would make me suspicious of the murder. Then
I equipped myself in all black and leather gloves. After that I took
the gun my mother had bought to welcome anymore attackers. I hope
you've had fun Garret because now it's my turn. I said as I left the
house with an instinct to kill.
When I arrived at Garret's house, I snuck around to the back. His house
was immense and it was located at the edge of Portersville in the
woods. " Good. Now no one will hear him scream for his life. " I said
eagerly. I jammed the back door open with a screwdriver and walked in.
It was warm inside despite the October weather. No one was about. I
walked towards the living room area and saw a pair of stairs leading
up. Garret's dad is pretty fat in the pockets. I wonder if it is made
off of legal money. I thought doubtfully. I heard a person moan
upstairs. I walked up the stairs quietly. As I neared the top, I heared
another moan. What's Garret doing, jacking off? I thought. The moaning
was coming from the door down the hall. It was open about an inch. What
I saw made me want to shout, cry, and die right there. It was Garret
and Tyler having ---. The moaning continued and I just stood there
uncomfortably. How could she do this to me? Heith was right about her.
I thought. They continued for about 10 more minutes when Garret said, "
Hey, that was good. Now let me go use the little boys room. " he said
as he walked away. I heard a door slam kind of far away. There was
total silence except for Tyler's slow breathing while she tried to doze
in the sheets. Time for me to visit my teammate, I thought gravely. I
opened the door and went in. " Who's there? Garret is that you? " she
said slowly. " No, it's me. " I said with a grin as I flicked the
lights on. " Lee! It's you! I'm so glad. Garret tried to rape me. Come
on, now we can put him to an end! " she said quickly and quietly. Does
this bitch think I'm a total idiot? I thought. " Don't lie. I have been
watching you two for about 10 minutes! What the fuck is going on?! " I
said angrily. " Lee, let me get up and explain. " she said. I noticed
her reaching for the couch ever so sneakily. Instinct made me cautious
of that couch. Before she could react, I ran towards the couch and
grabbed the pillows. But Tyler grabbed me and tried to wrestle me away
from the couch! I quickly bitch-slapped her. BLAAAP! She uttered a cry
as she fell back on the bed, her body exposed. I threw the pillows off
of the couch and found a silver plated 9mm. I had rubber gloves on me,
so I grabbed the gun. " Is this some kind of fucking birthday present?
I WANT ANSWERS NOW! " I shrieked. " Okay! This game isn't about love or
friendship! It is about survival, deceiving, money, and killing your
opponents to get that money! " she said with vengence as she covered
herself with the sheets. " Then it was okay to kill Heith, then?! " I
said. " Jay killed Heith. Who cares about him anyway. He was such a
dipshit. " she said ignorantly. " I just tried to get to you just to
find a vulnerable way to take you down. My bitch sis tried to warn you
the other day. Don't worry about her, she was dumped in the river. In
the end the score will be Garret 3, Lee 0 because you'll be dead you
asshole! I hate you!" she said heatedly. Her anger shocked me. I had
never seen this side of Tyler before. Her words also struck me like
daggers in the heart. " NO. The score is now Garret 2, Lee 1. " I said
as I sucked my emotions back in and tried to hold back tears from what
I was about to do. Before Tyler could think or talk, I exploded. BLAM!
BLAM! BLAMBLAMBLAM! I shot her 5 times with her own gun. I dropped it
and ran. I ran like the devil. But I didn't run fast enough to get out
of Garret's loud cry as he discovered Tyler's body. " NOOOOOOOOOO! " he
echoed. But by then, I was long gone.
Jay: Tyler's dead?! But how?! Garret: I believe Lee did it. I found her
with 5 bullet holes on her upper chest and head. Jay: Man, Garret,
please, let me kill him. Come on! Garret: Ok my friend. But watch your
back. Lee isn't as dumb as I thought he was. Click! Garret hung up. Jay
was getting an adrenaline rush as he got prepared to take another life.
" I think I'll kill Lee with a knife I call, " The Heith Killer"! Jay
said as he went to his dresser drawer to get his trademark blade. But
he couldn't find it. " Where is it? I hope I didn't leave it in Heith's
body somewhere! " he said with a laugh. " Is this it? " said a dark
figure behind him. " Who the hell- "but Jay didn't finish because the
figure grabbed him by the neck and slung him into the mirror.
BRAAAAAAASSSH! Broken glass spintered everywhere. Jay punched the
figure in the side and pulled off the person's hood. " LEE! " Jay
cried. While Jay stood there, mystified, Lee took advantage and laid a
well placed punch in Jay's nose. BROCK! Jay's blood seeped from his
nose. Lee started hitting Jay with combinations now. " How do you like
this?! HUH?! " Lee said as he jacked Jay up by the collar of his shirt.
Jay evened the fight when he took a wastebasket and whacked Lee in the
head. Bump! Jay then rushed Lee towards the stairs with intentions to
throw him down the flights of stairs. But at the last minute, Lee
kicked Jay's legs right from under him and flipped Jay down the stairs.
Whump! Thumpbump-a thump! Jays body finally made impact with the
ground. Jay tried to shake the dizziness from his head, but the stairs
and the loss of blood had given him nausea. When Jay's eyes finally
cooperated, he saw Lee at the top of the stairs with his hands on Jay's
computer moniter. " This is for Heith. " Lee said as he heaved the
monitor at Jay. " NONONON- " were Jay's last words as the computer
monitor smashed into his head. BLAAAAAAASH! KRUNCH! When Lee turned
around, he saw Jay at the bottom of the stairs, his head completely
crushed and broken, and the monitor broken as well. " Lee 2, Garret 2.
Time to break the tie. " Lee sighed as he prepared to leave.
When Lee got home, there was a note waiting for him under the door step.
It said: tonight, the construction site on broad steet, 12:00 a.m. come
alone It has to be from Garret. I thought. At about 8:00, the news came
on. There were two new killings. Tyler Andrews had apparently killed
herself and Jay Barnes was found dead on arrival when lawmen found out
that he was the killer of Heith Parker because of a mysterious knife
delivered to the police station with Jay's prints on it and Heith's
blood. I clicked off the screen. I hate this. This is not what life is
supposed to be about. We should be having fun, getting drunk, going to
dances. We should be having the time of our lives, not killing each
other off. I thought sadly. I had had some long nights where I would
sit up and think about my problems and such. But tonight was the
longest night of my entire life. I had better get some sleep.
At 12:00 a.m., all was deserted in the city. The construction site
spanned about 15 stories and was in the process of getting built. It
was dark and cool out. The steel pillars and equipment stood still and
were perfect hiding places. I quickly ran into the shadows. Garret was
not going to get the best of me. " Thanks for coming. " someone said. "
Garret, we have a tie. I really don't want to kill you so come out and
let's end this fucking madness. " I said hopefully. " This is my game,
my rules, and my win. You will be the one dead tonight Lee. You don't
think I know about Jay? I saw the news. " he said accusingly. " Well
now you know how it feels to lose a friend. Maybe in the next life
you'll think twice about messing with people's friends. " I said. "
Let's get this over with. I can't wait to feel your heart in my hands.
" he said hideously. Suddenly, he swept out of the shadows straight
ahead of me about 20 feet and fired. Theww! Thing! Taack! The bullets
richocheted around me. I straffed from behind the steel pillar shot my
own bullets. Garret had already dodged them and was gone from sight. He
must be up to something. I thought as I eyed the rope leading to the
second story. I started climbing it slowly and soon I was at the top. I
sneaked towards Garret's previous spot. I couldn't see him anywhere. "
Here I am! " he shouted from the third story! He was above me. I shot
at him, and he shot at me. We both missed. But to dodge the bullets, we
both fell down to the ground. Whup! I was back on my feet in a flash.
My gun was lost but I saw Garret. Before he could shoot at me, I lunged
for him and tackled him to the ground. We rolled into a sand pile and
fought like animals. He shoved me into the sand. I grabbed a handful
and threw it into his eyes. As he struggled to see, I kicked him right
in the balls. " A[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]! " he shouted as his strengh left him. He was
about 2 feet away from his gun and he knew it. I ran and jumped over
the sand. Whoof! Whiff! The bullets lanced through the sand. I ran
towards the empty 6 story offices next to the site. I ran inside and
ran all the way up to the top. As I opened the top office, I saw an
intercom and a chair and also a voice recorder.
Garret was up and ready for another bout with Lee. He struggled to see
any shape or person through the darkness and remaining sand in his
eyes. Then suddenly there was a voice. " Garret it's Lee. Come on to
the 6th office for a final face off. " Lee said over the intercom. He
must be the dumbest muthafucka that has ever played this game. Garret
thought as he clenched his gun and ran towards the offices. " I'm right
here you little shit! What? Are you scared? " Lee taunted over the
intercom. Garret raced up the 2nd flight of stairs. " Come out come out
wherever you are. " Lee teased. Garret now neared the 4th flight of
stairs. Almost there. He thought greedily. " You forget Garret, I going
to beat you at your own game. " Lee said again. Garret was now at the
6th and last section. He neared the room where Lee's voice was coming
from. " You are one- " But Lee got cut off as Garret shot through the
door into the tiny room. BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM! Garret emptied the gun
into the bowels of the room. There was silence. " Game, set, match. "
Garret said in triumph. When he opened the door he expected to find a
young, black teen dead on the floor. But all he found was a broken
intercom and a shattered voice recorder over the intercom. It came to
Garret quickly. It was a trick! Lee used the voice recorder to record
all of the taunts and teasing on the recorder then he played it on the
intercom! Just then there was a loud VROOOM! Garret looked out of the
window to see a wrecking ball machine maneuver towards the office.
Driving it was Lee! Then in quick succession, he reared the ball back,
preparing to swing it in Garret's direction! Garret tried to run, but
was too late. The ball smashed into the window and in less than a
second, it had knocked Garret through two walls back outside. Garret
flew through the air and grabbed the wire attached to the wrecking
ball. He hung on for dear life, if he fell, he would fall 20 feet
towards a hard landing on the concrete. Lee moved the ball over the
fusion generators. The fusion generators were tubes of explosive matter
that was used to blow up boulders and clear paths. The ball stopped
directly over the generators. Then it shifted! Rump! Garret looked at
Lee with surprise. Lee only shook his head with reluctantcy. Then he
pressed a button and the ball was released from it's cables!
"Ahhhhhhhhhh! " Garret screamed as him and the ball tumbled towards the
generator field. CLAAASH! KRUNCH! Garret collapsed as one of his legs
was slammed and then trapped under the 5,000 lbs. Wrecking ball.
HISSSSSSSSSSSS! Then he noticed a hissing sound coming from one of the
generators. The wrecking ball had ruptured one of the generators! "
That means...." Garret said fearfully.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! A firery explosion lit up the sky as if it were day
time. I covered my face and eyes as the deadly heat swept over me. A
huge fireball loomed high above my head. Now it's time to make my
disappering act. I thought as I rushed from the scene.
As I snuck home, I noticed a horde of police and firefighters speeding
towards the explosion. " Lee 3, Garret 2. Rest in pieces. " I said
particularly to no one. It's over. The killing, the death is finally
over. I thought with mixed emotions as I arrived home.
2 weeks later..
As the building blocks and the city streets diminished in the horizon,
all the fear completely left me. Well almost. We were moving back to
Thomastown and I was glad. The past 3 months had been a living hell.
The explosion was from an unknown source. Garret was found in the
destruction. After the news told that, I turned it off. I still to this
day don't know if Garret is dead or alive and I don't care. All I care
about is getting away from it all. I wasn't to blame for all of the
coincidences and deaths of some of my companions. But that still didn't
stop the dreams and the realization of what I had done. The sins of my
past will haunt me for the rest of my life. My dad was getting out of
jail in a couple of weeks when I finally got the embezzlement money
that Mr. Frosteg took out in the public. Life was looking up. Hopefully
it will keep looking up and all will go well. Time for a new start.
The End
safety
15-04-2006, 12:21
Tom was a lieutenant, assistant to the captain of the frigate "Impudence." He had trouble with the hierarchical nature of command, and his natural impatience sometimes caused him to question the captain's orders.
One day, as the Impudence cruised through the frigid waters surrounding Norway, Tom went too far. Hecontradicted his superior in front of the entire crew.
The captain did not get angry. Instead he slowly approached the lieutenant, took him by the shoulder and walked him aside. By that time Tom already regretted his insolent behaviour.
"Look at all these fjords, Tom," the captain said. "See how many there are, and how impetuously they flow."
Tom didn't know what the captain was trying to say, but he obeyed.
"Now look the other way and see how vast the ocean is, as if it were drinking up all the light of the sun. See how its movements seem to swallow everything. Do you think the fjords are greater in majesty than the ocean?"
"No Sir, I don't."
"Really? But there are so many fjords. And they flow so much faster than the gentle swell of the sea."
"But still, Sir, the ocean is stronger and more majestic than a fjord."
"That's exactly what I wanted to hear you say, Tom," said the captain. "If rivers and seas are greater than streams and brooks, it is because they are always lower. If you want to become a captain one day, you first have to learn to obey, to listen to what I say and to learn from me. One day you may surpass me, but that day has not yet come."
..........................................
This story contains a profound truth:
If you want to learn, you have to know how to hold back, observe and forget yourself. Every living creature grows by assimilating what comes from outside itself.
"The sage who wants to lead his people acts as a servant to his people."
Lao Tzu
You can see this story in Farsi in this topic:
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
One day, as the Impudence cruised through the frigid waters surrounding Norway, Tom went too far. Hecontradicted his superior in front of the entire crew.
The captain did not get angry. Instead he slowly approached the lieutenant, took him by the shoulder and walked him aside. By that time Tom already regretted his insolent behaviour.
"Look at all these fjords, Tom," the captain said. "See how many there are, and how impetuously they flow."
Tom didn't know what the captain was trying to say, but he obeyed.
"Now look the other way and see how vast the ocean is, as if it were drinking up all the light of the sun. See how its movements seem to swallow everything. Do you think the fjords are greater in majesty than the ocean?"
"No Sir, I don't."
"Really? But there are so many fjords. And they flow so much faster than the gentle swell of the sea."
"But still, Sir, the ocean is stronger and more majestic than a fjord."
"That's exactly what I wanted to hear you say, Tom," said the captain. "If rivers and seas are greater than streams and brooks, it is because they are always lower. If you want to become a captain one day, you first have to learn to obey, to listen to what I say and to learn from me. One day you may surpass me, but that day has not yet come."
..........................................
This story contains a profound truth:
If you want to learn, you have to know how to hold back, observe and forget yourself. Every living creature grows by assimilating what comes from outside itself.
"The sage who wants to lead his people acts as a servant to his people."
Lao Tzu
You can see this story in Farsi in this topic:
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
mozhgan
16-04-2006, 00:12
one night a man had a dream.he dreamed he was walking along the beach with the LORD .across the sky flashed scenes from his life.for each scene,he noticed two sets of footprints in the sand one belonging to him and the other to the LORD.
when the last scene of his scene of his life flashed before him he looked back at the footprints in the sand.he noticed that times along the path of his life there was only one set of footprints .he also noticed that it happened at the very lowest and saddest ,times in his life.
this really bothered him and hequestion ed the LORD about it."LORD , you said that once i decided to follow you , you would walk with me all the way. but I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life there is only one set of footprints.I dont understand why when I needed you most you would leave me.
the LORD replied ,"my precious,precious child.I love you and I would never leave you.during your times of trial and suffering,when you see only set of footprints it was then that I carried you."
when the last scene of his scene of his life flashed before him he looked back at the footprints in the sand.he noticed that times along the path of his life there was only one set of footprints .he also noticed that it happened at the very lowest and saddest ,times in his life.
this really bothered him and hequestion ed the LORD about it."LORD , you said that once i decided to follow you , you would walk with me all the way. but I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life there is only one set of footprints.I dont understand why when I needed you most you would leave me.
the LORD replied ,"my precious,precious child.I love you and I would never leave you.during your times of trial and suffering,when you see only set of footprints it was then that I carried you."
safety
17-04-2006, 08:15
My friend Hans Zimmer had a serious motorcycle accident and lost the use of his left hand.
"Fortunately I'm right handed," he told me as he adroitly served me a cup of tea. "It's amazing what I can do with just one hand."
Despite the loss of his fingers, he learned to fly an airplane in less than a year. But one day, while flying over a mountainous region, his plane had engine problems and crashed. He survived, but was paralyzed from head to foot.
I visited him in the hospital. He smiled at me. "Nothing that happens is really of any importance," he said.
"What matters is what I decide to do now!"
I was dumbfounded. I thought my friend was just pretending, and that as soon as I left he would start crying and regretting his situation. That might have been what he did on that day, but he wasn't finished yet. Life still had some fine surprises in store for him.
He met the woman of his life during a conference for handicapped people. He invented a system of digital writing that responded to voice commands. And he sold millions of copies of a book that he wrote about developing the newsystem.
On the back cover he wrote this short note: "Before becoming paralyzed, I could do a million different things. Now I can only do 990,000. But what sensible person would worry about the10,000 things he can no longer do, while there are 990,000 things left?"
This story is translated in this topic:
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
"Fortunately I'm right handed," he told me as he adroitly served me a cup of tea. "It's amazing what I can do with just one hand."
Despite the loss of his fingers, he learned to fly an airplane in less than a year. But one day, while flying over a mountainous region, his plane had engine problems and crashed. He survived, but was paralyzed from head to foot.
I visited him in the hospital. He smiled at me. "Nothing that happens is really of any importance," he said.
"What matters is what I decide to do now!"
I was dumbfounded. I thought my friend was just pretending, and that as soon as I left he would start crying and regretting his situation. That might have been what he did on that day, but he wasn't finished yet. Life still had some fine surprises in store for him.
He met the woman of his life during a conference for handicapped people. He invented a system of digital writing that responded to voice commands. And he sold millions of copies of a book that he wrote about developing the newsystem.
On the back cover he wrote this short note: "Before becoming paralyzed, I could do a million different things. Now I can only do 990,000. But what sensible person would worry about the10,000 things he can no longer do, while there are 990,000 things left?"
This story is translated in this topic:
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
mozhgan
21-04-2006, 11:05
In England nobody under the age of eighteen is allowed to drink in a public bar.
M r Thomson used to go a bar near his house quite often ,but the never took his son,Tom ,because he was too young.then when Tom had his eighteen birthday,Mr Thomson took him to his usual bar for the first time.they drank for half an hour ,and then Mr Thomson said to his son ,Now tom ,I want to teach you a useful lesson .
you must always be careful not to drink too much .and how do you know when you ve had enough ?well, I will tell you .do you see those two lights at the end of the bar? when they seem to have become four you ve had enough and should go home .
but ,dad,said Tom , I can only see one light at the end of the bar.
M r Thomson used to go a bar near his house quite often ,but the never took his son,Tom ,because he was too young.then when Tom had his eighteen birthday,Mr Thomson took him to his usual bar for the first time.they drank for half an hour ,and then Mr Thomson said to his son ,Now tom ,I want to teach you a useful lesson .
you must always be careful not to drink too much .and how do you know when you ve had enough ?well, I will tell you .do you see those two lights at the end of the bar? when they seem to have become four you ve had enough and should go home .
but ,dad,said Tom , I can only see one light at the end of the bar.
Alipacino
23-04-2006, 07:50
In one seat of a bus a wispy old man sat holding a bunch of fresh flowers. Across the aisle was a young girl whose eyes came back again and again to the man's flowers. The time came for the old man to get off. Impulsively he thrust the flowers into the girl's lap. "I can see you love the flowers," he explained, "and I think my wife would like for you to have them. I'll tell her I gave them to you." The girl accepted the flowers, then watched the old man get of the bus and walk through the gate of a small cemetery.
mozhgan
25-04-2006, 22:11
joe and Helen Mills had two small children.one of them was six and the other was four.they always resisted going to bed and helen was always complaining to joe about this but as he did not come home from work untill after they had gone to bed during the week he was unable to help except at week -ends.
joe considered himself a good singer but really his voice was not at all musical .however .he decided that if he sang to the children when they went to bed,it would help them to relax ,and gradually they would go to sleep.
he did this every saturday and sunday night untill he heard his small son whisper to his younger sister ,if you re asleep ,he stop !
joe considered himself a good singer but really his voice was not at all musical .however .he decided that if he sang to the children when they went to bed,it would help them to relax ,and gradually they would go to sleep.
he did this every saturday and sunday night untill he heard his small son whisper to his younger sister ,if you re asleep ,he stop !
mahramasrar2
25-05-2006, 14:01
i just can thank you but wish you put some short stories in a file for download
you now becuse of our slow dialup connection we can not read your stories online
so put some links for downloading short stories or put your stories on a pdf file and upload it and put its link for downloading anybody
thank you
you now becuse of our slow dialup connection we can not read your stories online
so put some links for downloading short stories or put your stories on a pdf file and upload it and put its link for downloading anybody
thank you
Van Gogh
22-07-2006, 09:11
This is a true story that happened in Japan.In order to renovate the house, someone in Japan tore open the wall. Japanese houses normally have a hollow space between the wooden walls. When tearing down the walls, he found that there was a lizard stuck there because a nail from outside was hammered into one of its feet. He saw this, felt pity, and at the same time he was curious. When he checked the nail, turns out, it was nailed 10 years ago when the house was first built.What happened? The lizard had survived in such a position for 10 years! In a dark wall partition for 10 years without moving, it is impossible and mind boggling. Then he wondered how this lizard survived for 10 years without moving a single step--since its foot was nailed! So he stopped his work and observed the lizard, what it had been doing, and what and how it had been eating. Later, not knowing from where it came, appeared another lizard, with food in its mouth.Ahh! He was stunned and at the same time, touched deeply. Another lizard had been feeding the stuck one for the past 10 years...
Such love, such a beautiful love! Such love happened with this tiny creature...What can love do? It can do wonders! Love can perform miracles! Just think about it; one lizard had been feeding the other one untiringly for 10 long years, without giving up hope on its partner.If a small creature like a lizard can love like this... just imagine how we can love if we try!
Such love, such a beautiful love! Such love happened with this tiny creature...What can love do? It can do wonders! Love can perform miracles! Just think about it; one lizard had been feeding the other one untiringly for 10 long years, without giving up hope on its partner.If a small creature like a lizard can love like this... just imagine how we can love if we try!
Van Gogh
22-07-2006, 09:13
The newlywed spider nervously walked back to the honeymoon web. Last night was fun, but this morning he noticed the red dot on her abdomen. That afternoon, he said nothing while they drank medfly cocktails. She put an arm around him. "You're awful quiet. What's eating you?" The last thing he saw was flashing mandibles. :biggrin:
Van Gogh
22-07-2006, 09:19
She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live.I drove immediately to this beach,when I felt all alone.She was building a sand castle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea. “Hello,” she said. I nodded.I was not really in the mood to talk with a small child. ”What are you doing?” I asked.“I’m building,” she said.“I see that .What is it?” I asked. “Oh,I don’t know.I just like the feel of the sand.” A sandpiper glided by.
“That’s a joy,” the child said happily. “It’s what?” “It’s a joy.My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy.” The bird flew away. “Goodbye, joy,” I said to myself.I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
“What’s your name?” She asked suddenly. “Ruth,” I answered. “I’m Ruth Peterson.” “Mine’s Windy.And I’m six.Come again,Mrs. P,” she said. “We’ll have another happy day.”
Days and weeks passed by.“I need a sandpiper,” I said to myself one morning. putting on my coat,I went to the beach.It shocked me when she appeared.
“Where do you live?” I asked. “There.” She pointed towards some summer cottages. We talked for a long time. “It was a happy day” Windy said.I smiled at her kindly and agreed.
Three weeks later, I was on my beach. I saw Windy again. “I’d like to be alone” I shouted angrilly.She seemed pale and out of breath. “Why?” she asked.
“Because my mother died!” “Oh,” she said quietly, “so this is a bad day.” “Yes, and yesterday and the day before that and-oh,go away!” “Did it hurt?”-“When she died?” “Of course it did!” I shouted and left there.
A month after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn’t there.I felt guilty and ashamed.I went to the cottage and knocked at the door.A young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Ruth Peterson.I missed your little girl today.” “Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in.Wendy talked of you so much.” “Where is she?” I said impatiently. “Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson.She had leukemia.Maybe she didn’t tell you.” My breath caught.I found a chair and sat down.
“She loved this beach so much;so when she asked to come,we couldn’t say no.She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days.but the last few weeks she became weaker and weaker.She left something for you.”
She gave me an envelope with Mrs.P printed in childish letters.Inside the envelope was a drawing in bright colors – a yellow beach, a blue sea, a brown bird.There was a sentence under the picture:
A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy
Tears came out of my eyes.I took Wendy’s mother in my arms.The precious little picture still hangs in my study. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of sand who taught me the gift of love!!!
“That’s a joy,” the child said happily. “It’s what?” “It’s a joy.My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy.” The bird flew away. “Goodbye, joy,” I said to myself.I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
“What’s your name?” She asked suddenly. “Ruth,” I answered. “I’m Ruth Peterson.” “Mine’s Windy.And I’m six.Come again,Mrs. P,” she said. “We’ll have another happy day.”
Days and weeks passed by.“I need a sandpiper,” I said to myself one morning. putting on my coat,I went to the beach.It shocked me when she appeared.
“Where do you live?” I asked. “There.” She pointed towards some summer cottages. We talked for a long time. “It was a happy day” Windy said.I smiled at her kindly and agreed.
Three weeks later, I was on my beach. I saw Windy again. “I’d like to be alone” I shouted angrilly.She seemed pale and out of breath. “Why?” she asked.
“Because my mother died!” “Oh,” she said quietly, “so this is a bad day.” “Yes, and yesterday and the day before that and-oh,go away!” “Did it hurt?”-“When she died?” “Of course it did!” I shouted and left there.
A month after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn’t there.I felt guilty and ashamed.I went to the cottage and knocked at the door.A young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Ruth Peterson.I missed your little girl today.” “Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in.Wendy talked of you so much.” “Where is she?” I said impatiently. “Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson.She had leukemia.Maybe she didn’t tell you.” My breath caught.I found a chair and sat down.
“She loved this beach so much;so when she asked to come,we couldn’t say no.She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days.but the last few weeks she became weaker and weaker.She left something for you.”
She gave me an envelope with Mrs.P printed in childish letters.Inside the envelope was a drawing in bright colors – a yellow beach, a blue sea, a brown bird.There was a sentence under the picture:
A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy
Tears came out of my eyes.I took Wendy’s mother in my arms.The precious little picture still hangs in my study. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of sand who taught me the gift of love!!!
shoeib
27-07-2006, 04:56
i just can thank you but wish you put some short stories in a file for download
you now becuse of our slow dialup connection we can not read your stories online
so put some links for downloading short stories or put your stories on a pdf file and upload it and put its link for downloading anybody
thank you
hi
the solution of your problem is easier than what you think
just clicking on the save botton and give a direction to save it in one of your hard drives !
it doesn't need to make a whole pack for download but it can be done for enhancing the performance of the topic
you now becuse of our slow dialup connection we can not read your stories online
so put some links for downloading short stories or put your stories on a pdf file and upload it and put its link for downloading anybody
thank you
hi
the solution of your problem is easier than what you think
just clicking on the save botton and give a direction to save it in one of your hard drives !
it doesn't need to make a whole pack for download but it can be done for enhancing the performance of the topic
Mitamo
27-07-2006, 15:14
A small truth Story
*
Once upon a time ...
There was a rich King who had 4 wives.*
*
He loved the 4th wife the most and adorned her with
rich robes and
treated
her to the finest of delicacies. He gave her nothing
but the best. *
*
He also loved the 3rd wife very much and was always
showing her off to
neighboring kingdoms. However, he feared that one day
she would leave
him
for another. *
*
He also loved his 2nd wife. She was his confidante and
was always kind,
considerate and patient with him. Whenever the King
faced a problem, he
could confide in her to help him get through the
difficult times.
The King's 1st wife was a very loyal partner and had
made great
contributions in maintaining his wealth and kingdom.
However, he did
not
love the first wife and although she loved him deeply,
he hardly took
notice
of her. *
*
One day, the King fell ill and he knew his time was
short. *
*
He thought of his luxurious life and pondered, "I now
have 4 wives with
me,
but when I die, I'll be all alone.
Thus, he asked the 4th wife, "I have loved you the
most, endowed you
with
the finest clothing and showered great care over you.
Now that I'm
dying,
will you follow me and keep me company?"
"No way!" replied the 4th wife and she walked away
without another
word. *
*
Her answer cut like a sharp knife right into his heart.
*
*
The sad King then asked the 3rd wife, "I have loved
you all my life.
Now
that I'm dying, will you follow me and keep me
company?"
"No!" replied the 3rd wife. "Life is too good!
When you die, I'm going to remarry!" *
*
His heart sank and turned cold.*
*
He then asked the 2nd wife, "I have always turned to
you for help and
you've
always been there for me. When I die, will you follow
me? And keep me
company?" *
*
"I'm sorry, I can't help you out this time!" replied
the 2nd wife. "At
the
very most, I can only send you to your grave." *
*
Her answer came like a bolt of thunder and the King
was devastated. *
*
Then a voice called out:* *
"I'll leave with you and follow you no matter where
you go." The King
looked
up and there was his first wife. She was so skinny,
she suffered from
malnutrition. **
Greatly grieved, the King said, "I should have taken
much better care
of you
when I had the chance!" *
In Truth, we all have 4 wives in our lives ... *
Our 4th wife is our body. No matter how much time and
effort we lavish
in
making it look good, it'll leave us when we die. *
*
Our 3rd wife is our possessions, status and wealth.
When we die, it will all go to others.*
*
Our 2nd wife is our* *friends. No matter how much they
have been there
for
us, the furthest they can stay by us is up to the
grave.* *
And our 1st wife is our Parents *,
*
Often neglected in pursuit of wealth, power and
pleasures of the ego.*
***However,
our Parents are* *the only thing that will follow us
and guide*
*wherever we
go.*
*
So Love them at our best*..... *They need and Love you
most!!!* *
You* *are* *their greatest gift *
*
Let them* *Smile and cherish...*
*
Once upon a time ...
There was a rich King who had 4 wives.*
*
He loved the 4th wife the most and adorned her with
rich robes and
treated
her to the finest of delicacies. He gave her nothing
but the best. *
*
He also loved the 3rd wife very much and was always
showing her off to
neighboring kingdoms. However, he feared that one day
she would leave
him
for another. *
*
He also loved his 2nd wife. She was his confidante and
was always kind,
considerate and patient with him. Whenever the King
faced a problem, he
could confide in her to help him get through the
difficult times.
The King's 1st wife was a very loyal partner and had
made great
contributions in maintaining his wealth and kingdom.
However, he did
not
love the first wife and although she loved him deeply,
he hardly took
notice
of her. *
*
One day, the King fell ill and he knew his time was
short. *
*
He thought of his luxurious life and pondered, "I now
have 4 wives with
me,
but when I die, I'll be all alone.
Thus, he asked the 4th wife, "I have loved you the
most, endowed you
with
the finest clothing and showered great care over you.
Now that I'm
dying,
will you follow me and keep me company?"
"No way!" replied the 4th wife and she walked away
without another
word. *
*
Her answer cut like a sharp knife right into his heart.
*
*
The sad King then asked the 3rd wife, "I have loved
you all my life.
Now
that I'm dying, will you follow me and keep me
company?"
"No!" replied the 3rd wife. "Life is too good!
When you die, I'm going to remarry!" *
*
His heart sank and turned cold.*
*
He then asked the 2nd wife, "I have always turned to
you for help and
you've
always been there for me. When I die, will you follow
me? And keep me
company?" *
*
"I'm sorry, I can't help you out this time!" replied
the 2nd wife. "At
the
very most, I can only send you to your grave." *
*
Her answer came like a bolt of thunder and the King
was devastated. *
*
Then a voice called out:* *
"I'll leave with you and follow you no matter where
you go." The King
looked
up and there was his first wife. She was so skinny,
she suffered from
malnutrition. **
Greatly grieved, the King said, "I should have taken
much better care
of you
when I had the chance!" *
In Truth, we all have 4 wives in our lives ... *
Our 4th wife is our body. No matter how much time and
effort we lavish
in
making it look good, it'll leave us when we die. *
*
Our 3rd wife is our possessions, status and wealth.
When we die, it will all go to others.*
*
Our 2nd wife is our* *friends. No matter how much they
have been there
for
us, the furthest they can stay by us is up to the
grave.* *
And our 1st wife is our Parents *,
*
Often neglected in pursuit of wealth, power and
pleasures of the ego.*
***However,
our Parents are* *the only thing that will follow us
and guide*
*wherever we
go.*
*
So Love them at our best*..... *They need and Love you
most!!!* *
You* *are* *their greatest gift *
*
Let them* *Smile and cherish...*
r_azary
28-07-2006, 22:14
The House of 1000 Mirrors
Our life is actually a reflection of our thoughts and actions.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Long ago in a small, far away village, there was place known as the House of 1000 Mirrors.
A small, happy little dog learned of this place and decided to visit. When he arrived, he bounced happily up the stairs to the doorway of the house.
He looked through the doorway with his ears lifted high and his tail wagging as fast as it could.
To his great surprise, he found himself staring at 1000 other happy little dogs with their tails wagging just as fast as his.
He smiled a great smile, and was answered with 1000 great smiles just as warm and friendly.
As he left the House, he thought to himself, "This is a wonderful place. I will come back and visit it often."
In this same village, another little dog, who was not quite as happy as the first one, decided to visit the house.
He slowly climbed the stairs and hung his head low as he looked into the door. When he saw the 1000 unfriendly looking dogs staring back at him, he growled at them and was horrified to see 1000 little dogs growling back at him.
As he left, he thought to himself, "That is a horrible place, and I will never go back there again."
ALL THE FACES IN THE WORLD ARE MIRRORS.
JUST OBSERVE WHAT KIND OF REFLECTIONS DO YOU SEE IN THE FACES OF THE PEOPLE YOU MEET?
Our life is actually a reflection of our thoughts and actions.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Long ago in a small, far away village, there was place known as the House of 1000 Mirrors.
A small, happy little dog learned of this place and decided to visit. When he arrived, he bounced happily up the stairs to the doorway of the house.
He looked through the doorway with his ears lifted high and his tail wagging as fast as it could.
To his great surprise, he found himself staring at 1000 other happy little dogs with their tails wagging just as fast as his.
He smiled a great smile, and was answered with 1000 great smiles just as warm and friendly.
As he left the House, he thought to himself, "This is a wonderful place. I will come back and visit it often."
In this same village, another little dog, who was not quite as happy as the first one, decided to visit the house.
He slowly climbed the stairs and hung his head low as he looked into the door. When he saw the 1000 unfriendly looking dogs staring back at him, he growled at them and was horrified to see 1000 little dogs growling back at him.
As he left, he thought to himself, "That is a horrible place, and I will never go back there again."
ALL THE FACES IN THE WORLD ARE MIRRORS.
JUST OBSERVE WHAT KIND OF REFLECTIONS DO YOU SEE IN THE FACES OF THE PEOPLE YOU MEET?
r_azary
29-07-2006, 02:06
Bad Luck, Good Luck, Who knows?
by: Jean Jacques Rousseau
A farmer had a horse but one day, the horse ran away and so the farmer
and
his son had to plow their fields themselves. Their neighbors said, "Oh,
what
bad luck that your horse ran away!" But the farmer replied, "Bad luck,
good
luck, who knows?"
The next week, the horse returned to the farm, bringing a herd of wild
horses with him. "What wonderful luck!" cried the neighbors, but the
farmer
responded, "Good luck, bad luck, who knows?"
Then, the farmer's son was thrown as he tried to ride one of the wild
horses, and he broke his leg. "Ah, such bad luck," sympathized the
neighbors. Once again, the farmer responded, "Bad luck, good luck, who
knows?"
A short time later, the ruler of the country recruited all young men to
join
his army for battle. The son, with his broken leg, was left at home.
"What
good luck that your son was not forced into battle!" celebrated the
neighbors. And the farmer remarked, "Good luck, bad luck, who knows?"
"Observe! Do not judge, and you will never be mistaken."
by: Jean Jacques Rousseau
A farmer had a horse but one day, the horse ran away and so the farmer
and
his son had to plow their fields themselves. Their neighbors said, "Oh,
what
bad luck that your horse ran away!" But the farmer replied, "Bad luck,
good
luck, who knows?"
The next week, the horse returned to the farm, bringing a herd of wild
horses with him. "What wonderful luck!" cried the neighbors, but the
farmer
responded, "Good luck, bad luck, who knows?"
Then, the farmer's son was thrown as he tried to ride one of the wild
horses, and he broke his leg. "Ah, such bad luck," sympathized the
neighbors. Once again, the farmer responded, "Bad luck, good luck, who
knows?"
A short time later, the ruler of the country recruited all young men to
join
his army for battle. The son, with his broken leg, was left at home.
"What
good luck that your son was not forced into battle!" celebrated the
neighbors. And the farmer remarked, "Good luck, bad luck, who knows?"
"Observe! Do not judge, and you will never be mistaken."
r_azary
03-08-2006, 03:38
A RESUMED IDENTITY[LEFT]
by Ambrose Bierce
1: The Review as a Form of Welcome
ONE summer night a man stood on a low hill overlooking a wide expanse of forest and field.
By the full moon hanging low in the west he knew what he might not have known otherwise: that it was near the hour of dawn.
A light mist lay along the earth, partly veiling the lower features of the landscape, but above it the taller trees showed in well- defined masses against a clear sky.
Two or three farmhouses were visible through the haze, but in none of them, naturally, was a light.
Nowhere, in- deed, was any sign or suggestion of life except the barking
of a distant dog, which, repeated with mechanical iteration, served
rather to accentuate than dispel the loneliness of the scene.
The man looked curiously about him on all sides, as one who among
familiar surroundings is unable to determine his exact place and part in
the scheme of things. It is so, perhaps, that we shall act when, risen
from the dead, we await the call to judgment.
A hundred yards away was a straight road, show- ing white in the
moonlight. Endeavouring to orient himself, as a surveyor or navigator
might say, the man moved his eyes slowly along its visible length and at
a distance of a quarter-mile to the south of his station saw, dim and
grey in the haze, a group of horsemen riding to the north. Behind them
were men afoot, marching in column, with dimly gleaming rifles aslant
above their shoulders. They moved slowly and in silence. Another group
of horsemen, another regiment of infantry, another and another --all in
unceasing motion toward the man's point of view, past it, and beyond. A
battery of artillery followed, the cannoneers riding with folded arms on
limber and caisson. And still the interminable procession came out of
the obscurity to south and passed into the obscurity to north, with
never a sound of voice, nor hoof, nor wheel.
The man could not rightly understand: he thought himself deaf; said
so, and heard his own voice, al- though it had an unfamiliar quality
that almost alarmed him; it disappointed his ear's expectancy in the
matter of timbre and resonance. But he was not deaf, and that for the
moment sufficed.
Then he remembered that there are natural phe- nomena to which some
one has given the name 'acoustic shadows.' If you stand in an acoustic
shadow there is one direction from which you will hear nothing. At the
battle of Gaines's Mill, one of the fiercest conflicts of the Civil War,
with a hundred guns in play, spectators a mile and a half away on the
opposite side of the Chickahominy Valley heard nothing of what they
clearly saw. The bombardment of Port Royal, heard and felt at St.
Augustine, a hundred and fifty miles to the south, was inaudible two
miles to the north in a still atmosphere. A few days before the
surrender at Ap- pomattox a thunderous engagement between the commands
of Sheridan and Pickett was unknown to the latter commander, a mile in
the rear of his own line.
These instances were not known to the man of whom we write, but less
striking ones of the same character had not escaped his observation. He
was profoundly disquieted, but for another reason than the uncanny
silence of that moonlight march.
'Good Lord! ' he said to himself--and again it was as if another had
spoken his thought--'if those people are what I take them to be we have
lost the battle and they are moving on Nashville!'
Then came a thought of self--an apprehension --a strong sense of
personal peril, such as in an- other we call fear. He stepped quickly
into the shadow of a tree. And still the silent battalions moved slowly
forward in the haze.
The chill of a sudden breeze upon the back of his neck drew his
attention to the quarter whence it came, and turning to the east he saw
a faint grey light along the horizon--the first sign of return- ing day.
This increased his apprehension.
'I must get away from here,' he thought, 'or I shall be discovered
and taken.'
He moved out of the shadow, walking rapidly toward the greying east.
From the safer seclusion of a clump of cedars he looked back. The entire
column had passed out of sight: the straight white road lay bare and
desolate in the moonlight!
Puzzled before, he was now inexpressibly astonished. So swift a
passing of so slow an army!--he could not comprehend it. Minute after
minute passed unnoted; he had lost his sense of time. He sought with a
terrible earnestness a solution of the mystery, but sought in vain. When
at last he roused himself from his abstraction the sun's rim was visi-
ble above the hills, but in the new conditions he found no other light
than that of day; his understanding was involved as darkly in doubt as
before.
On every side lay cultivated fields showing no sign of war and war's
ravages. From the chimneys of the farmhouses thin ascensions of blue
smoke signalled preparations for a day's peaceful toil. Having stilled
its immemorial allocution to the moon, the watch-dog was assisting a
negro who, prefixing a team of mules to the plough, was flatting and
sharping contentedly at his task. The hero of this tale stared
stupidly at the pastoral picture as if he had never seen such a thing in
all his life; then he put his hand to his head, passed it through his
hair and, withdrawing it, attentively considered the palm--a singular
thing to do. Apparently reassured by the act, he walked confidently
toward the road.
by Ambrose Bierce
1: The Review as a Form of Welcome
ONE summer night a man stood on a low hill overlooking a wide expanse of forest and field.
By the full moon hanging low in the west he knew what he might not have known otherwise: that it was near the hour of dawn.
A light mist lay along the earth, partly veiling the lower features of the landscape, but above it the taller trees showed in well- defined masses against a clear sky.
Two or three farmhouses were visible through the haze, but in none of them, naturally, was a light.
Nowhere, in- deed, was any sign or suggestion of life except the barking
of a distant dog, which, repeated with mechanical iteration, served
rather to accentuate than dispel the loneliness of the scene.
The man looked curiously about him on all sides, as one who among
familiar surroundings is unable to determine his exact place and part in
the scheme of things. It is so, perhaps, that we shall act when, risen
from the dead, we await the call to judgment.
A hundred yards away was a straight road, show- ing white in the
moonlight. Endeavouring to orient himself, as a surveyor or navigator
might say, the man moved his eyes slowly along its visible length and at
a distance of a quarter-mile to the south of his station saw, dim and
grey in the haze, a group of horsemen riding to the north. Behind them
were men afoot, marching in column, with dimly gleaming rifles aslant
above their shoulders. They moved slowly and in silence. Another group
of horsemen, another regiment of infantry, another and another --all in
unceasing motion toward the man's point of view, past it, and beyond. A
battery of artillery followed, the cannoneers riding with folded arms on
limber and caisson. And still the interminable procession came out of
the obscurity to south and passed into the obscurity to north, with
never a sound of voice, nor hoof, nor wheel.
The man could not rightly understand: he thought himself deaf; said
so, and heard his own voice, al- though it had an unfamiliar quality
that almost alarmed him; it disappointed his ear's expectancy in the
matter of timbre and resonance. But he was not deaf, and that for the
moment sufficed.
Then he remembered that there are natural phe- nomena to which some
one has given the name 'acoustic shadows.' If you stand in an acoustic
shadow there is one direction from which you will hear nothing. At the
battle of Gaines's Mill, one of the fiercest conflicts of the Civil War,
with a hundred guns in play, spectators a mile and a half away on the
opposite side of the Chickahominy Valley heard nothing of what they
clearly saw. The bombardment of Port Royal, heard and felt at St.
Augustine, a hundred and fifty miles to the south, was inaudible two
miles to the north in a still atmosphere. A few days before the
surrender at Ap- pomattox a thunderous engagement between the commands
of Sheridan and Pickett was unknown to the latter commander, a mile in
the rear of his own line.
These instances were not known to the man of whom we write, but less
striking ones of the same character had not escaped his observation. He
was profoundly disquieted, but for another reason than the uncanny
silence of that moonlight march.
'Good Lord! ' he said to himself--and again it was as if another had
spoken his thought--'if those people are what I take them to be we have
lost the battle and they are moving on Nashville!'
Then came a thought of self--an apprehension --a strong sense of
personal peril, such as in an- other we call fear. He stepped quickly
into the shadow of a tree. And still the silent battalions moved slowly
forward in the haze.
The chill of a sudden breeze upon the back of his neck drew his
attention to the quarter whence it came, and turning to the east he saw
a faint grey light along the horizon--the first sign of return- ing day.
This increased his apprehension.
'I must get away from here,' he thought, 'or I shall be discovered
and taken.'
He moved out of the shadow, walking rapidly toward the greying east.
From the safer seclusion of a clump of cedars he looked back. The entire
column had passed out of sight: the straight white road lay bare and
desolate in the moonlight!
Puzzled before, he was now inexpressibly astonished. So swift a
passing of so slow an army!--he could not comprehend it. Minute after
minute passed unnoted; he had lost his sense of time. He sought with a
terrible earnestness a solution of the mystery, but sought in vain. When
at last he roused himself from his abstraction the sun's rim was visi-
ble above the hills, but in the new conditions he found no other light
than that of day; his understanding was involved as darkly in doubt as
before.
On every side lay cultivated fields showing no sign of war and war's
ravages. From the chimneys of the farmhouses thin ascensions of blue
smoke signalled preparations for a day's peaceful toil. Having stilled
its immemorial allocution to the moon, the watch-dog was assisting a
negro who, prefixing a team of mules to the plough, was flatting and
sharping contentedly at his task. The hero of this tale stared
stupidly at the pastoral picture as if he had never seen such a thing in
all his life; then he put his hand to his head, passed it through his
hair and, withdrawing it, attentively considered the palm--a singular
thing to do. Apparently reassured by the act, he walked confidently
toward the road.
r_azary
03-08-2006, 03:40
2: When You have Lost Your Life Consult a Physician
Dr. Stilling Malson, of Murfreesboro, having visited a patient six
or seven miles away, on the Nash- ville road, had remained with him all
night. At daybreak he set out for home on horseback, as was the custom
of doctors of the time and region. He had passed into the neighbourhood
of Stone's River battlefield when a man approached him from the road-
side and saluted in the military fashion, with a movement of the right
hand to the hat-brim. But the hat was not a military hat, the man was
not in uniform and had not a martial bearing. The doctor nodded
civilly, half thinking that the stranger's uncommon greeting was
perhaps in deference to the historic surroundings. As the stranger
evidently desired speech with him he courteously reined in his horse
and waited.
'Sir,' said the stranger, 'although a civilian, you are perhaps an
enemy.'
'I am a physician,' was the non-committal reply.
'Thank you,' said the other. 'I am a lieutenant, of the staff of
General Hazen.' He paused a moment and looked sharply at the person whom
he was addressing, then added, 'Of the Federal army.' The physician
merely nodded.
'Kindly tell me,' continued the other, 'what has happened here.
Where are the armies? Which has won the battle?'
The physician regarded his questioner curiously with half-shut eyes.
After a professional scrutiny, prolonged to the limit of politeness,
'Pardon me,' he said; 'one asking information should be willing to
impart it. Are you wounded?' he added, smiling.
'Not seriously--it seems.'
The man removed the unmilitary hat, put his hand to his head, passed
it through his hair and, withdrawing it, attentively considered the
palm.
'I was struck by a bullet and have been unconscious. It must have
been a light, glancing blow: I find no blood and feel no pain. I will
not trouble you for treatment, but will you kindly direct me to my
command--to any part of the Federal army--if you know?'
Again the doctor did not immediately reply: he was recalling much
that is recorded in the books of his profession--something about lost
identity and the effect of familiar scenes in restoring it. At length he
looked the man in the face, smiled, and said:
'Lieutenant, you are not wearing the uniform of your rank and
service.'
At this the man glanced down at his civilian attire, lifted his
eyes, and said with hesitation:
'That is true. I--I don't quite understand.'
Still regarding him sharply but not unsympathetically, the man of
science bluntly inquired:
'How old are you?'
'Twenty-three--if that has anything to do with it.'
'You don't look it; I should hardly have guessed you to be just
that.'
The man was growing impatient. 'We need not discuss that,' he said:
'I want to know about the army. Not two hours ago I saw a column of
troops moving northward on this road. You must have met them. Be good
enough to tell me the colour of their clothing, which I was unable to
make out, and I'll trouble you no more.'
'You are quite sure that you saw them?'
'Sure? My God, sir, I could have counted them!'
'Why, really,' said the physician, with an amusing consciousness of
his own resemblance to the loquacious barber of the Arabian Nights,
'this is very in- teresting. I met no troops.'
The man looked at him coldly, as if he had himself observed the
likeness to the barber. 'It is plain,' he said, 'that you do not care to
assist me. Sir, you may go to the devil!'
He turned and strode away, very much at random, across the dewy
fields, his half-penitent tormentor quietly watching him from his
point of vantage in the saddle till he disappeared beyond an array of
trees.
.
Dr. Stilling Malson, of Murfreesboro, having visited a patient six
or seven miles away, on the Nash- ville road, had remained with him all
night. At daybreak he set out for home on horseback, as was the custom
of doctors of the time and region. He had passed into the neighbourhood
of Stone's River battlefield when a man approached him from the road-
side and saluted in the military fashion, with a movement of the right
hand to the hat-brim. But the hat was not a military hat, the man was
not in uniform and had not a martial bearing. The doctor nodded
civilly, half thinking that the stranger's uncommon greeting was
perhaps in deference to the historic surroundings. As the stranger
evidently desired speech with him he courteously reined in his horse
and waited.
'Sir,' said the stranger, 'although a civilian, you are perhaps an
enemy.'
'I am a physician,' was the non-committal reply.
'Thank you,' said the other. 'I am a lieutenant, of the staff of
General Hazen.' He paused a moment and looked sharply at the person whom
he was addressing, then added, 'Of the Federal army.' The physician
merely nodded.
'Kindly tell me,' continued the other, 'what has happened here.
Where are the armies? Which has won the battle?'
The physician regarded his questioner curiously with half-shut eyes.
After a professional scrutiny, prolonged to the limit of politeness,
'Pardon me,' he said; 'one asking information should be willing to
impart it. Are you wounded?' he added, smiling.
'Not seriously--it seems.'
The man removed the unmilitary hat, put his hand to his head, passed
it through his hair and, withdrawing it, attentively considered the
palm.
'I was struck by a bullet and have been unconscious. It must have
been a light, glancing blow: I find no blood and feel no pain. I will
not trouble you for treatment, but will you kindly direct me to my
command--to any part of the Federal army--if you know?'
Again the doctor did not immediately reply: he was recalling much
that is recorded in the books of his profession--something about lost
identity and the effect of familiar scenes in restoring it. At length he
looked the man in the face, smiled, and said:
'Lieutenant, you are not wearing the uniform of your rank and
service.'
At this the man glanced down at his civilian attire, lifted his
eyes, and said with hesitation:
'That is true. I--I don't quite understand.'
Still regarding him sharply but not unsympathetically, the man of
science bluntly inquired:
'How old are you?'
'Twenty-three--if that has anything to do with it.'
'You don't look it; I should hardly have guessed you to be just
that.'
The man was growing impatient. 'We need not discuss that,' he said:
'I want to know about the army. Not two hours ago I saw a column of
troops moving northward on this road. You must have met them. Be good
enough to tell me the colour of their clothing, which I was unable to
make out, and I'll trouble you no more.'
'You are quite sure that you saw them?'
'Sure? My God, sir, I could have counted them!'
'Why, really,' said the physician, with an amusing consciousness of
his own resemblance to the loquacious barber of the Arabian Nights,
'this is very in- teresting. I met no troops.'
The man looked at him coldly, as if he had himself observed the
likeness to the barber. 'It is plain,' he said, 'that you do not care to
assist me. Sir, you may go to the devil!'
He turned and strode away, very much at random, across the dewy
fields, his half-penitent tormentor quietly watching him from his
point of vantage in the saddle till he disappeared beyond an array of
trees.
.
r_azary
03-08-2006, 03:45
3: The Danger of Looking into a Pool of Water
After leaving the road the man slackened his pace, and now went
forward, rather deviously, with a distinct feeling of fatigue. He
could not account for this, though truly the interminable loquacity of
that country doctor offered itself in explanation. Seating himself upon
a rock, he laid one hand upon his knee, back upward, and casually looked
at it. It was lean and withered. He lifted both hands to his face. It
was seamed and furrowed; he could trace the lines with the tips of his
fingers. How strange!--a mere bullet-stroke and a brief unconsciousness
should not make one a physical wreck.
'I must have been a long time in hospital,' he said aloud. 'Why,
what a fool I am! The battle was in December, and it is now summer!' He
laughed. 'No wonder that fellow thought me an escaped luna- tic. He was
wrong: I am only an escaped patient.'
At a little distance a small plot of ground enclosed by a stone wall
caught his attention. With no very definite intent he rose and went to
it. In the centre was a square, solid monument of hewn stone. It was
brown with age, weather-worn at the angles, spotted with moss and
lichen. Between the massive blocks were strips of grass the leverage of
whose roots had pushed them apart. In answer to the challenge of this
ambitious structure Time had laid his destroying hand upon it, and it
would soon be 'one with Nineveh and Tyre.' In an inscription on one side
his eye caught a familiar name. Shaking with excitement, he craned his
body across the wall and read:
HAZEN'S BRIGADE
to
The Memory of Its Soldiers
who fell at Stone River, Dec. 31, 1862.
The man fell back from the wall, faint and sick. Almost within an
arm's length was a little depression in the earth; it had been filled by
a recent rain--a pool of clear water. He crept to it to revive himself,
lifted the upper part of his body on his trembling arms, thrust forward
his head and saw the reflection of his face, as in a mirror. He uttered
a terrible cry. His arms gave way; he fell, face downward, into the pool
and yielded up the life that had spanned another life
After leaving the road the man slackened his pace, and now went
forward, rather deviously, with a distinct feeling of fatigue. He
could not account for this, though truly the interminable loquacity of
that country doctor offered itself in explanation. Seating himself upon
a rock, he laid one hand upon his knee, back upward, and casually looked
at it. It was lean and withered. He lifted both hands to his face. It
was seamed and furrowed; he could trace the lines with the tips of his
fingers. How strange!--a mere bullet-stroke and a brief unconsciousness
should not make one a physical wreck.
'I must have been a long time in hospital,' he said aloud. 'Why,
what a fool I am! The battle was in December, and it is now summer!' He
laughed. 'No wonder that fellow thought me an escaped luna- tic. He was
wrong: I am only an escaped patient.'
At a little distance a small plot of ground enclosed by a stone wall
caught his attention. With no very definite intent he rose and went to
it. In the centre was a square, solid monument of hewn stone. It was
brown with age, weather-worn at the angles, spotted with moss and
lichen. Between the massive blocks were strips of grass the leverage of
whose roots had pushed them apart. In answer to the challenge of this
ambitious structure Time had laid his destroying hand upon it, and it
would soon be 'one with Nineveh and Tyre.' In an inscription on one side
his eye caught a familiar name. Shaking with excitement, he craned his
body across the wall and read:
HAZEN'S BRIGADE
to
The Memory of Its Soldiers
who fell at Stone River, Dec. 31, 1862.
The man fell back from the wall, faint and sick. Almost within an
arm's length was a little depression in the earth; it had been filled by
a recent rain--a pool of clear water. He crept to it to revive himself,
lifted the upper part of his body on his trembling arms, thrust forward
his head and saw the reflection of his face, as in a mirror. He uttered
a terrible cry. His arms gave way; he fell, face downward, into the pool
and yielded up the life that had spanned another life
r_azary
03-08-2006, 04:01
A Haunted House by Virginia Woolf
Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple.
"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."
But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps its upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.
But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. 'The Treasure yours."
The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.
"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer came--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.
Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.
"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years--" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart."
Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple.
"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."
But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps its upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.
But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. 'The Treasure yours."
The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.
"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer came--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.
Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.
"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years--" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart."
amintnt
05-08-2006, 02:56
Wooooooow. i really excited.such a topic. but i don't think so to read them all.thanks friends
r_azary
09-08-2006, 02:34
I started for school very late that morning and was in great dread of a scolding, especially because M. Hamel had said that he would question us on participles, and I did not know the first word about them. For a moment I thought of running away and spending the day out of doors. It was so warm, so bright! The birds were chirping at the edge of the woods; and in the open field back of the sawmill the Prussian soldiers were drilling. It was all much more tempting than the rule for participles, but I had the strength to resist, and hurried off to school.
When I passed the town hall there was a crowd in front of the bulletin-board. For the last two years all our bad news had come from there—the lost battles, the draft, the orders of the commanding officer—and I thought to myself, without stopping:
“What can be the matter now?”
Then, as I hurried by as fast as I could go, the blacksmith, Wachter, who was there, with his apprentice, reading the bulletin, called after me:
“Don’t go so fast, bub; you’ll get to your school in plenty of time!”
I thought he was making fun of me, and reached M. Hamel’s little garden all out of breath.
Usually, when school began, there was a great bustle, which could be heard out in the street, the opening and closing of desks, lessons repeated in unison, very loud, with our hands over our ears to understand better, and the teacher’s great ruler rapping on the table. But now it was all so still! I had counted on the commotion to get to my desk without being seen; but, of course, that day everything had to be as quiet as Sunday morning. Through the window I saw my classmates, already in their places, and M. Hamel walking up and down with his terrible iron ruler under his arm. I had to open the door and go in before everybody. You can imagine how I blushed and how frightened I was.
But nothing happened. M. Hamel saw me and said very kindly:
“Go to your place quickly, little Franz. We were beginning without you.”
I jumped over the bench and sat down at my desk. Not till then, when I had got a little over my fright, did I see that our teacher had on his beautiful green coat, his frilled shirt, and the little black silk cap, all embroidered, that he never wore except on inspection and prize days. Besides, the whole school seemed so strange and solemn. But the thing that surprised me most was to see, on the back benches that were always empty, the village people sitting quietly like ourselves; old Hauser, with his three-cornered hat, the former mayor, the former postmaster, and several others besides. Everybody looked sad; and Hauser had brought an old primer, thumbed at the edges, and he held it open on his knees with his great spectacles lying across the pages.
While I was wondering about it all, M. Hamel mounted his chair, and, in the same grave and gentle tone which he had used to me, said:
“My children, this is the last lesson I shall give you. The order has come from Berlin to teach only German in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. The new master comes to-morrow. This is your last French lesson. I want you to be very attentive.”
What a thunderclap these words were to me!
Oh, the wretches; that was what they had put up at the town-hall!
My last French lesson! Why, I hardly knew how to write! I should never learn any more! I must stop there, then! Oh, how sorry I was for not learning my lessons, for seeking birds’ eggs, or going sliding on the Saar! My books, that had seemed such a nuisance a while ago, so heavy to carry, my grammar, and my history of the saints, were old friends now that I couldn’t give up. And M. Hamel, too; the idea that he was going away, that I should never see him again, made me forget all about his ruler and how cranky he was.
Poor man! It was in honor of this last lesson that he had put on his fine Sunday clothes, and now I understood why the old men of the village were sitting there in the back of the room. It was because they were sorry, too, that they had not gone to school more. It was their way of thanking our master for his forty years of faithful service and of showing their respect for the country that was theirs no more.
While I was thinking of all this, I heard my name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to say that dreadful rule for the participle all through, very loud and clear, and without one mistake? But I got mixed up on the first words and stood there, holding on to my desk, my heart beating, and not daring to look up. I heard M. Hamel say to me:
“I won’t scold you, little Franz; you must feel bad enough. See how it is! Every day we have said to ourselves: ‘Bah! I’ve plenty of time. I’ll learn it to-morrow.’ And now you see where we’ve come out. Ah, that’s the great trouble with Alsace; she puts off learning till to-morrow. Now those fellows out there will have the right to say to you: ‘How is it; you pretend to be Frenchmen, and yet you can neither speak nor write your own language?’ But you are not the worst, poor little Franz. We’ve all a great deal to reproach ourselves with.
“Your parents were not anxious enough to have you learn. They preferred to put you to work on a farm or at the mills, so as to have a little more money. And I? I’ve been to blame also. Have I not often sent you to water my flowers instead of learning your lessons? And when I wanted to go fishing, did I not just give you a holiday?”
Then, from one thing to another, M. Hamel went on to talk of the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful language in the world—the clearest, the most logical; that we must guard it among us and never forget it, because when a people are enslaved, as long as they hold fast to their language it is as if they had the key to their prison. Then he opened a grammar and read us our lesson. I was amazed to see how well I understood it. All he said seemed so easy, so easy! I think, too, that I had never listened so carefully, and that he had never explained everything with so much patience. It seemed almost as if the poor man wanted to give us all he knew before going away, and to put it all into our heads at one stroke.
After the grammar, we had a lesson in writing. That day M. Hamel had new copies for us, written in a beautiful round hand: France, Alsace, France, Alsace. They looked like little flags floating everywhere in the school-room, hung from the rod at the top of our desks. You ought to have seen how every one set to work, and how quiet it was! The only sound was the scratching of the pens over the paper. Once some beetles flew in; but nobody paid any attention to them, not even the littlest ones, who worked right on tracing their fish-hooks, as if that was French, too. On the roof the pigeons cooed very low, and I thought to myself:
“Will they make them sing in German, even the pigeons?”
Whenever I looked up from my writing I saw M. Hamel sitting motionless in his chair and gazing first at one thing, then at another, as if he wanted to fix in his mind just how everything looked in that little school-room. Fancy! For forty years he had been there in the same place, with his garden outside the window and his class in front of him, just like that. Only the desks and benches had been worn smooth; the walnut-trees in the garden were taller, and the hopvine that he had planted himself twined about the windows to the roof. How it must have broken his heart to leave it all, poor man; to hear his sister moving about in the room above, packing their trunks! For they must leave the country next day.
But he had the courage to hear every lesson to the very last. After the writing, we had a lesson in history, and then the babies chanted their ba, be bi, bo, bu. Down there at the back of the room old Hauser had put on his spectacles and, holding his primer in both hands, spelled the letters with them. You could see that he, too, was crying; his voice trembled with emotion, and it was so funny to hear him that we all wanted to laugh and cry. Ah, how well I remember it, that last lesson!
All at once the church-clock struck twelve. Then the Angelus. At the same moment the trumpets of the Prussians, returning from drill, sounded under our windows. M. Hamel stood up, very pale, in his chair. I never saw him look so tall.
“My friends,” said he, “I—I—” But something choked him. He could not go on.
Then he turned to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and, bearing on with all his might, he wrote as large as he could:
“Vive La France!”
Then he stopped and leaned his head against the wall, and, without a word, he made a gesture to us with his hand:
“School is dismissed—you may go.”
When I passed the town hall there was a crowd in front of the bulletin-board. For the last two years all our bad news had come from there—the lost battles, the draft, the orders of the commanding officer—and I thought to myself, without stopping:
“What can be the matter now?”
Then, as I hurried by as fast as I could go, the blacksmith, Wachter, who was there, with his apprentice, reading the bulletin, called after me:
“Don’t go so fast, bub; you’ll get to your school in plenty of time!”
I thought he was making fun of me, and reached M. Hamel’s little garden all out of breath.
Usually, when school began, there was a great bustle, which could be heard out in the street, the opening and closing of desks, lessons repeated in unison, very loud, with our hands over our ears to understand better, and the teacher’s great ruler rapping on the table. But now it was all so still! I had counted on the commotion to get to my desk without being seen; but, of course, that day everything had to be as quiet as Sunday morning. Through the window I saw my classmates, already in their places, and M. Hamel walking up and down with his terrible iron ruler under his arm. I had to open the door and go in before everybody. You can imagine how I blushed and how frightened I was.
But nothing happened. M. Hamel saw me and said very kindly:
“Go to your place quickly, little Franz. We were beginning without you.”
I jumped over the bench and sat down at my desk. Not till then, when I had got a little over my fright, did I see that our teacher had on his beautiful green coat, his frilled shirt, and the little black silk cap, all embroidered, that he never wore except on inspection and prize days. Besides, the whole school seemed so strange and solemn. But the thing that surprised me most was to see, on the back benches that were always empty, the village people sitting quietly like ourselves; old Hauser, with his three-cornered hat, the former mayor, the former postmaster, and several others besides. Everybody looked sad; and Hauser had brought an old primer, thumbed at the edges, and he held it open on his knees with his great spectacles lying across the pages.
While I was wondering about it all, M. Hamel mounted his chair, and, in the same grave and gentle tone which he had used to me, said:
“My children, this is the last lesson I shall give you. The order has come from Berlin to teach only German in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. The new master comes to-morrow. This is your last French lesson. I want you to be very attentive.”
What a thunderclap these words were to me!
Oh, the wretches; that was what they had put up at the town-hall!
My last French lesson! Why, I hardly knew how to write! I should never learn any more! I must stop there, then! Oh, how sorry I was for not learning my lessons, for seeking birds’ eggs, or going sliding on the Saar! My books, that had seemed such a nuisance a while ago, so heavy to carry, my grammar, and my history of the saints, were old friends now that I couldn’t give up. And M. Hamel, too; the idea that he was going away, that I should never see him again, made me forget all about his ruler and how cranky he was.
Poor man! It was in honor of this last lesson that he had put on his fine Sunday clothes, and now I understood why the old men of the village were sitting there in the back of the room. It was because they were sorry, too, that they had not gone to school more. It was their way of thanking our master for his forty years of faithful service and of showing their respect for the country that was theirs no more.
While I was thinking of all this, I heard my name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to say that dreadful rule for the participle all through, very loud and clear, and without one mistake? But I got mixed up on the first words and stood there, holding on to my desk, my heart beating, and not daring to look up. I heard M. Hamel say to me:
“I won’t scold you, little Franz; you must feel bad enough. See how it is! Every day we have said to ourselves: ‘Bah! I’ve plenty of time. I’ll learn it to-morrow.’ And now you see where we’ve come out. Ah, that’s the great trouble with Alsace; she puts off learning till to-morrow. Now those fellows out there will have the right to say to you: ‘How is it; you pretend to be Frenchmen, and yet you can neither speak nor write your own language?’ But you are not the worst, poor little Franz. We’ve all a great deal to reproach ourselves with.
“Your parents were not anxious enough to have you learn. They preferred to put you to work on a farm or at the mills, so as to have a little more money. And I? I’ve been to blame also. Have I not often sent you to water my flowers instead of learning your lessons? And when I wanted to go fishing, did I not just give you a holiday?”
Then, from one thing to another, M. Hamel went on to talk of the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful language in the world—the clearest, the most logical; that we must guard it among us and never forget it, because when a people are enslaved, as long as they hold fast to their language it is as if they had the key to their prison. Then he opened a grammar and read us our lesson. I was amazed to see how well I understood it. All he said seemed so easy, so easy! I think, too, that I had never listened so carefully, and that he had never explained everything with so much patience. It seemed almost as if the poor man wanted to give us all he knew before going away, and to put it all into our heads at one stroke.
After the grammar, we had a lesson in writing. That day M. Hamel had new copies for us, written in a beautiful round hand: France, Alsace, France, Alsace. They looked like little flags floating everywhere in the school-room, hung from the rod at the top of our desks. You ought to have seen how every one set to work, and how quiet it was! The only sound was the scratching of the pens over the paper. Once some beetles flew in; but nobody paid any attention to them, not even the littlest ones, who worked right on tracing their fish-hooks, as if that was French, too. On the roof the pigeons cooed very low, and I thought to myself:
“Will they make them sing in German, even the pigeons?”
Whenever I looked up from my writing I saw M. Hamel sitting motionless in his chair and gazing first at one thing, then at another, as if he wanted to fix in his mind just how everything looked in that little school-room. Fancy! For forty years he had been there in the same place, with his garden outside the window and his class in front of him, just like that. Only the desks and benches had been worn smooth; the walnut-trees in the garden were taller, and the hopvine that he had planted himself twined about the windows to the roof. How it must have broken his heart to leave it all, poor man; to hear his sister moving about in the room above, packing their trunks! For they must leave the country next day.
But he had the courage to hear every lesson to the very last. After the writing, we had a lesson in history, and then the babies chanted their ba, be bi, bo, bu. Down there at the back of the room old Hauser had put on his spectacles and, holding his primer in both hands, spelled the letters with them. You could see that he, too, was crying; his voice trembled with emotion, and it was so funny to hear him that we all wanted to laugh and cry. Ah, how well I remember it, that last lesson!
All at once the church-clock struck twelve. Then the Angelus. At the same moment the trumpets of the Prussians, returning from drill, sounded under our windows. M. Hamel stood up, very pale, in his chair. I never saw him look so tall.
“My friends,” said he, “I—I—” But something choked him. He could not go on.
Then he turned to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and, bearing on with all his might, he wrote as large as he could:
“Vive La France!”
Then he stopped and leaned his head against the wall, and, without a word, he made a gesture to us with his hand:
“School is dismissed—you may go.”
r_azary
09-08-2006, 02:43
by Ambrose Bierce
:1
The Review as a Form of Welcome
ONE summer night a man stood on a low hill overlooking a wide expanse of forest and field. By the full moon hanging low in the west he knew what he might not have known otherwise: that it was near the hour of dawn. A light mist lay along the earth, partly veiling the lower features of the landscape, but above it the taller trees showed in well- defined masses against a clear sky. Two or three farmhouses were visible through the haze, but in none of them, naturally, was a light.
Nowhere, in- deed, was any sign or suggestion of life except the barking
of a distant dog, which, repeated with mechanical iteration, served
rather to accentuate than dispel the loneliness of the scene.
The man looked curiously about him on all sides, as one who among
familiar surroundings is unable to determine his exact place and part in
the scheme of things. It is so, perhaps, that we shall act when, risen
from the dead, we await the call to judgment.
A hundred yards away was a straight road, show- ing white in the
moonlight. Endeavouring to orient himself, as a surveyor or navigator
might say, the man moved his eyes slowly along its visible length and at
a distance of a quarter-mile to the south of his station saw, dim and
grey in the haze, a group of horsemen riding to the north. Behind them
were men afoot, marching in column, with dimly gleaming rifles aslant
above their shoulders. They moved slowly and in silence. Another group
of horsemen, another regiment of infantry, another and another --all in
unceasing motion toward the man's point of view, past it, and beyond. A
battery of artillery followed, the cannoneers riding with folded arms on
limber and caisson. And still the interminable procession came out of
the obscurity to south and passed into the obscurity to north, with
never a sound of voice, nor hoof, nor wheel.
The man could not rightly understand: he thought himself deaf; said
so, and heard his own voice, al- though it had an unfamiliar quality
that almost alarmed him; it disappointed his ear's expectancy in the
matter of timbre and resonance. But he was not deaf, and that for the
moment sufficed.
Then he remembered that there are natural phe- nomena to which some
one has given the name 'acoustic shadows.' If you stand in an acoustic
shadow there is one direction from which you will hear nothing. At the
battle of Gaines's Mill, one of the fiercest conflicts of the Civil War,
with a hundred guns in play, spectators a mile and a half away on the
opposite side of the Chickahominy Valley heard nothing of what they
clearly saw. The bombardment of Port Royal, heard and felt at St.
Augustine, a hundred and fifty miles to the south, was inaudible two
miles to the north in a still atmosphere. A few days before the
surrender at Ap- pomattox a thunderous engagement between the commands
of Sheridan and Pickett was unknown to the latter commander, a mile in
the rear of his own line.
These instances were not known to the man of whom we write, but less
striking ones of the same character had not escaped his observation. He
was profoundly disquieted, but for another reason than the uncanny
silence of that moonlight march.
'Good Lord! ' he said to himself--and again it was as if another had
spoken his thought--'if those people are what I take them to be we have
lost the battle and they are moving on Nashville!'
Then came a thought of self--an apprehension --a strong sense of
personal peril, such as in an- other we call fear. He stepped quickly
into the shadow of a tree. And still the silent battalions moved slowly
forward in the haze.
The chill of a sudden breeze upon the back of his neck drew his
attention to the quarter whence it came, and turning to the east he saw
a faint grey light along the horizon--the first sign of return- ing day.
This increased his apprehension.
'I must get away from here,' he thought, 'or I shall be discovered
and taken.'
He moved out of the shadow, walking rapidly toward the greying east.
From the safer seclusion of a clump of cedars he looked back. The entire
column had passed out of sight: the straight white road lay bare and
desolate in the moonlight!
Puzzled before, he was now inexpressibly astonished. So swift a
passing of so slow an army!--he could not comprehend it. Minute after
minute passed unnoted; he had lost his sense of time. He sought with a
terrible earnestness a solution of the mystery, but sought in vain. When
at last he roused himself from his abstraction the sun's rim was visi-
ble above the hills, but in the new conditions he found no other light
than that of day; his understanding was involved as darkly in doubt as
before.
On every side lay cultivated fields showing no sign of war and war's
ravages. From the chimneys of the farmhouses thin ascensions of blue
smoke signalled preparations for a day's peaceful toil. Having stilled
its immemorial allocution to the moon, the watch-dog was assisting a
negro who, prefixing a team of mules to the plough, was flatting and
sharping contentedly at his task. The hero of this tale stared
stupidly at the pastoral picture as if he had never seen such a thing in
all his life; then he put his hand to his head, passed it through his
hair and, withdrawing it, attentively considered the palm--a singular
thing to do. Apparently reassured by the act, he walked confidently
toward the road.
:1
The Review as a Form of Welcome
ONE summer night a man stood on a low hill overlooking a wide expanse of forest and field. By the full moon hanging low in the west he knew what he might not have known otherwise: that it was near the hour of dawn. A light mist lay along the earth, partly veiling the lower features of the landscape, but above it the taller trees showed in well- defined masses against a clear sky. Two or three farmhouses were visible through the haze, but in none of them, naturally, was a light.
Nowhere, in- deed, was any sign or suggestion of life except the barking
of a distant dog, which, repeated with mechanical iteration, served
rather to accentuate than dispel the loneliness of the scene.
The man looked curiously about him on all sides, as one who among
familiar surroundings is unable to determine his exact place and part in
the scheme of things. It is so, perhaps, that we shall act when, risen
from the dead, we await the call to judgment.
A hundred yards away was a straight road, show- ing white in the
moonlight. Endeavouring to orient himself, as a surveyor or navigator
might say, the man moved his eyes slowly along its visible length and at
a distance of a quarter-mile to the south of his station saw, dim and
grey in the haze, a group of horsemen riding to the north. Behind them
were men afoot, marching in column, with dimly gleaming rifles aslant
above their shoulders. They moved slowly and in silence. Another group
of horsemen, another regiment of infantry, another and another --all in
unceasing motion toward the man's point of view, past it, and beyond. A
battery of artillery followed, the cannoneers riding with folded arms on
limber and caisson. And still the interminable procession came out of
the obscurity to south and passed into the obscurity to north, with
never a sound of voice, nor hoof, nor wheel.
The man could not rightly understand: he thought himself deaf; said
so, and heard his own voice, al- though it had an unfamiliar quality
that almost alarmed him; it disappointed his ear's expectancy in the
matter of timbre and resonance. But he was not deaf, and that for the
moment sufficed.
Then he remembered that there are natural phe- nomena to which some
one has given the name 'acoustic shadows.' If you stand in an acoustic
shadow there is one direction from which you will hear nothing. At the
battle of Gaines's Mill, one of the fiercest conflicts of the Civil War,
with a hundred guns in play, spectators a mile and a half away on the
opposite side of the Chickahominy Valley heard nothing of what they
clearly saw. The bombardment of Port Royal, heard and felt at St.
Augustine, a hundred and fifty miles to the south, was inaudible two
miles to the north in a still atmosphere. A few days before the
surrender at Ap- pomattox a thunderous engagement between the commands
of Sheridan and Pickett was unknown to the latter commander, a mile in
the rear of his own line.
These instances were not known to the man of whom we write, but less
striking ones of the same character had not escaped his observation. He
was profoundly disquieted, but for another reason than the uncanny
silence of that moonlight march.
'Good Lord! ' he said to himself--and again it was as if another had
spoken his thought--'if those people are what I take them to be we have
lost the battle and they are moving on Nashville!'
Then came a thought of self--an apprehension --a strong sense of
personal peril, such as in an- other we call fear. He stepped quickly
into the shadow of a tree. And still the silent battalions moved slowly
forward in the haze.
The chill of a sudden breeze upon the back of his neck drew his
attention to the quarter whence it came, and turning to the east he saw
a faint grey light along the horizon--the first sign of return- ing day.
This increased his apprehension.
'I must get away from here,' he thought, 'or I shall be discovered
and taken.'
He moved out of the shadow, walking rapidly toward the greying east.
From the safer seclusion of a clump of cedars he looked back. The entire
column had passed out of sight: the straight white road lay bare and
desolate in the moonlight!
Puzzled before, he was now inexpressibly astonished. So swift a
passing of so slow an army!--he could not comprehend it. Minute after
minute passed unnoted; he had lost his sense of time. He sought with a
terrible earnestness a solution of the mystery, but sought in vain. When
at last he roused himself from his abstraction the sun's rim was visi-
ble above the hills, but in the new conditions he found no other light
than that of day; his understanding was involved as darkly in doubt as
before.
On every side lay cultivated fields showing no sign of war and war's
ravages. From the chimneys of the farmhouses thin ascensions of blue
smoke signalled preparations for a day's peaceful toil. Having stilled
its immemorial allocution to the moon, the watch-dog was assisting a
negro who, prefixing a team of mules to the plough, was flatting and
sharping contentedly at his task. The hero of this tale stared
stupidly at the pastoral picture as if he had never seen such a thing in
all his life; then he put his hand to his head, passed it through his
hair and, withdrawing it, attentively considered the palm--a singular
thing to do. Apparently reassured by the act, he walked confidently
toward the road.
r_azary
09-08-2006, 02:47
:2
When You have Lost Your Life Consult a Physician
Dr. Stilling Malson, of Murfreesboro, having visited a patient six
or seven miles away, on the Nash- ville road, had remained with him all
night. At daybreak he set out for home on horseback, as was the custom
of doctors of the time and region. He had passed into the neighbourhood
of Stone's River battlefield when a man approached him from the road-
side and saluted in the military fashion, with a movement of the right
hand to the hat-brim. But the hat was not a military hat, the man was
not in uniform and had not a martial bearing. The doctor nodded
civilly, half thinking that the stranger's uncommon greeting was
perhaps in deference to the historic surroundings. As the stranger
evidently desired speech with him he courteously reined in his horse
and waited.
'Sir,' said the stranger, 'although a civilian, you are perhaps an
enemy.'
'I am a physician,' was the non-committal reply.
'Thank you,' said the other. 'I am a lieutenant, of the staff of
General Hazen.' He paused a moment and looked sharply at the person whom
he was addressing, then added, 'Of the Federal army.' The physician
merely nodded.
'Kindly tell me,' continued the other, 'what has happened here.
Where are the armies? Which has won the battle?'
The physician regarded his questioner curiously with half-shut eyes.
After a professional scrutiny, prolonged to the limit of politeness,
'Pardon me,' he said; 'one asking information should be willing to
impart it. Are you wounded?' he added, smiling.
'Not seriously--it seems.'
The man removed the unmilitary hat, put his hand to his head, passed
it through his hair and, withdrawing it, attentively considered the
palm.
'I was struck by a bullet and have been unconscious. It must have
been a light, glancing blow: I find no blood and feel no pain. I will
not trouble you for treatment, but will you kindly direct me to my
command--to any part of the Federal army--if you know?'
Again the doctor did not immediately reply: he was recalling much
that is recorded in the books of his profession--something about lost
identity and the effect of familiar scenes in restoring it. At length he
looked the man in the face, smiled, and said:
'Lieutenant, you are not wearing the uniform of your rank and
service.'
At this the man glanced down at his civilian attire, lifted his
eyes, and said with hesitation:
'That is true. I--I don't quite understand.'
Still regarding him sharply but not unsympathetically, the man of
science bluntly inquired:
'How old are you?'
'Twenty-three--if that has anything to do with it.'
'You don't look it; I should hardly have guessed you to be just
that.'
The man was growing impatient. 'We need not discuss that,' he said:
'I want to know about the army. Not two hours ago I saw a column of
troops moving northward on this road. You must have met them. Be good
enough to tell me the colour of their clothing, which I was unable to
make out, and I'll trouble you no more.'
'You are quite sure that you saw them?'
'Sure? My God, sir, I could have counted them!'
'Why, really,' said the physician, with an amusing consciousness of
his own resemblance to the loquacious barber of the Arabian Nights,
'this is very in- teresting. I met no troops.'
The man looked at him coldly, as if he had himself observed the
likeness to the barber. 'It is plain,' he said, 'that you do not care to
assist me. Sir, you may go to the devil!'
He turned and strode away, very much at random, across the dewy
fields, his half-penitent tormentor quietly watching him from his
point of vantage in the saddle till he disappeared beyond an array of
trees.
3: The Danger of Looking into a Pool of Water
After leaving the road the man slackened his pace, and now went
forward, rather deviously, with a distinct feeling of fatigue. He
could not account for this, though truly the interminable loquacity of
that country doctor offered itself in explanation. Seating himself upon
a rock, he laid one hand upon his knee, back upward, and casually looked
at it. It was lean and withered. He lifted both hands to his face. It
was seamed and furrowed; he could trace the lines with the tips of his
fingers. How strange!--a mere bullet-stroke and a brief unconsciousness
should not make one a physical wreck.
'I must have been a long time in hospital,' he said aloud. 'Why,
what a fool I am! The battle was in December, and it is now summer!' He
laughed. 'No wonder that fellow thought me an escaped luna- tic. He was
wrong: I am only an escaped patient.'
At a little distance a small plot of ground enclosed by a stone wall
caught his attention. With no very definite intent he rose and went to
it. In the centre was a square, solid monument of hewn stone. It was
brown with age, weather-worn at the angles, spotted with moss and
lichen. Between the massive blocks were strips of grass the leverage of
whose roots had pushed them apart. In answer to the challenge of this
ambitious structure Time had laid his destroying hand upon it, and it
would soon be 'one with Nineveh and Tyre.' In an inscription on one side
his eye caught a familiar name. Shaking with excitement, he craned his
body across the wall and read:
HAZEN'S BRIGADE
to
The Memory of Its Soldiers
who fell at Stone River, Dec. 31, 1862.
The man fell back from the wall, faint and sick. Almost within an
arm's length was a little depression in the earth; it had been filled by
a recent rain--a pool of clear water. He crept to it to revive himself,
lifted the upper part of his body on his trembling arms, thrust forward
his head and saw the reflection of his face, as in a mirror. He uttered
a terrible cry. His arms gave way; he fell, face downward, into the pool
and yielded up the life that had spanned another life.
When You have Lost Your Life Consult a Physician
Dr. Stilling Malson, of Murfreesboro, having visited a patient six
or seven miles away, on the Nash- ville road, had remained with him all
night. At daybreak he set out for home on horseback, as was the custom
of doctors of the time and region. He had passed into the neighbourhood
of Stone's River battlefield when a man approached him from the road-
side and saluted in the military fashion, with a movement of the right
hand to the hat-brim. But the hat was not a military hat, the man was
not in uniform and had not a martial bearing. The doctor nodded
civilly, half thinking that the stranger's uncommon greeting was
perhaps in deference to the historic surroundings. As the stranger
evidently desired speech with him he courteously reined in his horse
and waited.
'Sir,' said the stranger, 'although a civilian, you are perhaps an
enemy.'
'I am a physician,' was the non-committal reply.
'Thank you,' said the other. 'I am a lieutenant, of the staff of
General Hazen.' He paused a moment and looked sharply at the person whom
he was addressing, then added, 'Of the Federal army.' The physician
merely nodded.
'Kindly tell me,' continued the other, 'what has happened here.
Where are the armies? Which has won the battle?'
The physician regarded his questioner curiously with half-shut eyes.
After a professional scrutiny, prolonged to the limit of politeness,
'Pardon me,' he said; 'one asking information should be willing to
impart it. Are you wounded?' he added, smiling.
'Not seriously--it seems.'
The man removed the unmilitary hat, put his hand to his head, passed
it through his hair and, withdrawing it, attentively considered the
palm.
'I was struck by a bullet and have been unconscious. It must have
been a light, glancing blow: I find no blood and feel no pain. I will
not trouble you for treatment, but will you kindly direct me to my
command--to any part of the Federal army--if you know?'
Again the doctor did not immediately reply: he was recalling much
that is recorded in the books of his profession--something about lost
identity and the effect of familiar scenes in restoring it. At length he
looked the man in the face, smiled, and said:
'Lieutenant, you are not wearing the uniform of your rank and
service.'
At this the man glanced down at his civilian attire, lifted his
eyes, and said with hesitation:
'That is true. I--I don't quite understand.'
Still regarding him sharply but not unsympathetically, the man of
science bluntly inquired:
'How old are you?'
'Twenty-three--if that has anything to do with it.'
'You don't look it; I should hardly have guessed you to be just
that.'
The man was growing impatient. 'We need not discuss that,' he said:
'I want to know about the army. Not two hours ago I saw a column of
troops moving northward on this road. You must have met them. Be good
enough to tell me the colour of their clothing, which I was unable to
make out, and I'll trouble you no more.'
'You are quite sure that you saw them?'
'Sure? My God, sir, I could have counted them!'
'Why, really,' said the physician, with an amusing consciousness of
his own resemblance to the loquacious barber of the Arabian Nights,
'this is very in- teresting. I met no troops.'
The man looked at him coldly, as if he had himself observed the
likeness to the barber. 'It is plain,' he said, 'that you do not care to
assist me. Sir, you may go to the devil!'
He turned and strode away, very much at random, across the dewy
fields, his half-penitent tormentor quietly watching him from his
point of vantage in the saddle till he disappeared beyond an array of
trees.
3: The Danger of Looking into a Pool of Water
After leaving the road the man slackened his pace, and now went
forward, rather deviously, with a distinct feeling of fatigue. He
could not account for this, though truly the interminable loquacity of
that country doctor offered itself in explanation. Seating himself upon
a rock, he laid one hand upon his knee, back upward, and casually looked
at it. It was lean and withered. He lifted both hands to his face. It
was seamed and furrowed; he could trace the lines with the tips of his
fingers. How strange!--a mere bullet-stroke and a brief unconsciousness
should not make one a physical wreck.
'I must have been a long time in hospital,' he said aloud. 'Why,
what a fool I am! The battle was in December, and it is now summer!' He
laughed. 'No wonder that fellow thought me an escaped luna- tic. He was
wrong: I am only an escaped patient.'
At a little distance a small plot of ground enclosed by a stone wall
caught his attention. With no very definite intent he rose and went to
it. In the centre was a square, solid monument of hewn stone. It was
brown with age, weather-worn at the angles, spotted with moss and
lichen. Between the massive blocks were strips of grass the leverage of
whose roots had pushed them apart. In answer to the challenge of this
ambitious structure Time had laid his destroying hand upon it, and it
would soon be 'one with Nineveh and Tyre.' In an inscription on one side
his eye caught a familiar name. Shaking with excitement, he craned his
body across the wall and read:
HAZEN'S BRIGADE
to
The Memory of Its Soldiers
who fell at Stone River, Dec. 31, 1862.
The man fell back from the wall, faint and sick. Almost within an
arm's length was a little depression in the earth; it had been filled by
a recent rain--a pool of clear water. He crept to it to revive himself,
lifted the upper part of his body on his trembling arms, thrust forward
his head and saw the reflection of his face, as in a mirror. He uttered
a terrible cry. His arms gave way; he fell, face downward, into the pool
and yielded up the life that had spanned another life.
r_azary
09-08-2006, 03:50
by Joel Chandler Harris
One evening recently, the lady whom Uncle Remus calls “Miss Sally” missed her little seven-year-old. Making search for him through the house and through the yard, she heard the sound of voices in the old man’s cabin, and looking through the window, saw the child sitting by Uncle Remus. His head rested against the old man’s arm, and he was gazing with an expression of the most intense interest into the rough, weather-beaten face that beamed so kindly upon him. This is what “Miss Sally” heard:
“Bimeby, one day, after Brer Fox bin doin’ all dat he could fer ter ketch Brer Rabbit, en Brer Rabbit bin doin’ all he could fer ter keep ’im fum it, Brer Fox say to hisse’f dat he’d put up a game on Brer Rabbit, en he ain’t mo’n got de wuds out’n his mouf twel Brer Rabbit come a-lopin’ up de big road, lookin’ des ez plump en ez fat en ez sassy ez a Moggin hoss in a barley-patch.
“‘Hol’ on dar, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“‘I ain’t got time, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, sorter mendin’ his licks.
“‘I wanter have some confab wid you, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“‘All right, Brer Fox, but you better holler fum whar you stan’: I’m monstus full er fleas dis mawnin’,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.
“‘I seed Brer B’ar yistiddy,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en he sorter raked me over de coals kaze you en me ain’t make frens en live naberly, en I told him dat I’d see you.’
“Den Brer Rabbit scratch one year wid his off hine-foot sorter jub’usly, en den he ups en sez, sezee:
“‘All a-settin’, Brer Fox. S’posen you drap roun’ ter-morrer en take dinner wid me. We ain’t got no great doin’s at our house, but I speck de ole ’oman en de chilluns kin sort o’ scramble roun’ en git up sump’n fer ter stay yo’ stummuck.’
“‘I’m ’gree’ble, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“‘Den I’ll ’pen on you,’ says Brer Rabbit, sezee.
“Nex’ day, Mr. Rabbit an’ Miss Rabbit got up soon, ’fo day, en raided on a gyarden like Miss Sally’s out dar, en got some cabbiges, en some roas’n-years, en some sparrer-grass, en dey fix up a smashin’ dinner. Bimeby one er de little Rabbits, playin’ out in de backyard, come runnin’ in hollerin’, ‘Oh, ma! oh, ma! I seed Mr. Fox a-comin’!’ En den Brer Rabbit he tuck de chilluns by der years en make um set down, and den him en Miss Rabbit sorter dally roun’ waitin’ for Brer Fox. En dey keep on waitin’, but no Brer Fox ain’t come. Atter while Brer Rabbit goes to de do’, easy like, en peep out, en dar, stickin’ out fum behime de cornder, wuz de tip-een’ er Brer Fox’s tail. Den Brer Rabbit shot de do’ en sot down, en put his paws behime his years, en begin fer ter sing:
“‘De place wharbouts you spill de grease,
Right dar youer boun’ ter slide,
An’ whar you fine a bunch er ha’r,
You’ll sholy fine de hide!”’
“Nex’ day Brer Fox sont word by Mr. Mink en skuze hisse’f kaze he wuz too sick fer ter come, en he ax Brer Rabbit fer ter come en take dinner wid him, en Brer Rabbit say he wuz ’gree’ble.
“Bimeby, w’en de shadders wuz at der shortes’, Brer Rabbit he sorter brush up en santer down ter Brer Fox’s house, en w’en he got dar he yer somebody groanin’, en he look in de do’, en dar he see Brer Fox settin’ up in a rockin’-cheer all wrop up wid flannil, en he look mighty weak. Brer Rabbit look all roun’, he did, but he ain’t see no dinner. De dish-pan wuz settin’ on de table, en close by wuz a kyarvin-knife.
“‘Look like you gwineter have chicken fer dinner, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.
“‘Yes, Brer Rabbit, deyer nice en fresh en tender,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“Den Brer Rabbit sorter pull his mustarsh, en say, ‘You ain’t got no’ calamus-root, is you, Brer Fox? I done got so now dat I can’t eat no’ chicken ’ceppin’ she’s seasoned up wid calamus-root.’ En wid dat Brer Rabbit lipt out er de do’ and dodge ’mong de bushes, en sot dar watchin’ fer Brer Fox; en he ain’t watch long, nudder, kaze Brer Fox flung off de flannil en crope out er de house en got whar he could close in on Brer Rabbit, en bimeby Brer Rabbit holler out, ‘Oh, Brer Fox! I’ll des put yo’ calamus-root out yer on dis yer stump. Better come git it while hit’s fresh.’ And wid dat Brer Rabbit gallop off home. En Brer Fox ain’t never kotch ’im yit, en w’at’s mo’, honey, he ain’t gwineter.”
“Didn’t the fox never catch the rabbit, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy the next evening.
“He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho’s you bawn—Brer Fox did. One day arter Brer Rabbit fool ’im wid dat calamus-root, Brer Fox went ter wuk en got ’im some tar, en mix it wid some turken-time, en fix up a contrapshun what he call a Tar-Baby, en he tuck dish yer Tar-Baby en he sot ’er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer ter see wat de news wuz gwineter be. En he didn’t hatter wait long, nudder, kaze bimeby here come Brer Rabbit pacin’ down de road—lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity—des ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer Fox he lay low. Brer Rabbit come prancin’ ’long twel he spy de Tar-Baby, en den he fotch up on his behime legs like he was ’stonished. De Tar-Baby she sot dar, she did, en Brer Fox he lay low.
“‘Mawnin’!’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee; ‘nice wedder dis mawnin’,’ sezee.
“Tar-Baby ain’t sayin’ nuthin’ en Brer Fox he lay low.
“‘How duz yo’ sym’tums seem ter segashuate?’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.
“Brer Fox he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de Tar-Baby she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’.
One evening recently, the lady whom Uncle Remus calls “Miss Sally” missed her little seven-year-old. Making search for him through the house and through the yard, she heard the sound of voices in the old man’s cabin, and looking through the window, saw the child sitting by Uncle Remus. His head rested against the old man’s arm, and he was gazing with an expression of the most intense interest into the rough, weather-beaten face that beamed so kindly upon him. This is what “Miss Sally” heard:
“Bimeby, one day, after Brer Fox bin doin’ all dat he could fer ter ketch Brer Rabbit, en Brer Rabbit bin doin’ all he could fer ter keep ’im fum it, Brer Fox say to hisse’f dat he’d put up a game on Brer Rabbit, en he ain’t mo’n got de wuds out’n his mouf twel Brer Rabbit come a-lopin’ up de big road, lookin’ des ez plump en ez fat en ez sassy ez a Moggin hoss in a barley-patch.
“‘Hol’ on dar, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“‘I ain’t got time, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, sorter mendin’ his licks.
“‘I wanter have some confab wid you, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“‘All right, Brer Fox, but you better holler fum whar you stan’: I’m monstus full er fleas dis mawnin’,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.
“‘I seed Brer B’ar yistiddy,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en he sorter raked me over de coals kaze you en me ain’t make frens en live naberly, en I told him dat I’d see you.’
“Den Brer Rabbit scratch one year wid his off hine-foot sorter jub’usly, en den he ups en sez, sezee:
“‘All a-settin’, Brer Fox. S’posen you drap roun’ ter-morrer en take dinner wid me. We ain’t got no great doin’s at our house, but I speck de ole ’oman en de chilluns kin sort o’ scramble roun’ en git up sump’n fer ter stay yo’ stummuck.’
“‘I’m ’gree’ble, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“‘Den I’ll ’pen on you,’ says Brer Rabbit, sezee.
“Nex’ day, Mr. Rabbit an’ Miss Rabbit got up soon, ’fo day, en raided on a gyarden like Miss Sally’s out dar, en got some cabbiges, en some roas’n-years, en some sparrer-grass, en dey fix up a smashin’ dinner. Bimeby one er de little Rabbits, playin’ out in de backyard, come runnin’ in hollerin’, ‘Oh, ma! oh, ma! I seed Mr. Fox a-comin’!’ En den Brer Rabbit he tuck de chilluns by der years en make um set down, and den him en Miss Rabbit sorter dally roun’ waitin’ for Brer Fox. En dey keep on waitin’, but no Brer Fox ain’t come. Atter while Brer Rabbit goes to de do’, easy like, en peep out, en dar, stickin’ out fum behime de cornder, wuz de tip-een’ er Brer Fox’s tail. Den Brer Rabbit shot de do’ en sot down, en put his paws behime his years, en begin fer ter sing:
“‘De place wharbouts you spill de grease,
Right dar youer boun’ ter slide,
An’ whar you fine a bunch er ha’r,
You’ll sholy fine de hide!”’
“Nex’ day Brer Fox sont word by Mr. Mink en skuze hisse’f kaze he wuz too sick fer ter come, en he ax Brer Rabbit fer ter come en take dinner wid him, en Brer Rabbit say he wuz ’gree’ble.
“Bimeby, w’en de shadders wuz at der shortes’, Brer Rabbit he sorter brush up en santer down ter Brer Fox’s house, en w’en he got dar he yer somebody groanin’, en he look in de do’, en dar he see Brer Fox settin’ up in a rockin’-cheer all wrop up wid flannil, en he look mighty weak. Brer Rabbit look all roun’, he did, but he ain’t see no dinner. De dish-pan wuz settin’ on de table, en close by wuz a kyarvin-knife.
“‘Look like you gwineter have chicken fer dinner, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.
“‘Yes, Brer Rabbit, deyer nice en fresh en tender,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“Den Brer Rabbit sorter pull his mustarsh, en say, ‘You ain’t got no’ calamus-root, is you, Brer Fox? I done got so now dat I can’t eat no’ chicken ’ceppin’ she’s seasoned up wid calamus-root.’ En wid dat Brer Rabbit lipt out er de do’ and dodge ’mong de bushes, en sot dar watchin’ fer Brer Fox; en he ain’t watch long, nudder, kaze Brer Fox flung off de flannil en crope out er de house en got whar he could close in on Brer Rabbit, en bimeby Brer Rabbit holler out, ‘Oh, Brer Fox! I’ll des put yo’ calamus-root out yer on dis yer stump. Better come git it while hit’s fresh.’ And wid dat Brer Rabbit gallop off home. En Brer Fox ain’t never kotch ’im yit, en w’at’s mo’, honey, he ain’t gwineter.”
“Didn’t the fox never catch the rabbit, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy the next evening.
“He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho’s you bawn—Brer Fox did. One day arter Brer Rabbit fool ’im wid dat calamus-root, Brer Fox went ter wuk en got ’im some tar, en mix it wid some turken-time, en fix up a contrapshun what he call a Tar-Baby, en he tuck dish yer Tar-Baby en he sot ’er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer ter see wat de news wuz gwineter be. En he didn’t hatter wait long, nudder, kaze bimeby here come Brer Rabbit pacin’ down de road—lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity—des ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer Fox he lay low. Brer Rabbit come prancin’ ’long twel he spy de Tar-Baby, en den he fotch up on his behime legs like he was ’stonished. De Tar-Baby she sot dar, she did, en Brer Fox he lay low.
“‘Mawnin’!’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee; ‘nice wedder dis mawnin’,’ sezee.
“Tar-Baby ain’t sayin’ nuthin’ en Brer Fox he lay low.
“‘How duz yo’ sym’tums seem ter segashuate?’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.
“Brer Fox he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de Tar-Baby she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’.
r_azary
09-08-2006, 03:52
“‘How you come on, den? Is you deaf?’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. ‘Kaze if you is I kin holler louder,’ sezee.
“Tar-Baby lay still, en Brer Fox he lay low.
“‘Youer stuck up, dat’s w’at you is,’ says Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘en I’m gwineter kyore you, dat’s w’at I’m a-gwineter do,’ sezee.
“Brer Fox he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, he did, but Tar-Baby ain’t sayin’ nuthin’.
“‘I’m gwineter larn you howter talk ter ’specttubble fokes ef hit’s de las ’ack,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. ‘Ef you don’t take off dat hat en tell me howdy, I’m gwineter bus’ you wide open,’ sezee.
“Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox he lay low.
“Brer Rabbit keep on axin’ ’im, en de Tar-Baby she keep on sayin’ nuthin’, twel present’y Brer Rabbit draw back wid his fis’, he did, en blip he tuck er side er de head. Right dar’s whar he broke his merlasses-jug. His fis’ stuck, en he can’t pull loose. De tar hilt him. But Tar-Baby she stay still, en Brer Fox he lay low.
“‘Ef you don’t lemme loose, I’ll knock you ag’in,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee; en wid dat he fotch ’er a wipe wid te udder han’, en dat stuck. Tar-Baby she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, en Brer Fox he lay low.
“‘Tu’n me loose, of’ I kick de natal stuffin’ outen you,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee; but de Tar-Baby she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’. She des hilt on, en den Brer Rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same way. Brer Fox he lay low. Den Brer Rabbit squall out dat ef de Tar-Baby don’t tu’n ’im loose he butt ’er crank-sided. En den he butted, en his head got stuck. Den Brer Fox he santered fort’, lookin’ des ez innercent ez wunner yo’ mammy’s mockin’-birds.
“‘Howdy, Brer Rabbit?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘You look sorter stuck up dis mawnin’,’ sezee; en den he rolled on de groun’, en laft en laft twel he couldn’t laff no mo’. ‘I speck you’ll take dinner wid me dis time, Brer Rabbit. I done laid in some calamus-root, en I ain’t gwineter take no skuse,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.”
Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes.
“Did the fox eat the rabbit?” asked the little boy to whom the story had been told.
“Dat’s all de fur de tale goes,” replied the old man. “He mout, en den ag’in he moutent. Some say Jedge B’ar come ’long en loosed ’im; some say he didn’t. I hear Miss Sally callin’. You better run ’long.”…
“Uncle Remus,” said the little boy one evening, when he had found the old man with little or nothing to do, “did the fox kill and eat the rabbit when he caught him with the Tar-Baby?”
“Law, honey, ain’t I tell you ’bout dat?” replied the old darky, chuckling slyly. “I ’clar ter grashus I ought er tole you dat; but ole man Nod wuz ridin’ on my eyelids twel a leetle mo’n I’d ’a’ dis’member’d my own name, en den on to dat here come yo’ mammy hollerin’ atter you.
“W’at I tell you w’en I fus’ begin? I tole you Brer Rabbit wuz a monstus soon beas’; leas’ways dat’s w’at I laid out fer ter tell you. Well, den, honey, don’t you go en make no udder kalkalashuns, kaze in dem days Brer Rabbit en his family wuz at de head er de gang w’en enny racket wuz on han’, en dar dey stayed. ’Fo’ you begins fer ter wipe yo’ eyes ’bout Brer Rabbit, you wait en see whar’bouts Brer Rabbit gwineter fetch up at. But dat’s needer yer ner dar.
“W’en Brer Fox fine Brer Rabbit mixt up wid de Tar-Baby, he feel mighty good, en he roll on de groun’ en laff. Bimeby he up ’n’ say, sezee:
“Well, I speck I got you dis time, Brer Rabbit,’ sezee; ‘maybe I ain’t but I speck I is. You been runnin’ roun’ here sassin’ atter me a mighty long time, but I speck you done come ter de een’ er de row. You bin cuttin’ up yo’ capers en bouncin’ roun’ in dis naberhood ontwel you come ter b’leeve yo’se’f de boss er de whole gang. En den youer allers some’rs whar you got no bizness,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘Who ax you fer ter come en strike up a ’quaintence wid dish yer Tar-Baby? En who stuck you up dar whar you iz? Nobody in de roun’ worril. You des tuck en jam yo’se’f on dat Tar-Baby widout waitin’ fer enny invite,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee—‘ en dar you is, en dar you’ll stay twel I fixes up a bresh-pile and fires her up, kaze I’m gwineter bobbycue you dis day, sho’,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“Den Brer Rabbit talk mighty ’umble.
“‘I don’t keer w’at you do wid me, Brer Fox,’ sezee, ‘so you don’t fling me in dat brier-patch. Roas’ me, Brer Fox,’ sezee, ‘but don’t fling me in dat brier-patch,’ sezee.
“‘Hit’s so much trouble fer ter kindle a fier,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘dat I speck I’ll hatter hang you,’ sezee.
“‘Hang me des ez high ez you please, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘but do fer de Lord’s sake don’t fling me in dat brier-patch,’ sezee.
“‘I ain’t got no string,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en now I speck I’ll hatter drown you,’ sezee.
“‘Drown me ez deep ez you please, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘but don’t fling me in dat brier-patch,’ sezee.
“‘Dey ain’t no water nigh,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en now I speck I’ll hatter skin you,’ sezee.
“‘Skin me, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘snatch out my eyeballs, t’ar out my years by de roots, en cut off my legs,’ sezee, ‘but do please, Brer Fox, don’t fling me in dat brier-patch,’ sezee.
“Co’se Brer Fox wanter hurt Brer Rabbit bad ez he kin, so he cotch him by de behime legs en slung ’im right in de middle er de brier-patch. Dar wuz a considerbul flutter whar Brer Rabbit struck de bushes, en Brer Fox sorter hung roun’ fer ter see what wuz gwineter happen. Bimeby he hear somebody call ’im, en way up de hill he see Brer Rabbit settin’ cross-legged on a chinkapin log koamin’ de pitch outen his har wid a chip. Den Brer Fox know dat he bin swop off mighty bad. Brer Rabbit wuz bleedzed fer ter fling back some er his sass, en he holler out:
“‘Bred en bawn in a brier-patch, Brer Fox; bred en bawn in a brier-patch!’ en wid dat he skip out des ez lively ez a cricket in de embers.”
“Tar-Baby lay still, en Brer Fox he lay low.
“‘Youer stuck up, dat’s w’at you is,’ says Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘en I’m gwineter kyore you, dat’s w’at I’m a-gwineter do,’ sezee.
“Brer Fox he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, he did, but Tar-Baby ain’t sayin’ nuthin’.
“‘I’m gwineter larn you howter talk ter ’specttubble fokes ef hit’s de las ’ack,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. ‘Ef you don’t take off dat hat en tell me howdy, I’m gwineter bus’ you wide open,’ sezee.
“Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox he lay low.
“Brer Rabbit keep on axin’ ’im, en de Tar-Baby she keep on sayin’ nuthin’, twel present’y Brer Rabbit draw back wid his fis’, he did, en blip he tuck er side er de head. Right dar’s whar he broke his merlasses-jug. His fis’ stuck, en he can’t pull loose. De tar hilt him. But Tar-Baby she stay still, en Brer Fox he lay low.
“‘Ef you don’t lemme loose, I’ll knock you ag’in,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee; en wid dat he fotch ’er a wipe wid te udder han’, en dat stuck. Tar-Baby she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, en Brer Fox he lay low.
“‘Tu’n me loose, of’ I kick de natal stuffin’ outen you,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee; but de Tar-Baby she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’. She des hilt on, en den Brer Rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same way. Brer Fox he lay low. Den Brer Rabbit squall out dat ef de Tar-Baby don’t tu’n ’im loose he butt ’er crank-sided. En den he butted, en his head got stuck. Den Brer Fox he santered fort’, lookin’ des ez innercent ez wunner yo’ mammy’s mockin’-birds.
“‘Howdy, Brer Rabbit?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘You look sorter stuck up dis mawnin’,’ sezee; en den he rolled on de groun’, en laft en laft twel he couldn’t laff no mo’. ‘I speck you’ll take dinner wid me dis time, Brer Rabbit. I done laid in some calamus-root, en I ain’t gwineter take no skuse,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.”
Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes.
“Did the fox eat the rabbit?” asked the little boy to whom the story had been told.
“Dat’s all de fur de tale goes,” replied the old man. “He mout, en den ag’in he moutent. Some say Jedge B’ar come ’long en loosed ’im; some say he didn’t. I hear Miss Sally callin’. You better run ’long.”…
“Uncle Remus,” said the little boy one evening, when he had found the old man with little or nothing to do, “did the fox kill and eat the rabbit when he caught him with the Tar-Baby?”
“Law, honey, ain’t I tell you ’bout dat?” replied the old darky, chuckling slyly. “I ’clar ter grashus I ought er tole you dat; but ole man Nod wuz ridin’ on my eyelids twel a leetle mo’n I’d ’a’ dis’member’d my own name, en den on to dat here come yo’ mammy hollerin’ atter you.
“W’at I tell you w’en I fus’ begin? I tole you Brer Rabbit wuz a monstus soon beas’; leas’ways dat’s w’at I laid out fer ter tell you. Well, den, honey, don’t you go en make no udder kalkalashuns, kaze in dem days Brer Rabbit en his family wuz at de head er de gang w’en enny racket wuz on han’, en dar dey stayed. ’Fo’ you begins fer ter wipe yo’ eyes ’bout Brer Rabbit, you wait en see whar’bouts Brer Rabbit gwineter fetch up at. But dat’s needer yer ner dar.
“W’en Brer Fox fine Brer Rabbit mixt up wid de Tar-Baby, he feel mighty good, en he roll on de groun’ en laff. Bimeby he up ’n’ say, sezee:
“Well, I speck I got you dis time, Brer Rabbit,’ sezee; ‘maybe I ain’t but I speck I is. You been runnin’ roun’ here sassin’ atter me a mighty long time, but I speck you done come ter de een’ er de row. You bin cuttin’ up yo’ capers en bouncin’ roun’ in dis naberhood ontwel you come ter b’leeve yo’se’f de boss er de whole gang. En den youer allers some’rs whar you got no bizness,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘Who ax you fer ter come en strike up a ’quaintence wid dish yer Tar-Baby? En who stuck you up dar whar you iz? Nobody in de roun’ worril. You des tuck en jam yo’se’f on dat Tar-Baby widout waitin’ fer enny invite,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee—‘ en dar you is, en dar you’ll stay twel I fixes up a bresh-pile and fires her up, kaze I’m gwineter bobbycue you dis day, sho’,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“Den Brer Rabbit talk mighty ’umble.
“‘I don’t keer w’at you do wid me, Brer Fox,’ sezee, ‘so you don’t fling me in dat brier-patch. Roas’ me, Brer Fox,’ sezee, ‘but don’t fling me in dat brier-patch,’ sezee.
“‘Hit’s so much trouble fer ter kindle a fier,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘dat I speck I’ll hatter hang you,’ sezee.
“‘Hang me des ez high ez you please, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘but do fer de Lord’s sake don’t fling me in dat brier-patch,’ sezee.
“‘I ain’t got no string,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en now I speck I’ll hatter drown you,’ sezee.
“‘Drown me ez deep ez you please, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘but don’t fling me in dat brier-patch,’ sezee.
“‘Dey ain’t no water nigh,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en now I speck I’ll hatter skin you,’ sezee.
“‘Skin me, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘snatch out my eyeballs, t’ar out my years by de roots, en cut off my legs,’ sezee, ‘but do please, Brer Fox, don’t fling me in dat brier-patch,’ sezee.
“Co’se Brer Fox wanter hurt Brer Rabbit bad ez he kin, so he cotch him by de behime legs en slung ’im right in de middle er de brier-patch. Dar wuz a considerbul flutter whar Brer Rabbit struck de bushes, en Brer Fox sorter hung roun’ fer ter see what wuz gwineter happen. Bimeby he hear somebody call ’im, en way up de hill he see Brer Rabbit settin’ cross-legged on a chinkapin log koamin’ de pitch outen his har wid a chip. Den Brer Fox know dat he bin swop off mighty bad. Brer Rabbit wuz bleedzed fer ter fling back some er his sass, en he holler out:
“‘Bred en bawn in a brier-patch, Brer Fox; bred en bawn in a brier-patch!’ en wid dat he skip out des ez lively ez a cricket in de embers.”
r_azary
16-08-2006, 00:32
How the Leopard Got His Spots by Rudyard Kipling
In the days when everybody started fair, Best Beloved, the Leopard lived in a place called the High Veldt. 'Member it wasn't the Low Veldt, or the Bush Veldt, or the Sour Veldt, but the 'sclusively bare, hot shiny High Veldt, where there was sand and sandy-coloured rock and 'sclusively tufts of sandy-yellowish grass. The Giraffe and the Zebra and the Eland and the Koodoo and the Hartebeest lived there: and they were 'sclusively sandy-yellow-brownish all over; but the Leopard, he was the 'sclusivest sandiest-yellowest-brownest of them all -- a greyish-yellowish catty-shaped kind of beast, and he matched the 'sclusively yellowish-greyish-brownish colour of the High Veldt to one hair. This was very bad for the Giraffe and the Zebra and the rest of them: for he would lie down by a 'sclusively yellowish-greyish-brownish stone or clump of grass, and when the Giraffe or the Zebra or the Eland or the Koodoo or the Bush-Buck or the Bonte-Buck came by he would surprise them out of their jumpsome lives. He would indeed! And, also, there was an Ethiopian with bows and arrows (a 'sclusively greyish-brownish-yellowish man he was then), who lived on the High Veldt with the Leopard: and the two used to hunt together -- the Ethiopian with his bows and arrows, and the Leopard 'sclusively with his teeth and claws -- till the Giraffe and the Eland and the Koodoo and the Quagga and all the rest of them didn't know which way to jump, Best Beloved. They didn't indeed!
After a long time -- things lived for ever so long in those days -- they learned to avoid anything that looked like a Leopard or an Ethiopian: and bit by bit -- the Giraffe began it, because his legs were the longest -- they went away from the High Veldt. They scuttled for days and days till they came to a great forest, 'sclusively full of trees and bushes and stripy, speckly, patchy-blatchy shadows, and there they hid: and after another long time, what with standing half in the shade and half out of it, and what with the slippery-slidy shadows of the trees falling on them, the Giraffe grew blotchy, and the Zebra grew stripy, and the Eland and the Koodoo grew darker, with little wavy grey lines on their backs like bark on a tree-trunk: and so, though you could hear them and smell them, you could very seldom see them, and then only when you knew precisely where to look. They had a beautiful time in the 'sclusively speckly-spickly shadows of the forest, while the Leopard and the Ethiopian ran about over the 'sclusively greyish-yellowish-reddish High Veldt outside, wondering where all their breakfasts and their dinners and their teas had gone. At last they were so hungry that they ate rats and beetles and rock-rabbits, the Leopard and the Ethiopian, and then they had the Big Tummy-ache, both together: and then they met Baviaan -- the dog-headed, barking baboon, who is Quite the Wisest Animal in All South Africa.
Said the Leopard to Baviaan (and it was a very hot day), 'Where has all the game gone?'
And Baviaan winked. He knew.
Said Ethiopian to Baviaan, 'Can you tell me the present habitat of the aboriginal Fauna?' (That meant just the same thing, but the Ethiopian always used long words. He was a grown-up.)
And Baviaan winked. He knew.
Then said Baviaan, 'The game has gone into other spots: and my advice to you, Leopard, is to go into other spots as soon as you can.'
And the Ethiopian said, 'That is all very fine, but I wish to know whither the aboriginal Fauna has migrated.'
Then said Baviaan, 'The aboriginal Fauna has joined the aboriginal Flora because it was high time for a change; and my advice to you, Ethiopian, is to change as soon as you can.'
That puzzled the Leopard and the Ethiopian, but they set off to look for the aboriginal Flora, and presently, after ever so many days, they saw a great, high, tall forest full of tree-trunks all 'sclusively speckled and sprottled and spottled, dotted and splashed and slashed and hatched and cross-hatched with shadows. (Say that quickly aloud, and you will see how very shadowy the forest must have been.)
'What is this,' said the Leopard, 'that is so 'sclusively dark, and yet so full of little pieces of light?'
'I don't know,' said the Ethiopian, 'but it ought to be the aboriginal Flora. I can smell Giraffe, and I can hear Giraffe, but I can't see Giraffe.'
'That's curious,' said the Leopard. 'I suppose it is because we have just come in out of the sunshine. I can smell Zebra, and I can hear Zebra, but I can't see Zebra.'
'Wait a bit,' said the Ethiopian. 'It's a long time since we've hunted 'em. Perhaps we've forgotten what they were like.'
'Fiddle!' said the Leopard. I remember them perfectly on the High Veldt, especially their marrow- bones. Giraffe is about seventeen feet high, of a 'sclusively fulvous golden-yellow from head to heel: and Zebra is about four and a half feet high, of a 'sclusively grey-fawn colour from head to heel.'
'Umm,' said the Ethiopian, looking into the speckly-spickly shadows of the aboriginal Flora-forest. 'Then they ought to show up in this dark place like ripe bananas in a smoke-house.'
But they didn't. The Leopard and the Ethiopian hunted all day; and though they could smell them and hear them, they never saw one of them.
'For goodness' sake,' said the Leopard at tea-time, 'let us wait till it gets dark. This daylight hunting is a perfect scandal.'
So they waited till dark, and then the Leopard heard something breathing sniffily in the starlight that fell all stripy through the branches, and he jumped at the noise, and it smelt like Zebra, and it felt like Zebra, and when he knocked it down it kicked like Zebra, but he couldn't see it. So he said, 'Be quiet, O you person without any form. I am going to sit on your head till morning, because there is something about you that I don't understand.'
Presently he heard a grunt and a crash and a scramble, and the Ethiopian called out, 'I've caught a thing that I can't see. It smells like Giraffe, and it kicks like Giraffe, but it hasn't any form.'
'Don't you trust it, said the Leopard. 'Sit on its head till the morning -- same as me. They haven't any form -- any of 'em.'
So they sat down on them hard till bright morning-time, and then Leopard said, 'What have you at your end of the table, Brother?'
The Ethiopian scratched his head and said, 'It ought to be 'sclusively a rich fulvous orange-tawny from head to heel, and it ought to be Giraffe; but it is covered all over with chestnut blotches. What have you at your end of the table, Brother?'
And the Leopard scratched his head and said, 'It ought to be 'sclusively a delicate greyish-fawn, and it ought to be Zebra; but it is covered all over with black and purple stripes. What in the world have you been doing to yourself, Zebra? Don't you know that if you were on the High Veldt I could see you ten miles off? You haven't any form.'
'Yes,' said the Zebra, 'but this isn't the High Veldt. Can't you see?'
'I can now,' said the Leopard, 'But I couldn't all yesterday. How is it done?'
'Let us up,' said the Zebra, 'and we will show you.'
They let the Zebra and the Giraffe get up; and Zebra moved away to some little thorn-bushes where the sunlight fell all stripy, and the Giraffe moved off to some tallish trees where the shadows fell all blotchy.
'Now watch,' said the Zebra and the Giraffe. 'This is the way it's done. One -- two -- three! And where's your breakfast?'
Leopard stared, and Ethiopian stared, but all they could see were stripy shadows and blotched shadows in the forest, but never a sign of Zebra and Giraffe. They had just walked off and hidden themselves in the shadowy forest.
'Hi! Hi!' said the Ethiopian. 'That's a trick worth learning. Take a lesson by it, Leopard. You show up in this dark place like a bar of soap in a coal-scuttle.'
'Ho! Ho!' said the Leopard. 'Would it surprise you very much to know that you show up in this dark place like a mustard-plaster on a sack of coals?'
'Well, calling names won't catch dinner,' said the Ethiopian. 'The long and the little of it is that we don't match our backgrounds. I'm going to take Baviaan's advice. He told me I ought to change: and as I've nothing to change except my skin I'm going to change that.'
'What to?' said the Leopard, tremendously excited.
'To a nice working blackish-brownish colour, with a little purple in it, and touches of slaty-blue. It will be the very thing for hiding in hollows and behind trees.'
So he changed his skin then and there, and the Leopard was more excited than ever: he had never seen a man change his skin before.
'But what about me?' she said, when the Ethiopian had worked his last little finger into his fine new black skin.
'You take Baviaan's advice too. He told you to go into spots.'
'So I did,' said the Leopard. 'I went into other spots as fast as I could. I went into this spot with you, and a lot of good it has done me.'
'Oh,' said the Ethiopian. 'Baviaan didn't mean spots in South Africa. he meant spots on your skin.'
'What's the use of that?' said the Leopard.
'Think of Giraffe,' said the Ethiopian. 'Or if you prefer stripes, think of Zebra. They find their spots and stripes give them per-fect satisfaction.'
'Umm,' said the Leopard. 'I wouldn't look like Zebra -- not for ever so.'
'Well, make up your mind,' said the Ethiopian, 'because I'd hate to go hunting without you, but I must if you insist on looking like a sunflower against a tarred fence.'
'I'll take spots, then,' said the Leopard; 'but don't make 'em too vulgar-big. I wouldn't look like Giraffe -- not for ever so.'
'I'll make 'em with the tips of my fingers,' said the Ethiopian. 'There's plenty of black left on my skin still. Stand over!'
Then the Ethiopian put his five fingers close together (there was plenty of black left on his new skin still) and pressed them all over the Leopard, and wherever the five fingers touched they left five little black marks, all close together. You can see them on any Leopard's skin you like, Best Beloved. Sometimes the fingers slipped and the marks got a little blurred; but if you look closely at any Leopard now you will see that there are always five spots -- off five black finger-tips.
'Now you are a beauty!' said the Ethiopian. 'You can lie out on the bare ground and look like a heap of pebbles. You can lie out on the naked rocks and look like a piece of pudding-stone. You can lie out on a leafy branch and look like sunshine sifting through the leaves; and you can lie right across the centre of a path and look like nothing in particular. Think of that and purr!'
'But if I'm all this,' said the Leopard, 'why didn't you go spotty too?'
'Oh, plain black's best,' said the Ethiopian. 'Now come along and we'll see if we can't get even with Mr One-Two-Three-Where's-your-Breakfast!'
So they went away and lived happily ever afterwards, Best Beloved. That is all.
Oh, now and then you will hear grown-ups say, 'Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the Leopard his spots?' I don't think even grown-ups would keep on saying such a silly thing if the Leopard and the Ethiopian hadn't done it once -- do you? But they will never do it again, Best Beloved. They are quite contented as they are.
In the days when everybody started fair, Best Beloved, the Leopard lived in a place called the High Veldt. 'Member it wasn't the Low Veldt, or the Bush Veldt, or the Sour Veldt, but the 'sclusively bare, hot shiny High Veldt, where there was sand and sandy-coloured rock and 'sclusively tufts of sandy-yellowish grass. The Giraffe and the Zebra and the Eland and the Koodoo and the Hartebeest lived there: and they were 'sclusively sandy-yellow-brownish all over; but the Leopard, he was the 'sclusivest sandiest-yellowest-brownest of them all -- a greyish-yellowish catty-shaped kind of beast, and he matched the 'sclusively yellowish-greyish-brownish colour of the High Veldt to one hair. This was very bad for the Giraffe and the Zebra and the rest of them: for he would lie down by a 'sclusively yellowish-greyish-brownish stone or clump of grass, and when the Giraffe or the Zebra or the Eland or the Koodoo or the Bush-Buck or the Bonte-Buck came by he would surprise them out of their jumpsome lives. He would indeed! And, also, there was an Ethiopian with bows and arrows (a 'sclusively greyish-brownish-yellowish man he was then), who lived on the High Veldt with the Leopard: and the two used to hunt together -- the Ethiopian with his bows and arrows, and the Leopard 'sclusively with his teeth and claws -- till the Giraffe and the Eland and the Koodoo and the Quagga and all the rest of them didn't know which way to jump, Best Beloved. They didn't indeed!
After a long time -- things lived for ever so long in those days -- they learned to avoid anything that looked like a Leopard or an Ethiopian: and bit by bit -- the Giraffe began it, because his legs were the longest -- they went away from the High Veldt. They scuttled for days and days till they came to a great forest, 'sclusively full of trees and bushes and stripy, speckly, patchy-blatchy shadows, and there they hid: and after another long time, what with standing half in the shade and half out of it, and what with the slippery-slidy shadows of the trees falling on them, the Giraffe grew blotchy, and the Zebra grew stripy, and the Eland and the Koodoo grew darker, with little wavy grey lines on their backs like bark on a tree-trunk: and so, though you could hear them and smell them, you could very seldom see them, and then only when you knew precisely where to look. They had a beautiful time in the 'sclusively speckly-spickly shadows of the forest, while the Leopard and the Ethiopian ran about over the 'sclusively greyish-yellowish-reddish High Veldt outside, wondering where all their breakfasts and their dinners and their teas had gone. At last they were so hungry that they ate rats and beetles and rock-rabbits, the Leopard and the Ethiopian, and then they had the Big Tummy-ache, both together: and then they met Baviaan -- the dog-headed, barking baboon, who is Quite the Wisest Animal in All South Africa.
Said the Leopard to Baviaan (and it was a very hot day), 'Where has all the game gone?'
And Baviaan winked. He knew.
Said Ethiopian to Baviaan, 'Can you tell me the present habitat of the aboriginal Fauna?' (That meant just the same thing, but the Ethiopian always used long words. He was a grown-up.)
And Baviaan winked. He knew.
Then said Baviaan, 'The game has gone into other spots: and my advice to you, Leopard, is to go into other spots as soon as you can.'
And the Ethiopian said, 'That is all very fine, but I wish to know whither the aboriginal Fauna has migrated.'
Then said Baviaan, 'The aboriginal Fauna has joined the aboriginal Flora because it was high time for a change; and my advice to you, Ethiopian, is to change as soon as you can.'
That puzzled the Leopard and the Ethiopian, but they set off to look for the aboriginal Flora, and presently, after ever so many days, they saw a great, high, tall forest full of tree-trunks all 'sclusively speckled and sprottled and spottled, dotted and splashed and slashed and hatched and cross-hatched with shadows. (Say that quickly aloud, and you will see how very shadowy the forest must have been.)
'What is this,' said the Leopard, 'that is so 'sclusively dark, and yet so full of little pieces of light?'
'I don't know,' said the Ethiopian, 'but it ought to be the aboriginal Flora. I can smell Giraffe, and I can hear Giraffe, but I can't see Giraffe.'
'That's curious,' said the Leopard. 'I suppose it is because we have just come in out of the sunshine. I can smell Zebra, and I can hear Zebra, but I can't see Zebra.'
'Wait a bit,' said the Ethiopian. 'It's a long time since we've hunted 'em. Perhaps we've forgotten what they were like.'
'Fiddle!' said the Leopard. I remember them perfectly on the High Veldt, especially their marrow- bones. Giraffe is about seventeen feet high, of a 'sclusively fulvous golden-yellow from head to heel: and Zebra is about four and a half feet high, of a 'sclusively grey-fawn colour from head to heel.'
'Umm,' said the Ethiopian, looking into the speckly-spickly shadows of the aboriginal Flora-forest. 'Then they ought to show up in this dark place like ripe bananas in a smoke-house.'
But they didn't. The Leopard and the Ethiopian hunted all day; and though they could smell them and hear them, they never saw one of them.
'For goodness' sake,' said the Leopard at tea-time, 'let us wait till it gets dark. This daylight hunting is a perfect scandal.'
So they waited till dark, and then the Leopard heard something breathing sniffily in the starlight that fell all stripy through the branches, and he jumped at the noise, and it smelt like Zebra, and it felt like Zebra, and when he knocked it down it kicked like Zebra, but he couldn't see it. So he said, 'Be quiet, O you person without any form. I am going to sit on your head till morning, because there is something about you that I don't understand.'
Presently he heard a grunt and a crash and a scramble, and the Ethiopian called out, 'I've caught a thing that I can't see. It smells like Giraffe, and it kicks like Giraffe, but it hasn't any form.'
'Don't you trust it, said the Leopard. 'Sit on its head till the morning -- same as me. They haven't any form -- any of 'em.'
So they sat down on them hard till bright morning-time, and then Leopard said, 'What have you at your end of the table, Brother?'
The Ethiopian scratched his head and said, 'It ought to be 'sclusively a rich fulvous orange-tawny from head to heel, and it ought to be Giraffe; but it is covered all over with chestnut blotches. What have you at your end of the table, Brother?'
And the Leopard scratched his head and said, 'It ought to be 'sclusively a delicate greyish-fawn, and it ought to be Zebra; but it is covered all over with black and purple stripes. What in the world have you been doing to yourself, Zebra? Don't you know that if you were on the High Veldt I could see you ten miles off? You haven't any form.'
'Yes,' said the Zebra, 'but this isn't the High Veldt. Can't you see?'
'I can now,' said the Leopard, 'But I couldn't all yesterday. How is it done?'
'Let us up,' said the Zebra, 'and we will show you.'
They let the Zebra and the Giraffe get up; and Zebra moved away to some little thorn-bushes where the sunlight fell all stripy, and the Giraffe moved off to some tallish trees where the shadows fell all blotchy.
'Now watch,' said the Zebra and the Giraffe. 'This is the way it's done. One -- two -- three! And where's your breakfast?'
Leopard stared, and Ethiopian stared, but all they could see were stripy shadows and blotched shadows in the forest, but never a sign of Zebra and Giraffe. They had just walked off and hidden themselves in the shadowy forest.
'Hi! Hi!' said the Ethiopian. 'That's a trick worth learning. Take a lesson by it, Leopard. You show up in this dark place like a bar of soap in a coal-scuttle.'
'Ho! Ho!' said the Leopard. 'Would it surprise you very much to know that you show up in this dark place like a mustard-plaster on a sack of coals?'
'Well, calling names won't catch dinner,' said the Ethiopian. 'The long and the little of it is that we don't match our backgrounds. I'm going to take Baviaan's advice. He told me I ought to change: and as I've nothing to change except my skin I'm going to change that.'
'What to?' said the Leopard, tremendously excited.
'To a nice working blackish-brownish colour, with a little purple in it, and touches of slaty-blue. It will be the very thing for hiding in hollows and behind trees.'
So he changed his skin then and there, and the Leopard was more excited than ever: he had never seen a man change his skin before.
'But what about me?' she said, when the Ethiopian had worked his last little finger into his fine new black skin.
'You take Baviaan's advice too. He told you to go into spots.'
'So I did,' said the Leopard. 'I went into other spots as fast as I could. I went into this spot with you, and a lot of good it has done me.'
'Oh,' said the Ethiopian. 'Baviaan didn't mean spots in South Africa. he meant spots on your skin.'
'What's the use of that?' said the Leopard.
'Think of Giraffe,' said the Ethiopian. 'Or if you prefer stripes, think of Zebra. They find their spots and stripes give them per-fect satisfaction.'
'Umm,' said the Leopard. 'I wouldn't look like Zebra -- not for ever so.'
'Well, make up your mind,' said the Ethiopian, 'because I'd hate to go hunting without you, but I must if you insist on looking like a sunflower against a tarred fence.'
'I'll take spots, then,' said the Leopard; 'but don't make 'em too vulgar-big. I wouldn't look like Giraffe -- not for ever so.'
'I'll make 'em with the tips of my fingers,' said the Ethiopian. 'There's plenty of black left on my skin still. Stand over!'
Then the Ethiopian put his five fingers close together (there was plenty of black left on his new skin still) and pressed them all over the Leopard, and wherever the five fingers touched they left five little black marks, all close together. You can see them on any Leopard's skin you like, Best Beloved. Sometimes the fingers slipped and the marks got a little blurred; but if you look closely at any Leopard now you will see that there are always five spots -- off five black finger-tips.
'Now you are a beauty!' said the Ethiopian. 'You can lie out on the bare ground and look like a heap of pebbles. You can lie out on the naked rocks and look like a piece of pudding-stone. You can lie out on a leafy branch and look like sunshine sifting through the leaves; and you can lie right across the centre of a path and look like nothing in particular. Think of that and purr!'
'But if I'm all this,' said the Leopard, 'why didn't you go spotty too?'
'Oh, plain black's best,' said the Ethiopian. 'Now come along and we'll see if we can't get even with Mr One-Two-Three-Where's-your-Breakfast!'
So they went away and lived happily ever afterwards, Best Beloved. That is all.
Oh, now and then you will hear grown-ups say, 'Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the Leopard his spots?' I don't think even grown-ups would keep on saying such a silly thing if the Leopard and the Ethiopian hadn't done it once -- do you? But they will never do it again, Best Beloved. They are quite contented as they are.
r_azary
16-08-2006, 00:34
The Music on the Hill by Saki
Sylvia Seltoun ate her breakfast in the morning-room at Yessney with a pleasant sense of ultimate victory, such as a fervent Ironside might have permitted himself on the morrow of Worcester fight. She was scarcely pugnacious by temperament, but belonged to that more successful class of fighters who are pugnacious by circumstance. Fate had willed that her life should be occupied with a series of small struggles, usually with the odds slightly against her, and usually she had just managed to come through winning. And now she felt that she had brought her hardest and certainly her most important struggle to a successful issue. To have married Mortimer Seltoun, "Dead Mortimer" as his more intimate enemies called him, in the teeth of the cold hostility of his family, and in spite of his unaffected indifference to women, was indeed an achievement that had needed some determination and adroitness to carry through; yesterday she had brought her victory to its concluding stage by wrenching her husband away from Town and its group of satellite watering-places and "settling him down," in the vocabulary of her kind, in this remote wood-girt manor farm which was his country house.
"You will never get Mortimer to go," his mother had said carpingly, "but if he once goes he'll stay; Yessney throws almost as much a spell over him as Town does. One can understand what holds him to Town, but Yessney--" and the dowager had shrugged her shoulders.
There was a sombre almost savage wildness about Yessney that was certainly not likely to appeal to town-bred tastes, and Sylvia, notwithstanding her name, was accustomed to nothing much more sylvan than "leafy Kensington." She looked on the country as something excellent and wholesome in its way, which was apt to become troublesome if you encouraged it overmuch. Distrust of townlife had been a new thing with her, born of her marriage with Mortimer, and she had watched with satisfaction the gradual fading of what she called "the Jermyn-Street-look" in his eyes as the woods and heather of Yessney had closed in on them yesternight. Her will-power and strategy had prevailed; Mortimer would stay. Outside the morning-room windows was a triangular slope of turf, which the indulgent might call a lawn, and beyond its low hedge of neglected fuschia bushes a steeper slope of heather and bracken dropped down into cavernous combes overgrown with oak and yew. In its wild open savagery there seemed a stealthy linking of the joy of life with the terror of unseen things. Sylvia smiled complacently as she gazed with a School-of-Art appreciation at the landscape, and then of a sudden she almost shuddered.
"It is very wild," she said to Mortimer, who had joined her; "one could almost think that in such a place the worship of Pan had never quite died out."
"The worship of Pan never has died out," said Mortimer. "Other newer gods have drawn aside his votaries from time to time, but he is the Nature-God to whom all must come back at last. He has been called the Father of all the Gods, but most of his children have been stillborn."
Sylvia was religious in an honest, vaguely devotional kind of way, and did not like to hear her beliefs spoken of as mere aftergrowths, but it was at least something new and hopeful to hear Dead Mortimer speak with such energy and conviction on any subject.
"You don't really believe in Pan?" she asked incredulously.
"I've been a fool in most things," said Mortimer quietly, "but I'm not such a fool as not to believe in Pan when I'm down here. And if you're wise you won't disbelieve in him too boastfully while you're in his country."
It was not till a week later, when Sylvia had exhausted the attractions of the woodland walks round Yessney, that she ventured on a tour of inspection of the farm buildings. A farmyard suggested in her mind a scene of cheerful bustle, with churns and flails and smiling dairymaids, and teams of horses drinking knee-deep in duck-crowded ponds. As she wandered among the gaunt grey buildings of Yessney manor farm her first impression was one of crushing stillness and desolation, as though she had happened on some lone deserted homestead long given over to owls and cobwebs; then came a sense of furtive watchful hostility, the same shadow of unseen things that seemed to lurk in the wooded combes and coppices. From behind heavy doors and shuttered windows came the restless stamp of hoof or rasp of chain halter, and at times a muffled bellow from some stalled beast. From a distant comer a shaggy dog watched her with intent unfriendly eyes; as she drew near it slipped quietly into its kennel, and slipped out again as noiselessly when she had passed by. A few hens, questing for food under a rick, stole away under a gate at her approach. Sylvia felt that if she had come across any human beings in this wilderness of barn and byre they would have fled wraith-like from her gaze. At last, turning a corner quickly, she came upon a living thing that did not fly from her. Astretch in a pool of mud was an enormous sow, gigantic beyond the town-woman's wildest computation of swine-flesh, and speedily alert to resent and if necessary repel the unwonted intrusion. It was Sylvia's turn to make an unobtrusive retreat. As she threaded her way past rickyards and cowsheds and long blank walls, she started suddenly at a strange sound - the echo of a boy's laughter, golden and equivocal. Jan, the only boy employed on the farm, a tow-headed, wizen-faced yokel, was visibly at work on a potato clearing half-way up the nearest hill-side, and Mortimer, when questioned, knew of no other probable or possible begetter of the hidden mockery that had ambushed Sylvia's retreat. The memory of that untraceable echo was added to her other impressions of a furtive sinister "something" that hung around Yessney.
Of Mortimer she saw very little; farm and woods and trout- streams seemed to swallow him up from dawn till dusk. Once, following the direction she had seen him take in the morning, she came to an open space in a nut copse, further shut in by huge yew trees, in the centre of which stood a stone pedestal surmounted by a small bronze figure of a youthful Pan. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, but her attention was chiefly held by the fact that a newly cut bunch of grapes had been placed as an offering at its feet. Grapes were none too plentiful at the manor house, and Sylvia snatched the bunch angrily from the pedestal. Contemptuous annoyance dominated her thoughts as she strolled slowly homeward, and then gave way to a sharp feeling of something that was very near fright; across a thick tangle of undergrowth a boy's face was scowling at her, brown and beautiful, with unutterably evil eyes. It was a lonely pathway, all pathways round Yessney were lonely for the matter of that, and she sped forward without waiting to give a closer scrutiny to this sudden apparition. It was not till she had reached the house that she discovered that she had dropped the bunch of grapes in her flight.
"I saw a youth in the wood today," she told Mortimer that evening, "brown-faced and rather handsome, but a scoundrel to look at. A gipsy lad, I suppose."
"A reasonable theory," said Mortimer, "only there aren't any gipsies in these parts at present."
"Then who was he?" asked Sylvia, and as Mortimer appeared to have no theory of his own she passed on to recount her finding of the votive offering.
"I suppose it was your doing," she observed; "it's a harmless piece of lunacy, but people would think you dreadfully silly if they knew of it."
"Did you meddle with it in any way?" asked Mortimer.
"I - I threw the grapes away. It seemed so silly," said Sylvia, watching Mortimer's impassive face for a sign of annoyance.
"I don't think you were wise to do that," he said reflectively. "I've heard it said that the Wood Gods are rather horrible to those who molest them."
"Horrible perhaps to those that believe in them, but you see I don't," retorted Sylvia.
"All the same," said Mortimer in his even, dispassionate tone, "I should avoid the woods and orchards if I were you, and give a wide berth to the horned beasts on the farm."
It was all nonsense, of course, but in that lonely wood-girt spot nonsense seemed able to rear a bastard brood of uneasiness.
"Mortimer," said Sylvia suddenly, "I think we will go back to Town some time soon."
Her victory had not been so complete as she had supposed; it had carried her on to ground that she was already anxious to quit.
"I don't think you will ever go back to Town," said Mortimer. He seemed to be paraphrasing his mother's prediction as to himself.
Sylvia noted with dissatisfaction and some self-contempt that the course of her next afternoon's ramble took her instinctively clear of the network of woods. As to the horned cattle, Mortimer's warning was scarcely needed, for she had always regarded them as of doubtful neutrality at the best: her imagination
unsexed the most matronly dairy cows and turned them into bulls liable to "see red" at any moment. The ram who fed in the narrow paddock below the orchards she had adjudged, after ample and cautious probation, to be of docile temper; today, however, she decided to leave his docility untested, for the usually tranquil beast was roaming with every sign of restlessness from corner to corner of his meadow. A low, fitful piping, as of some reedy flute, was coming from the depth of a neighbouring copse, and there seemed to be some subtle connection between the animal's restless pacing and the wild music from the wood. Sylvia turned her steps in an upward direction and climbed the heather-clad slopes that stretched in rolling shoulders high above Yessney. She had left the piping notes behind her, but across the wooded combes at her feet the wind brought her another kind of music, the straining bay of hounds in full chase. Yessney was just on the outskirts of the Devon-and-Somerset country, and the hunted deer sometimes came that way. Sylvia could presently see a dark body, breasting hill after hill, and sinking again and again out of sight as he crossed the combes, while behind him steadily swelled that relentless chorus, and she grew tense with the excited sympathy that one feels for any hunted thing in whose capture one is not directly interested. And at last he broke through the outermost line of oak scrub and fern and stood panting in the open, a fat September stag carrying a well-furnished head. His obvious course was to drop down to the brown pools of Undercombe, and thence make his way towards the red deer's favoured sanctuary, the sea. To Sylvia's surprise, however, he turned his head to the upland slope and came lumbering resolutely onward over the heather. "It will be dreadful," she thought, "the hounds will pull him down under my very eyes." But the music of the pack seemed to have died away for a moment, and in its place she heard again that wild piping, which rose now on this side, now on that, as though urging the failing stag to a final effort. Sylvia stood well aside from his path, half hidden in a thick growth of whortle bushes, and watched him swing stiffly upward, his flanks dark with sweat, the coarse hair on his neck showing light by contrast. The pipe music shrilled suddenly around her, seeming to come from the bushes at her very feet, and at the same moment the great beast slewed round and bore directly down upon her. In an instant her pity for the hunted animal was changed to wild terror at her own danger; the thick heather roots mocked her scrambling efforts at flight, and she looked frantically downward for a glimpse of oncoming hounds. The huge antler spikes were within a few yards of her, and in a flash of numbing fear she remembered Mortimer's warning, to beware of horned beasts on the farm. And then with a quick throb of joy she saw that she was not alone; a human figure stood a few paces aside, knee-deep in the whortle bushes.
"Drive it off!" she shrieked. But the figure made no answering movement.
The antlers drove straight at her breast, the acrid smell of the hunted animal was in her nostrils, but her eyes were filled with the horror of something she saw other than her oncoming death. And in her ears rang the echo of a boy's laughter, golden and equivocal.
Sylvia Seltoun ate her breakfast in the morning-room at Yessney with a pleasant sense of ultimate victory, such as a fervent Ironside might have permitted himself on the morrow of Worcester fight. She was scarcely pugnacious by temperament, but belonged to that more successful class of fighters who are pugnacious by circumstance. Fate had willed that her life should be occupied with a series of small struggles, usually with the odds slightly against her, and usually she had just managed to come through winning. And now she felt that she had brought her hardest and certainly her most important struggle to a successful issue. To have married Mortimer Seltoun, "Dead Mortimer" as his more intimate enemies called him, in the teeth of the cold hostility of his family, and in spite of his unaffected indifference to women, was indeed an achievement that had needed some determination and adroitness to carry through; yesterday she had brought her victory to its concluding stage by wrenching her husband away from Town and its group of satellite watering-places and "settling him down," in the vocabulary of her kind, in this remote wood-girt manor farm which was his country house.
"You will never get Mortimer to go," his mother had said carpingly, "but if he once goes he'll stay; Yessney throws almost as much a spell over him as Town does. One can understand what holds him to Town, but Yessney--" and the dowager had shrugged her shoulders.
There was a sombre almost savage wildness about Yessney that was certainly not likely to appeal to town-bred tastes, and Sylvia, notwithstanding her name, was accustomed to nothing much more sylvan than "leafy Kensington." She looked on the country as something excellent and wholesome in its way, which was apt to become troublesome if you encouraged it overmuch. Distrust of townlife had been a new thing with her, born of her marriage with Mortimer, and she had watched with satisfaction the gradual fading of what she called "the Jermyn-Street-look" in his eyes as the woods and heather of Yessney had closed in on them yesternight. Her will-power and strategy had prevailed; Mortimer would stay. Outside the morning-room windows was a triangular slope of turf, which the indulgent might call a lawn, and beyond its low hedge of neglected fuschia bushes a steeper slope of heather and bracken dropped down into cavernous combes overgrown with oak and yew. In its wild open savagery there seemed a stealthy linking of the joy of life with the terror of unseen things. Sylvia smiled complacently as she gazed with a School-of-Art appreciation at the landscape, and then of a sudden she almost shuddered.
"It is very wild," she said to Mortimer, who had joined her; "one could almost think that in such a place the worship of Pan had never quite died out."
"The worship of Pan never has died out," said Mortimer. "Other newer gods have drawn aside his votaries from time to time, but he is the Nature-God to whom all must come back at last. He has been called the Father of all the Gods, but most of his children have been stillborn."
Sylvia was religious in an honest, vaguely devotional kind of way, and did not like to hear her beliefs spoken of as mere aftergrowths, but it was at least something new and hopeful to hear Dead Mortimer speak with such energy and conviction on any subject.
"You don't really believe in Pan?" she asked incredulously.
"I've been a fool in most things," said Mortimer quietly, "but I'm not such a fool as not to believe in Pan when I'm down here. And if you're wise you won't disbelieve in him too boastfully while you're in his country."
It was not till a week later, when Sylvia had exhausted the attractions of the woodland walks round Yessney, that she ventured on a tour of inspection of the farm buildings. A farmyard suggested in her mind a scene of cheerful bustle, with churns and flails and smiling dairymaids, and teams of horses drinking knee-deep in duck-crowded ponds. As she wandered among the gaunt grey buildings of Yessney manor farm her first impression was one of crushing stillness and desolation, as though she had happened on some lone deserted homestead long given over to owls and cobwebs; then came a sense of furtive watchful hostility, the same shadow of unseen things that seemed to lurk in the wooded combes and coppices. From behind heavy doors and shuttered windows came the restless stamp of hoof or rasp of chain halter, and at times a muffled bellow from some stalled beast. From a distant comer a shaggy dog watched her with intent unfriendly eyes; as she drew near it slipped quietly into its kennel, and slipped out again as noiselessly when she had passed by. A few hens, questing for food under a rick, stole away under a gate at her approach. Sylvia felt that if she had come across any human beings in this wilderness of barn and byre they would have fled wraith-like from her gaze. At last, turning a corner quickly, she came upon a living thing that did not fly from her. Astretch in a pool of mud was an enormous sow, gigantic beyond the town-woman's wildest computation of swine-flesh, and speedily alert to resent and if necessary repel the unwonted intrusion. It was Sylvia's turn to make an unobtrusive retreat. As she threaded her way past rickyards and cowsheds and long blank walls, she started suddenly at a strange sound - the echo of a boy's laughter, golden and equivocal. Jan, the only boy employed on the farm, a tow-headed, wizen-faced yokel, was visibly at work on a potato clearing half-way up the nearest hill-side, and Mortimer, when questioned, knew of no other probable or possible begetter of the hidden mockery that had ambushed Sylvia's retreat. The memory of that untraceable echo was added to her other impressions of a furtive sinister "something" that hung around Yessney.
Of Mortimer she saw very little; farm and woods and trout- streams seemed to swallow him up from dawn till dusk. Once, following the direction she had seen him take in the morning, she came to an open space in a nut copse, further shut in by huge yew trees, in the centre of which stood a stone pedestal surmounted by a small bronze figure of a youthful Pan. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, but her attention was chiefly held by the fact that a newly cut bunch of grapes had been placed as an offering at its feet. Grapes were none too plentiful at the manor house, and Sylvia snatched the bunch angrily from the pedestal. Contemptuous annoyance dominated her thoughts as she strolled slowly homeward, and then gave way to a sharp feeling of something that was very near fright; across a thick tangle of undergrowth a boy's face was scowling at her, brown and beautiful, with unutterably evil eyes. It was a lonely pathway, all pathways round Yessney were lonely for the matter of that, and she sped forward without waiting to give a closer scrutiny to this sudden apparition. It was not till she had reached the house that she discovered that she had dropped the bunch of grapes in her flight.
"I saw a youth in the wood today," she told Mortimer that evening, "brown-faced and rather handsome, but a scoundrel to look at. A gipsy lad, I suppose."
"A reasonable theory," said Mortimer, "only there aren't any gipsies in these parts at present."
"Then who was he?" asked Sylvia, and as Mortimer appeared to have no theory of his own she passed on to recount her finding of the votive offering.
"I suppose it was your doing," she observed; "it's a harmless piece of lunacy, but people would think you dreadfully silly if they knew of it."
"Did you meddle with it in any way?" asked Mortimer.
"I - I threw the grapes away. It seemed so silly," said Sylvia, watching Mortimer's impassive face for a sign of annoyance.
"I don't think you were wise to do that," he said reflectively. "I've heard it said that the Wood Gods are rather horrible to those who molest them."
"Horrible perhaps to those that believe in them, but you see I don't," retorted Sylvia.
"All the same," said Mortimer in his even, dispassionate tone, "I should avoid the woods and orchards if I were you, and give a wide berth to the horned beasts on the farm."
It was all nonsense, of course, but in that lonely wood-girt spot nonsense seemed able to rear a bastard brood of uneasiness.
"Mortimer," said Sylvia suddenly, "I think we will go back to Town some time soon."
Her victory had not been so complete as she had supposed; it had carried her on to ground that she was already anxious to quit.
"I don't think you will ever go back to Town," said Mortimer. He seemed to be paraphrasing his mother's prediction as to himself.
Sylvia noted with dissatisfaction and some self-contempt that the course of her next afternoon's ramble took her instinctively clear of the network of woods. As to the horned cattle, Mortimer's warning was scarcely needed, for she had always regarded them as of doubtful neutrality at the best: her imagination
unsexed the most matronly dairy cows and turned them into bulls liable to "see red" at any moment. The ram who fed in the narrow paddock below the orchards she had adjudged, after ample and cautious probation, to be of docile temper; today, however, she decided to leave his docility untested, for the usually tranquil beast was roaming with every sign of restlessness from corner to corner of his meadow. A low, fitful piping, as of some reedy flute, was coming from the depth of a neighbouring copse, and there seemed to be some subtle connection between the animal's restless pacing and the wild music from the wood. Sylvia turned her steps in an upward direction and climbed the heather-clad slopes that stretched in rolling shoulders high above Yessney. She had left the piping notes behind her, but across the wooded combes at her feet the wind brought her another kind of music, the straining bay of hounds in full chase. Yessney was just on the outskirts of the Devon-and-Somerset country, and the hunted deer sometimes came that way. Sylvia could presently see a dark body, breasting hill after hill, and sinking again and again out of sight as he crossed the combes, while behind him steadily swelled that relentless chorus, and she grew tense with the excited sympathy that one feels for any hunted thing in whose capture one is not directly interested. And at last he broke through the outermost line of oak scrub and fern and stood panting in the open, a fat September stag carrying a well-furnished head. His obvious course was to drop down to the brown pools of Undercombe, and thence make his way towards the red deer's favoured sanctuary, the sea. To Sylvia's surprise, however, he turned his head to the upland slope and came lumbering resolutely onward over the heather. "It will be dreadful," she thought, "the hounds will pull him down under my very eyes." But the music of the pack seemed to have died away for a moment, and in its place she heard again that wild piping, which rose now on this side, now on that, as though urging the failing stag to a final effort. Sylvia stood well aside from his path, half hidden in a thick growth of whortle bushes, and watched him swing stiffly upward, his flanks dark with sweat, the coarse hair on his neck showing light by contrast. The pipe music shrilled suddenly around her, seeming to come from the bushes at her very feet, and at the same moment the great beast slewed round and bore directly down upon her. In an instant her pity for the hunted animal was changed to wild terror at her own danger; the thick heather roots mocked her scrambling efforts at flight, and she looked frantically downward for a glimpse of oncoming hounds. The huge antler spikes were within a few yards of her, and in a flash of numbing fear she remembered Mortimer's warning, to beware of horned beasts on the farm. And then with a quick throb of joy she saw that she was not alone; a human figure stood a few paces aside, knee-deep in the whortle bushes.
"Drive it off!" she shrieked. But the figure made no answering movement.
The antlers drove straight at her breast, the acrid smell of the hunted animal was in her nostrils, but her eyes were filled with the horror of something she saw other than her oncoming death. And in her ears rang the echo of a boy's laughter, golden and equivocal.
r_azary
16-08-2006, 00:36
The Masque of the Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe
The red death had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal--the madness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress, and termination of the disease, were incidents of half an hour.
But Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his crenellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts.
They resolved to leave means neither of ingress nor egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the "Red Death."
It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.
It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven--an imperial suite, In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extant is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have been expected from the duke's love of the "bizarre." The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor of which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue--and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange--the fifth with white--the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes were scarlet--a deep blood color. Now in no one of any of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro and depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire, that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly lit the room. And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or back chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all. It was within this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. It pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and while the chimes of the clock yet rang. it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused revery or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of Time that flies), there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before. But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for color and effects. He disregarded the "decora" of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be _sure_ he was not.
He had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great fete; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm--much of what has been seen in "Hernani." There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There were much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these the dreams--writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away--they have endured but an instant--and a light half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted windows through which stream the rays of the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven there are now none of the maskers who venture, for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appalls; and to him whose foot falls on the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches _their_ ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments.
But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps that more of thought crept, with more of time into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus too, it happened, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, of horror, and of disgust.
In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in _blood_--and his broad brow, with all the features of his face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.
When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell on this spectral image (which, with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but in the next, his brow reddened with rage.
"Who dares"--he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him--"who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him--that we may know whom we have to hang, at sunrise, from the battlements!"
It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly, for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.
It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who, at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth a hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince's person; and while the vast assembly, as with one impulse, shrank from the centers of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple--to the purple to the green--through the green to the orange--through this again to the white--and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddened with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry--and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which most instantly afterward, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and seizing the mummer whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave cerements and corpse-like mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.
And now was acknowledged the presence of the red death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And darkness and decay and the red death held illimitable dominion over all.
The red death had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal--the madness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress, and termination of the disease, were incidents of half an hour.
But Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his crenellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts.
They resolved to leave means neither of ingress nor egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the "Red Death."
It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.
It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven--an imperial suite, In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extant is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have been expected from the duke's love of the "bizarre." The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor of which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue--and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange--the fifth with white--the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes were scarlet--a deep blood color. Now in no one of any of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro and depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire, that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly lit the room. And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or back chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all. It was within this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. It pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and while the chimes of the clock yet rang. it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused revery or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of Time that flies), there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before. But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for color and effects. He disregarded the "decora" of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be _sure_ he was not.
He had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great fete; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm--much of what has been seen in "Hernani." There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There were much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these the dreams--writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away--they have endured but an instant--and a light half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted windows through which stream the rays of the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven there are now none of the maskers who venture, for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appalls; and to him whose foot falls on the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches _their_ ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments.
But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps that more of thought crept, with more of time into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus too, it happened, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, of horror, and of disgust.
In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in _blood_--and his broad brow, with all the features of his face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.
When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell on this spectral image (which, with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but in the next, his brow reddened with rage.
"Who dares"--he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him--"who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him--that we may know whom we have to hang, at sunrise, from the battlements!"
It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly, for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.
It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who, at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth a hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince's person; and while the vast assembly, as with one impulse, shrank from the centers of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple--to the purple to the green--through the green to the orange--through this again to the white--and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddened with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry--and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which most instantly afterward, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and seizing the mummer whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave cerements and corpse-like mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.
And now was acknowledged the presence of the red death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And darkness and decay and the red death held illimitable dominion over all.
r_azary
16-08-2006, 00:41
A Wicked Woman by Jack London
It was because she had broken with Billy that Loretta had come visiting to Santa Clara. Billy could not understand. His sister had reported that he had walked the floor and cried all night. Loretta had not slept all night either, while she had wept most of the night. Daisy knew this, because it was in her arms that the weeping had been done. And Daisy's husband, Captain Kitt, knew, too. The tears of Loretta, and the comforting by Daisy, had lost him some sleep.
Now Captain Kitt did not like to lose sleep. Neither did he want Loretta to marry Billy--nor anybody else. It was Captain Kitt's belief that Daisy needed the help of her younger sister in the household. But he did not say this aloud. Instead, he always insisted that Loretta was too young to think of marriage. So it was Captain Kitt's idea that Loretta should be packed off on a visit to Mrs. Hemingway. There wouldn't be any Billy there.
Before Loretta had been at Santa Clara a week, she was convinced that Captain Kitt's idea was a good one. In the first place, though Billy wouldn't believe it, she did not want to marry Billy. And in the second place, though Captain Kitt wouldn't believe it, she did not want to leave Daisy. By the time Loretta had been at Santa Clara two weeks, she was absolutely certain that she did not want to marry Billy. But she was not so sure about not wanting to leave Daisy. Not that she loved Daisy less, but that she--had doubts.
The day of Loretta's arrival, a nebulous plan began shaping itself in Mrs. Hemingway's brain. The second day she remarked to Jack Hemingway, her husband, that Loretta was so innocent a young thing that were it not for her sweet guilelessness she would be positively stupid. In proof of which, Mrs. Hemingway told her husband several things that made him chuckle. By the third day Mrs. Hemingway's plan had taken recognizable form. Then it was that she composed a letter. On the envelope she wrote: "Mr. Edward Bashford, Athenian Club, San Francisco."
"Dear Ned," the letter began. She had once been violently loved by him for three weeks in her pre-marital days. But she had covenanted herself to Jack Hemingway, who had prior claims, and her heart as well; and Ned Bashford had philosophically not broken his heart over it. He merely added the experience to a large fund of similarly collected data out of which he manufactured philosophy. Artistically and temperamentally he was a Greek-- a tired Greek. He was fond of quoting from Nietzsche, in token that he, too, had passed through the long sickness that follows upon the ardent search for truth; that he too had emerged, too experienced, too shrewd, too profound, ever again to be afflicted by the madness of youths in their love of truth. "'To worship appearance,'" he often quoted; "'to believe in forms, in tones, in words, in the whole Olympus of appearance!'" This particular excerpt he always concluded with, "'Those Greeks were superficial--OUT OF PROFUNDITY!'"
He was a fairly young Greek, jaded and worn. Women were faithless and unveracious, he held--at such times that he had relapses and descended to pessimism from his wonted high philosophical calm. He did not believe in the truth of women; but, faithful to his German master, he did not strip from them the airy gauzes that veiled their untruth. He was content to accept them as appearances and to make the best of it. He was superficial- -OUT OF PROFUNDITY.
"Jack says to be sure to say to you, 'good swimming,'" Mrs. Hemingway wrote in her letter; "and also 'to bring your fishing duds along.'" Mrs. Hemingway wrote other things in the letter. She told him that at last she was prepared to exhibit to him an absolutely true, unsullied, and innocent woman. "A more guileless, immaculate bud of womanhood never blushed on the planet," was one of the several ways in which she phrased the inducement. And to her husband she said triumphantly, "If I don't marry Ned off this time--" leaving unstated the terrible alternative that she lacked either vocabulary to express or imagination to conceive.
Contrary to all her forebodings, Loretta found that she was not unhappy at Santa Clara. Truly, Billy wrote to her every day, but his letters were less distressing than his presence. Also, the ordeal of being away from Daisy was not so severe as she had expected. For the first time in her life she was not lost in eclipse in the blaze of Daisy's brilliant and mature personality. Under such favourable circumstances Loretta came rapidly to the front, while Mrs. Hemingway modestly and shamelessly retreated into the background.
Loretta began to discover that she was not a pale orb shining by reflection. Quite unconsciously she became a small centre of things. When she was at the piano, there was some one to turn the pages for her and to express preferences for certain songs. When she dropped her handkerchief, there was some one to pick it up. And there was some one to accompany her in ramblings and flower gatherings. Also, she learned to cast flies in still pools and below savage riffles, and how not to entangle silk lines and gut-leaders with the shrubbery.
Jack Hemingway did not care to teach beginners, and fished much by himself, or not at all, thus giving Ned Bashford ample time in which to consider Loretta as an appearance. As such, she was all that his philosophy demanded. Her blue eyes had the direct gaze of a boy, and out of his profundity he delighted in them and forbore to shudder at the duplicity his philosophy bade him to believe lurked in their depths. She had the grace of a slender flower, the fragility of colour and line of fine china, in all of which he pleasured greatly, without thought of the Life Force palpitating beneath and in spite of Bernard Shaw--in whom he believed.
Loretta burgeoned. She swiftly developed personality. She discovered a will of her own and wishes of her own that were not everlastingly entwined with the will and the wishes of Daisy. She was petted by Jack Hemingway, spoiled by Alice Hemingway, and devotedly attended by Ned Bashford. They encouraged her whims and laughed at her follies, while she developed the pretty little tyrannies that are latent in all pretty and delicate women. Her environment acted as a soporific upon her ancient desire always to live with Daisy. This desire no longer prodded her as in the days of her companionship with Billy. The more she saw of Billy, the more certain she had been that she could not live away from Daisy. The more she saw of Ned Bashford, the more she forgot her pressing need of Daisy.
Ned Bashford likewise did some forgetting. He confused superficiality with profundity, and entangled appearance with reality until he accounted them one. Loretta was different from other women. There was no masquerade about her. She was real. He said as much to Mrs. Hemingway, and more, who agreed with him and at the same time caught her husband's eyelid drooping down for the moment in an unmistakable wink.
It was at this time that Loretta received a letter from Billy that was somewhat different from his others. In the main, like all his letters, it was pathological. It was a long recital of symptoms and sufferings, his nervousness, his sleeplessness, and the state of his heart. Then followed reproaches, such as he had never made before. They were sharp enough to make her weep, and true enough to put tragedy into her face. This tragedy she carried down to the breakfast table. It made Jack and Mrs. Hemingway speculative, and it worried Ned. They glanced to him for explanation, but he shook his head.
It was because she had broken with Billy that Loretta had come visiting to Santa Clara. Billy could not understand. His sister had reported that he had walked the floor and cried all night. Loretta had not slept all night either, while she had wept most of the night. Daisy knew this, because it was in her arms that the weeping had been done. And Daisy's husband, Captain Kitt, knew, too. The tears of Loretta, and the comforting by Daisy, had lost him some sleep.
Now Captain Kitt did not like to lose sleep. Neither did he want Loretta to marry Billy--nor anybody else. It was Captain Kitt's belief that Daisy needed the help of her younger sister in the household. But he did not say this aloud. Instead, he always insisted that Loretta was too young to think of marriage. So it was Captain Kitt's idea that Loretta should be packed off on a visit to Mrs. Hemingway. There wouldn't be any Billy there.
Before Loretta had been at Santa Clara a week, she was convinced that Captain Kitt's idea was a good one. In the first place, though Billy wouldn't believe it, she did not want to marry Billy. And in the second place, though Captain Kitt wouldn't believe it, she did not want to leave Daisy. By the time Loretta had been at Santa Clara two weeks, she was absolutely certain that she did not want to marry Billy. But she was not so sure about not wanting to leave Daisy. Not that she loved Daisy less, but that she--had doubts.
The day of Loretta's arrival, a nebulous plan began shaping itself in Mrs. Hemingway's brain. The second day she remarked to Jack Hemingway, her husband, that Loretta was so innocent a young thing that were it not for her sweet guilelessness she would be positively stupid. In proof of which, Mrs. Hemingway told her husband several things that made him chuckle. By the third day Mrs. Hemingway's plan had taken recognizable form. Then it was that she composed a letter. On the envelope she wrote: "Mr. Edward Bashford, Athenian Club, San Francisco."
"Dear Ned," the letter began. She had once been violently loved by him for three weeks in her pre-marital days. But she had covenanted herself to Jack Hemingway, who had prior claims, and her heart as well; and Ned Bashford had philosophically not broken his heart over it. He merely added the experience to a large fund of similarly collected data out of which he manufactured philosophy. Artistically and temperamentally he was a Greek-- a tired Greek. He was fond of quoting from Nietzsche, in token that he, too, had passed through the long sickness that follows upon the ardent search for truth; that he too had emerged, too experienced, too shrewd, too profound, ever again to be afflicted by the madness of youths in their love of truth. "'To worship appearance,'" he often quoted; "'to believe in forms, in tones, in words, in the whole Olympus of appearance!'" This particular excerpt he always concluded with, "'Those Greeks were superficial--OUT OF PROFUNDITY!'"
He was a fairly young Greek, jaded and worn. Women were faithless and unveracious, he held--at such times that he had relapses and descended to pessimism from his wonted high philosophical calm. He did not believe in the truth of women; but, faithful to his German master, he did not strip from them the airy gauzes that veiled their untruth. He was content to accept them as appearances and to make the best of it. He was superficial- -OUT OF PROFUNDITY.
"Jack says to be sure to say to you, 'good swimming,'" Mrs. Hemingway wrote in her letter; "and also 'to bring your fishing duds along.'" Mrs. Hemingway wrote other things in the letter. She told him that at last she was prepared to exhibit to him an absolutely true, unsullied, and innocent woman. "A more guileless, immaculate bud of womanhood never blushed on the planet," was one of the several ways in which she phrased the inducement. And to her husband she said triumphantly, "If I don't marry Ned off this time--" leaving unstated the terrible alternative that she lacked either vocabulary to express or imagination to conceive.
Contrary to all her forebodings, Loretta found that she was not unhappy at Santa Clara. Truly, Billy wrote to her every day, but his letters were less distressing than his presence. Also, the ordeal of being away from Daisy was not so severe as she had expected. For the first time in her life she was not lost in eclipse in the blaze of Daisy's brilliant and mature personality. Under such favourable circumstances Loretta came rapidly to the front, while Mrs. Hemingway modestly and shamelessly retreated into the background.
Loretta began to discover that she was not a pale orb shining by reflection. Quite unconsciously she became a small centre of things. When she was at the piano, there was some one to turn the pages for her and to express preferences for certain songs. When she dropped her handkerchief, there was some one to pick it up. And there was some one to accompany her in ramblings and flower gatherings. Also, she learned to cast flies in still pools and below savage riffles, and how not to entangle silk lines and gut-leaders with the shrubbery.
Jack Hemingway did not care to teach beginners, and fished much by himself, or not at all, thus giving Ned Bashford ample time in which to consider Loretta as an appearance. As such, she was all that his philosophy demanded. Her blue eyes had the direct gaze of a boy, and out of his profundity he delighted in them and forbore to shudder at the duplicity his philosophy bade him to believe lurked in their depths. She had the grace of a slender flower, the fragility of colour and line of fine china, in all of which he pleasured greatly, without thought of the Life Force palpitating beneath and in spite of Bernard Shaw--in whom he believed.
Loretta burgeoned. She swiftly developed personality. She discovered a will of her own and wishes of her own that were not everlastingly entwined with the will and the wishes of Daisy. She was petted by Jack Hemingway, spoiled by Alice Hemingway, and devotedly attended by Ned Bashford. They encouraged her whims and laughed at her follies, while she developed the pretty little tyrannies that are latent in all pretty and delicate women. Her environment acted as a soporific upon her ancient desire always to live with Daisy. This desire no longer prodded her as in the days of her companionship with Billy. The more she saw of Billy, the more certain she had been that she could not live away from Daisy. The more she saw of Ned Bashford, the more she forgot her pressing need of Daisy.
Ned Bashford likewise did some forgetting. He confused superficiality with profundity, and entangled appearance with reality until he accounted them one. Loretta was different from other women. There was no masquerade about her. She was real. He said as much to Mrs. Hemingway, and more, who agreed with him and at the same time caught her husband's eyelid drooping down for the moment in an unmistakable wink.
It was at this time that Loretta received a letter from Billy that was somewhat different from his others. In the main, like all his letters, it was pathological. It was a long recital of symptoms and sufferings, his nervousness, his sleeplessness, and the state of his heart. Then followed reproaches, such as he had never made before. They were sharp enough to make her weep, and true enough to put tragedy into her face. This tragedy she carried down to the breakfast table. It made Jack and Mrs. Hemingway speculative, and it worried Ned. They glanced to him for explanation, but he shook his head.
r_azary
16-08-2006, 00:43
"I'll find out to-night," Mrs. Hemingway said to her husband.
But Ned caught Loretta in the afternoon in the big living-room. She tried to turn away. He caught her hands, and she faced him with wet lashes and trembling lips. He looked at her, silently and kindly. The lashes grew wetter.
"There, there, don't cry, little one," he said soothingly.
He put his arm protectingly around her shoulder. And to his shoulder, like a tired child, she turned her face. He thrilled in ways unusual for a Greek who has recovered from the long sickness.
"Oh, Ned," she sobbed on his shoulder, "if you only knew how wicked I am!"
He smiled indulgently, and breathed in a great breath freighted with the fragrance of her hair. He thought of his world-experience of women, and drew another long breath. There seemed to emanate from her the perfect sweetness of a child--"the aura of a white soul," was the way he phrased it to himself.
Then he noticed that her sobs were increasing.
"What's the matter, little one?" he asked pettingly and almost paternally. "Has Jack been bullying you? Or has your dearly beloved sister failed to write?"
She did not answer, and he felt that he really must kiss her hair, that he could not be responsible if the situation continued much longer.
"Tell me," he said gently, "and we'll see what I can do."
"I can't. You will despise me.--Oh, Ned, I am so ashamed!"
He laughed incredulously, and lightly touched her hair with his lips--so lightly that she did not know.
"Dear little one, let us forget all about it, whatever it is. I want to tell you how I love--"
She uttered a sharp cry that was all delight, and then moaned--
"Too late!"
"Too late?" he echoed in surprise.
"Oh, why did I? Why did I?" she was moaning.
He was aware of a swift chill at his heart.
"What?" he asked.
"Oh, I . . . he . . . Billy.
"I am such a wicked woman, Ned. I know you will never speak to me again."
"This--er--this Billy," he began haltingly. "He is your brother?"
"No . . . he . . . I didn't know. I was so young. I could not help it. Oh, I shall go mad! I shall go mad!"
It was then that Loretta felt his shoulder and the encircling arm become limp. He drew away from her gently, and gently he deposited her in a big chair, where she buried her face and sobbed afresh. He twisted his moustache fiercely, then drew up another chair and sat down.
"I--I do not understand," he said.
"I am so unhappy," she wailed.
"Why unhappy?"
"Because . . . he . . . he wants me to marry him."
His face cleared on the instant, and he placed a hand soothingly on hers.
"That should not make any girl unhappy," he remarked sagely. "Because you don't love him is no reason--of course, you don't love him?"
Loretta shook her head and shoulders in a vigorous negative.
"What?"
Bashford wanted to make sure.
"No," she asserted explosively. "I don't love Billy! I don't want to love Billy!"
"Because you don't love him," Bashford resumed with confidence, "is no reason that you should be unhappy just because he has proposed to you."
She sobbed again, and from the midst of her sobs she cried--
"That's the trouble. I wish I did love him. Oh, I wish I were dead!"
"Now, my dear child, you are worrying yourself over trifles." His other hand crossed over after its mate and rested on hers. "Women do it every day. Because you have changed your mind or did not know your mind, because you have--to use an unnecessarily harsh word--jilted a man--"
"Jilted!" She had raised her head and was looking at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "Oh, Ned, if that were all!"
"All?" he asked in a hollow voice, while his hands slowly retreated from hers. He was about to speak further, then remained silent.
"But I don't want to marry him," Loretta broke forth protestingly.
"Then I shouldn't," he counselled.
"But I ought to marry him."
"OUGHT to marry him?"
She nodded.
"That is a strong word."
"I know it is," she acquiesced, while she strove to control her trembling lips. Then she spoke more calmly. "I am a wicked woman, a terribly wicked woman. No one knows how wicked I am--except Billy."
There was a pause. Ned Bashford's face was grave, and he looked queerly at Loretta.
"He--Billy knows?" he asked finally.
A reluctant nod and flaming cheeks was the reply.
He debated with himself for a while, seeming, like a diver, to be preparing himself for the plunge.
"Tell me about it." He spoke very firmly. "You must tell me all of it."
"And will you--ever--forgive me?" she asked in a faint, small voice.
He hesitated, drew a long breath, and made the plunge.
"Yes," he said desperately. "I'll forgive you. Go ahead."
"There was no one to tell me," she began. "We were with each other so much. I did not know anything of the world--then."
She paused to meditate. Bashford was biting his lip impatiently.
"If I had only known--"
She paused again.
"Yes, go on," he urged.
"We were together almost every evening."
"Billy?" he demanded, with a savageness that startled her.
"Yes, of course, Billy. We were with each other so much . . . If I had only known . . . There was no one to tell me . . . I was so young--"
Her lips parted as though to speak further, and she regarded him anxiously.
"The scoundrel!"
With the explosion Ned Bashford was on his feet, no longer a tired Greek, but a violently angry young man.
"Billy is not a scoundrel; he is a good man," Loretta defended, with a firmness that surprised Bashford.
"I suppose you'll be telling me next that it was all your fault," he said sarcastically.
She nodded.
"What?" he shouted.
"It was all my fault," she said steadily. "I should never have let him. I was to blame."
Bashford ceased from his pacing up and down, and when he spoke, his voice was resigned.
"All right," he said. "I don't blame you in the least, Loretta. And you have been very honest. But Billy is right, and you are wrong. You must get married."
"To Billy?" she asked, in a dim, far-away voice.
"Yes, to Billy. I'll see to it. Where does he live? I'll make him."
"But I don't want to marry Billy!" she cried out in alarm. "Oh, Ned, you won't do that?"
"I shall," he answered sternly. "You must. And Billy must. Do you understand?"
Loretta buried her face in the cushioned chair back, and broke into a passionate storm of sobs.
All that Bashford could make out at first, as he listened, was: "But I don't want to leave Daisy! I don't want to leave Daisy!"
He paced grimly back and forth, then stopped curiously to listen.
"How was I to know?--Boo--hoo," Loretta was crying. "He didn't tell me. Nobody else ever kissed me. I never dreamed a kiss could be so terrible . . . until, boo-hoo . . . until he wrote to me. I only got the letter this morning."
His face brightened. It seemed as though light was dawning on him.
"Is that what you're crying about?"
"N--no."
His heart sank.
"Then what are you crying about?" he asked in a hopeless voice.
"Because you said I had to marry Billy. And I don't want to marry Billy. I don't want to leave Daisy. I don't know what I want. I wish I were dead."
He nerved himself for another effort.
"Now look here, Loretta, be sensible. What is this about kisses. You haven't told me everything?"
"I--I don't want to tell you everything."
She looked at him beseechingly in the silence that fell.
"Must I?" she quavered finally.
"You must," he said imperatively. "You must tell me everything."
"Well, then . . . must I?"
"You must."
"He . . . I . . . we . . ." she began flounderingly. Then blurted out, "I let him, and he kissed me."
"Go on," Bashford commanded desperately.
"That's all," she answered.
"All?" There was a vast incredulity in his voice.
"All?" In her voice was an interrogation no less vast.
"I mean--er--nothing worse?" He was overwhelmingly aware of his own awkwardness.
"Worse?" She was frankly puzzled. "As though there could be! Billy said- -"
"When did he say it?" Bashford demanded abruptly.
"In his letter I got this morning. Billy said that my . . . our . . . our kisses were terrible if we didn't get married."
Bashford's head was swimming.
"What else did Billy say?" he asked.
"He said that when a woman allowed a man to kiss her, she always married him--that it was terrible if she didn't. It was the custom, he said; and I say it is a bad, wicked custom, and I don't like it. I know I'm terrible," she added defiantly, "but I can't help it."
Bashford absent-mindedly brought out a cigarette.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked, as he struck a match.
Then he came to himself.
"I beg your pardon," he cried, flinging away match and cigarette. "I don't want to smoke. I didn't mean that at all. What I mean is--"
He bent over Loretta, caught her hands in his, then sat on the arm of the chair and softly put one arm around her.
"Loretta, I am a fool. I mean it. And I mean something more. I want you to be my wife."
He waited anxiously in the pause that followed.
"You might answer me," he urged.
"I will . . . if--"
"Yes, go on. If what?"
"If I don't have to marry Billy."
"You can't marry both of us," he almost shouted.
"And it isn't the custom . . . what. . . what Billy said?"
"No, it isn't the custom. Now, Loretta, will you marry me?"
"Don't be angry with me," she pouted demurely.
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her.
"I wish it were the custom," she said in a faint voice, from the midst of the embrace, "because then I'd have to marry you, Ned dear . . . wouldn't I?"
But Ned caught Loretta in the afternoon in the big living-room. She tried to turn away. He caught her hands, and she faced him with wet lashes and trembling lips. He looked at her, silently and kindly. The lashes grew wetter.
"There, there, don't cry, little one," he said soothingly.
He put his arm protectingly around her shoulder. And to his shoulder, like a tired child, she turned her face. He thrilled in ways unusual for a Greek who has recovered from the long sickness.
"Oh, Ned," she sobbed on his shoulder, "if you only knew how wicked I am!"
He smiled indulgently, and breathed in a great breath freighted with the fragrance of her hair. He thought of his world-experience of women, and drew another long breath. There seemed to emanate from her the perfect sweetness of a child--"the aura of a white soul," was the way he phrased it to himself.
Then he noticed that her sobs were increasing.
"What's the matter, little one?" he asked pettingly and almost paternally. "Has Jack been bullying you? Or has your dearly beloved sister failed to write?"
She did not answer, and he felt that he really must kiss her hair, that he could not be responsible if the situation continued much longer.
"Tell me," he said gently, "and we'll see what I can do."
"I can't. You will despise me.--Oh, Ned, I am so ashamed!"
He laughed incredulously, and lightly touched her hair with his lips--so lightly that she did not know.
"Dear little one, let us forget all about it, whatever it is. I want to tell you how I love--"
She uttered a sharp cry that was all delight, and then moaned--
"Too late!"
"Too late?" he echoed in surprise.
"Oh, why did I? Why did I?" she was moaning.
He was aware of a swift chill at his heart.
"What?" he asked.
"Oh, I . . . he . . . Billy.
"I am such a wicked woman, Ned. I know you will never speak to me again."
"This--er--this Billy," he began haltingly. "He is your brother?"
"No . . . he . . . I didn't know. I was so young. I could not help it. Oh, I shall go mad! I shall go mad!"
It was then that Loretta felt his shoulder and the encircling arm become limp. He drew away from her gently, and gently he deposited her in a big chair, where she buried her face and sobbed afresh. He twisted his moustache fiercely, then drew up another chair and sat down.
"I--I do not understand," he said.
"I am so unhappy," she wailed.
"Why unhappy?"
"Because . . . he . . . he wants me to marry him."
His face cleared on the instant, and he placed a hand soothingly on hers.
"That should not make any girl unhappy," he remarked sagely. "Because you don't love him is no reason--of course, you don't love him?"
Loretta shook her head and shoulders in a vigorous negative.
"What?"
Bashford wanted to make sure.
"No," she asserted explosively. "I don't love Billy! I don't want to love Billy!"
"Because you don't love him," Bashford resumed with confidence, "is no reason that you should be unhappy just because he has proposed to you."
She sobbed again, and from the midst of her sobs she cried--
"That's the trouble. I wish I did love him. Oh, I wish I were dead!"
"Now, my dear child, you are worrying yourself over trifles." His other hand crossed over after its mate and rested on hers. "Women do it every day. Because you have changed your mind or did not know your mind, because you have--to use an unnecessarily harsh word--jilted a man--"
"Jilted!" She had raised her head and was looking at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "Oh, Ned, if that were all!"
"All?" he asked in a hollow voice, while his hands slowly retreated from hers. He was about to speak further, then remained silent.
"But I don't want to marry him," Loretta broke forth protestingly.
"Then I shouldn't," he counselled.
"But I ought to marry him."
"OUGHT to marry him?"
She nodded.
"That is a strong word."
"I know it is," she acquiesced, while she strove to control her trembling lips. Then she spoke more calmly. "I am a wicked woman, a terribly wicked woman. No one knows how wicked I am--except Billy."
There was a pause. Ned Bashford's face was grave, and he looked queerly at Loretta.
"He--Billy knows?" he asked finally.
A reluctant nod and flaming cheeks was the reply.
He debated with himself for a while, seeming, like a diver, to be preparing himself for the plunge.
"Tell me about it." He spoke very firmly. "You must tell me all of it."
"And will you--ever--forgive me?" she asked in a faint, small voice.
He hesitated, drew a long breath, and made the plunge.
"Yes," he said desperately. "I'll forgive you. Go ahead."
"There was no one to tell me," she began. "We were with each other so much. I did not know anything of the world--then."
She paused to meditate. Bashford was biting his lip impatiently.
"If I had only known--"
She paused again.
"Yes, go on," he urged.
"We were together almost every evening."
"Billy?" he demanded, with a savageness that startled her.
"Yes, of course, Billy. We were with each other so much . . . If I had only known . . . There was no one to tell me . . . I was so young--"
Her lips parted as though to speak further, and she regarded him anxiously.
"The scoundrel!"
With the explosion Ned Bashford was on his feet, no longer a tired Greek, but a violently angry young man.
"Billy is not a scoundrel; he is a good man," Loretta defended, with a firmness that surprised Bashford.
"I suppose you'll be telling me next that it was all your fault," he said sarcastically.
She nodded.
"What?" he shouted.
"It was all my fault," she said steadily. "I should never have let him. I was to blame."
Bashford ceased from his pacing up and down, and when he spoke, his voice was resigned.
"All right," he said. "I don't blame you in the least, Loretta. And you have been very honest. But Billy is right, and you are wrong. You must get married."
"To Billy?" she asked, in a dim, far-away voice.
"Yes, to Billy. I'll see to it. Where does he live? I'll make him."
"But I don't want to marry Billy!" she cried out in alarm. "Oh, Ned, you won't do that?"
"I shall," he answered sternly. "You must. And Billy must. Do you understand?"
Loretta buried her face in the cushioned chair back, and broke into a passionate storm of sobs.
All that Bashford could make out at first, as he listened, was: "But I don't want to leave Daisy! I don't want to leave Daisy!"
He paced grimly back and forth, then stopped curiously to listen.
"How was I to know?--Boo--hoo," Loretta was crying. "He didn't tell me. Nobody else ever kissed me. I never dreamed a kiss could be so terrible . . . until, boo-hoo . . . until he wrote to me. I only got the letter this morning."
His face brightened. It seemed as though light was dawning on him.
"Is that what you're crying about?"
"N--no."
His heart sank.
"Then what are you crying about?" he asked in a hopeless voice.
"Because you said I had to marry Billy. And I don't want to marry Billy. I don't want to leave Daisy. I don't know what I want. I wish I were dead."
He nerved himself for another effort.
"Now look here, Loretta, be sensible. What is this about kisses. You haven't told me everything?"
"I--I don't want to tell you everything."
She looked at him beseechingly in the silence that fell.
"Must I?" she quavered finally.
"You must," he said imperatively. "You must tell me everything."
"Well, then . . . must I?"
"You must."
"He . . . I . . . we . . ." she began flounderingly. Then blurted out, "I let him, and he kissed me."
"Go on," Bashford commanded desperately.
"That's all," she answered.
"All?" There was a vast incredulity in his voice.
"All?" In her voice was an interrogation no less vast.
"I mean--er--nothing worse?" He was overwhelmingly aware of his own awkwardness.
"Worse?" She was frankly puzzled. "As though there could be! Billy said- -"
"When did he say it?" Bashford demanded abruptly.
"In his letter I got this morning. Billy said that my . . . our . . . our kisses were terrible if we didn't get married."
Bashford's head was swimming.
"What else did Billy say?" he asked.
"He said that when a woman allowed a man to kiss her, she always married him--that it was terrible if she didn't. It was the custom, he said; and I say it is a bad, wicked custom, and I don't like it. I know I'm terrible," she added defiantly, "but I can't help it."
Bashford absent-mindedly brought out a cigarette.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked, as he struck a match.
Then he came to himself.
"I beg your pardon," he cried, flinging away match and cigarette. "I don't want to smoke. I didn't mean that at all. What I mean is--"
He bent over Loretta, caught her hands in his, then sat on the arm of the chair and softly put one arm around her.
"Loretta, I am a fool. I mean it. And I mean something more. I want you to be my wife."
He waited anxiously in the pause that followed.
"You might answer me," he urged.
"I will . . . if--"
"Yes, go on. If what?"
"If I don't have to marry Billy."
"You can't marry both of us," he almost shouted.
"And it isn't the custom . . . what. . . what Billy said?"
"No, it isn't the custom. Now, Loretta, will you marry me?"
"Don't be angry with me," she pouted demurely.
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her.
"I wish it were the custom," she said in a faint voice, from the midst of the embrace, "because then I'd have to marry you, Ned dear . . . wouldn't I?"
r_azary
04-09-2006, 22:39
THE VALLEY OF SPIDERS
by H. G. Wells
Towards mid-day the three pursuers came abruptly round a bend in
the torrent bed upon the sight of a very broad and spacious valley.
The difficult and winding trench of pebbles along which they had
tracked the fugitives for so long, expanded to a broad slope,
and with a common impulse the three men left the trail, and rode
to a little eminence set with olive-dun trees, and there halted,
the two others, as became them, a little behind the man with
the silver-studded bridle.
For a space they scanned the great expanse below them with eager eyes.
It spread remoter and remoter, with only a few clusters of sere
thorn bushes here and there, and the dim suggestions of some now
waterless ravine, to break its desolation of yellow grass. Its purple
distances melted at last into the bluish slopes of the further hills--
hills it might be of a greener kind--and above them invisibly
supported, and seeming indeed to hang in the blue, were the snowclad
summits of mountains that grew larger and bolder to the north-westward
as the sides of the valley drew together. And westward the valley
opened until a distant darkness under the sky told where the forests
began. But the three men looked neither east nor west, but only
steadfastly across the valley.
The gaunt man with the scarred lip was the first to speak. "Nowhere,"
he said, with a sigh of disappointment in his voice. "But after all,
they had a full day's start."
"They don't know we are after them," said the little man on the white
horse.
"SHE would know," said the leader bitterly, as if speaking to himself.
"Even then they can't go fast. They've got no beast but the mule,
and all to-day the girl's foot has been bleeding---"
The man with the silver bridle flashed a quick intensity of rage
on him. "Do you think I haven't seen that?" he snarled.
"It helps, anyhow," whispered the little man to himself.
The gaunt man with the scarred lip stared impassively. "They can't
be over the valley," he said. "If we ride hard--"
He glanced at the white horse and paused.
"Curse all white horses!" said the man with the silver bridle,
and turned to scan the beast his curse included.
The little man looked down between the melancholy ears of his steed.
"I did my best," he said.
by H. G. Wells
Towards mid-day the three pursuers came abruptly round a bend in
the torrent bed upon the sight of a very broad and spacious valley.
The difficult and winding trench of pebbles along which they had
tracked the fugitives for so long, expanded to a broad slope,
and with a common impulse the three men left the trail, and rode
to a little eminence set with olive-dun trees, and there halted,
the two others, as became them, a little behind the man with
the silver-studded bridle.
For a space they scanned the great expanse below them with eager eyes.
It spread remoter and remoter, with only a few clusters of sere
thorn bushes here and there, and the dim suggestions of some now
waterless ravine, to break its desolation of yellow grass. Its purple
distances melted at last into the bluish slopes of the further hills--
hills it might be of a greener kind--and above them invisibly
supported, and seeming indeed to hang in the blue, were the snowclad
summits of mountains that grew larger and bolder to the north-westward
as the sides of the valley drew together. And westward the valley
opened until a distant darkness under the sky told where the forests
began. But the three men looked neither east nor west, but only
steadfastly across the valley.
The gaunt man with the scarred lip was the first to speak. "Nowhere,"
he said, with a sigh of disappointment in his voice. "But after all,
they had a full day's start."
"They don't know we are after them," said the little man on the white
horse.
"SHE would know," said the leader bitterly, as if speaking to himself.
"Even then they can't go fast. They've got no beast but the mule,
and all to-day the girl's foot has been bleeding---"
The man with the silver bridle flashed a quick intensity of rage
on him. "Do you think I haven't seen that?" he snarled.
"It helps, anyhow," whispered the little man to himself.
The gaunt man with the scarred lip stared impassively. "They can't
be over the valley," he said. "If we ride hard--"
He glanced at the white horse and paused.
"Curse all white horses!" said the man with the silver bridle,
and turned to scan the beast his curse included.
The little man looked down between the melancholy ears of his steed.
"I did my best," he said.
r_azary
04-09-2006, 22:41
The two others stared again across the valley for a space. The gaunt
man passed the back of his hand across the scarred lip.
"Come up!" said the man who owned the silver bridle, suddenly.
The little man started and jerked his rein, and the horse hoofs
of the three made a multitudinous faint pattering upon the withered
grass as they turned back towards the trail. . . .
They rode cautiously down the long slope before them, and so came
through a waste of prickly, twisted bushes and strange dry shapes
of horny branches that grew amongst the rocks, into the levels below.
And there the trail grew faint, for the soil was scanty, and the only
herbage was this scorched dead straw that lay upon the ground.
Still, by hard scanning, by leaning beside the horses' necks and
pausing ever and again, even these white men could contrive to follow
after their prey.
There were trodden places, bent and broken blades of the coarse
grass, and ever and again the sufficient intimation of a footmark.
And once the leader saw a brown smear of blood where the half-caste
girl may have trod. And at that under his breath he cursed her for
a fool.
The gaunt man checked his leader's tracking, and the little man
on the white horse rode behind, a man lost in a dream. They rode
one after another, the man with the silver bridle led the way,
and they spoke never a word. After a time it came to the little man
on the white horse that the world was very still. He started out
of his dream. Besides the little noises of their horses and equipment,
the whole great valley kept the brooding quiet of a painted scene.
Before him went his master and his fellow, each intently leaning
forward to the left, each impassively moving with the paces of his
horse; their shadows went before them--still, noiseless, tapering
attendants; and nearer a crouched cool shape was his own. He looked
about him. What was it had gone? Then he remembered the reverberation
from the banks of the gorge and the perpetual accompaniment of
shifting, jostling pebbles. And, moreover--? There was no breeze.
That was it! What a vast, still place it was, a monotonous afternoon
slumber. And the sky open and blank, except for a sombre veil of haze
that had gathered in the upper valley.
He straightened his back, fretted with his bridle, puckered his lips
to whistle, and simply sighed. He turned in his saddle for a time,
and stared at the throat of the mountain gorge out of which they
had come. Blank! Blank slopes on either side, with never a sign
of a decent beast or tree--much less a man. What a land it was!
What a wilderness! He dropped again into his former pose.
It filled him with a momentary pleasure to see a wry stick of purple
black flash out into the form of a snake, and vanish amidst the brown.
After all, the infernal valley WAS alive. And then, to rejoice him
still more, came a little breath across his face, a whisper that
came and went, the faintest inclination of a stiff black-antlered
bush upon a little crest, the first intimations of a possible breeze.
Idly he wetted his finger, and held it up.
He pulled up sharply to avoid a collision with the gaunt man, who
had stopped at fault upon the trail. Just at that guilty moment
he caught his master's eye looking towards him.
man passed the back of his hand across the scarred lip.
"Come up!" said the man who owned the silver bridle, suddenly.
The little man started and jerked his rein, and the horse hoofs
of the three made a multitudinous faint pattering upon the withered
grass as they turned back towards the trail. . . .
They rode cautiously down the long slope before them, and so came
through a waste of prickly, twisted bushes and strange dry shapes
of horny branches that grew amongst the rocks, into the levels below.
And there the trail grew faint, for the soil was scanty, and the only
herbage was this scorched dead straw that lay upon the ground.
Still, by hard scanning, by leaning beside the horses' necks and
pausing ever and again, even these white men could contrive to follow
after their prey.
There were trodden places, bent and broken blades of the coarse
grass, and ever and again the sufficient intimation of a footmark.
And once the leader saw a brown smear of blood where the half-caste
girl may have trod. And at that under his breath he cursed her for
a fool.
The gaunt man checked his leader's tracking, and the little man
on the white horse rode behind, a man lost in a dream. They rode
one after another, the man with the silver bridle led the way,
and they spoke never a word. After a time it came to the little man
on the white horse that the world was very still. He started out
of his dream. Besides the little noises of their horses and equipment,
the whole great valley kept the brooding quiet of a painted scene.
Before him went his master and his fellow, each intently leaning
forward to the left, each impassively moving with the paces of his
horse; their shadows went before them--still, noiseless, tapering
attendants; and nearer a crouched cool shape was his own. He looked
about him. What was it had gone? Then he remembered the reverberation
from the banks of the gorge and the perpetual accompaniment of
shifting, jostling pebbles. And, moreover--? There was no breeze.
That was it! What a vast, still place it was, a monotonous afternoon
slumber. And the sky open and blank, except for a sombre veil of haze
that had gathered in the upper valley.
He straightened his back, fretted with his bridle, puckered his lips
to whistle, and simply sighed. He turned in his saddle for a time,
and stared at the throat of the mountain gorge out of which they
had come. Blank! Blank slopes on either side, with never a sign
of a decent beast or tree--much less a man. What a land it was!
What a wilderness! He dropped again into his former pose.
It filled him with a momentary pleasure to see a wry stick of purple
black flash out into the form of a snake, and vanish amidst the brown.
After all, the infernal valley WAS alive. And then, to rejoice him
still more, came a little breath across his face, a whisper that
came and went, the faintest inclination of a stiff black-antlered
bush upon a little crest, the first intimations of a possible breeze.
Idly he wetted his finger, and held it up.
He pulled up sharply to avoid a collision with the gaunt man, who
had stopped at fault upon the trail. Just at that guilty moment
he caught his master's eye looking towards him.
r_azary
04-09-2006, 22:42
For a time he forced an interest in the tracking. Then, as they rode
on again, he studied his master's shadow and hat and shoulder,
appearing and disappearing behind the gaunt man's nearer contours.
They had ridden four days out of the very limits of the world into
this desolate place, short of water, with nothing but a strip
of dried meat under their saddles, over rocks and mountains,
where surely none but these fugitives had ever been before--for THAT!
And all this was for a girl, a mere willful child! And the man
had whole cityfulls of people to do his basest bidding--girls, women!
Why in the name of passionate folly THIS one in particular? asked
the little man, and scowled at the world, and licked his parched lips
with a blackened tongue. It was the way of the master, and that
was all he knew. Just because she sought to evade him. . . .
His eye caught a whole row of high plumed canes bending in unison,
and then the tails of silk that hung before his neck flapped and fell.
The breeze was growing stronger. Somehow it took the stiff stillness
out of things--and that was well.
"Hullo!" said the gaunt man.
All three stopped abruptly.
"What?" asked the master. "What?"
"Over there," said the gaunt man, pointing up the valley.
"What?"
"Something coming towards us."
And as he spoke a yellow animal crested a rise and came bearing
down upon them. It was a big wild dog, coming before the wind,
tongue out, at a steady pace, and running with such an intensity
of purpose that he did not seem to see the horsemen he approached.
He ran with his nose up, following, it was plain, neither scent
nor quarry. As he drew nearer the little man felt for his sword.
"He's mad," said the gaunt rider.
"Shout!" said the little man, and shouted.
The dog came on. Then when the little man's blade was already out,
it swerved aside and went panting by them and past. The eyes of
the little man followed its flight. "There was no foam," he said.
For a space the man with the silver-studded bridle stared up
the valley. "Oh, come on!" he cried at last. "What does it matter?"
and jerked his horse into movement again.
The little man left the insoluble mystery of a dog that fled from
nothing but the wind, and lapsed into profound musings on human
character. "Come on!" he whispered to himself. "Why should it be
given to one man to say 'Come on!' with that stupendous violence
of effect. Always, all his life, the man with the silver bridle
has been saying that. If _I_ said it--!" thought the little man.
But people marvelled when the master was disobeyed even in the wildest
things. This half-caste girl seemed to him, seemed to every one,
mad--blasphemous almost. The little man, by way of comparison,
reflected on the gaunt rider with the scarred lip, as stalwart as
his master, as brave and, indeed, perhaps braver, and yet for him
there was obedience, nothing but to give obedience duly and stoutly. . .
Certain sensations of the hands and knees called the little man back
to more immediate things. He became aware of something. He rode up
beside his gaunt fellow. "Do you notice the horses?" he said in an
undertone.
on again, he studied his master's shadow and hat and shoulder,
appearing and disappearing behind the gaunt man's nearer contours.
They had ridden four days out of the very limits of the world into
this desolate place, short of water, with nothing but a strip
of dried meat under their saddles, over rocks and mountains,
where surely none but these fugitives had ever been before--for THAT!
And all this was for a girl, a mere willful child! And the man
had whole cityfulls of people to do his basest bidding--girls, women!
Why in the name of passionate folly THIS one in particular? asked
the little man, and scowled at the world, and licked his parched lips
with a blackened tongue. It was the way of the master, and that
was all he knew. Just because she sought to evade him. . . .
His eye caught a whole row of high plumed canes bending in unison,
and then the tails of silk that hung before his neck flapped and fell.
The breeze was growing stronger. Somehow it took the stiff stillness
out of things--and that was well.
"Hullo!" said the gaunt man.
All three stopped abruptly.
"What?" asked the master. "What?"
"Over there," said the gaunt man, pointing up the valley.
"What?"
"Something coming towards us."
And as he spoke a yellow animal crested a rise and came bearing
down upon them. It was a big wild dog, coming before the wind,
tongue out, at a steady pace, and running with such an intensity
of purpose that he did not seem to see the horsemen he approached.
He ran with his nose up, following, it was plain, neither scent
nor quarry. As he drew nearer the little man felt for his sword.
"He's mad," said the gaunt rider.
"Shout!" said the little man, and shouted.
The dog came on. Then when the little man's blade was already out,
it swerved aside and went panting by them and past. The eyes of
the little man followed its flight. "There was no foam," he said.
For a space the man with the silver-studded bridle stared up
the valley. "Oh, come on!" he cried at last. "What does it matter?"
and jerked his horse into movement again.
The little man left the insoluble mystery of a dog that fled from
nothing but the wind, and lapsed into profound musings on human
character. "Come on!" he whispered to himself. "Why should it be
given to one man to say 'Come on!' with that stupendous violence
of effect. Always, all his life, the man with the silver bridle
has been saying that. If _I_ said it--!" thought the little man.
But people marvelled when the master was disobeyed even in the wildest
things. This half-caste girl seemed to him, seemed to every one,
mad--blasphemous almost. The little man, by way of comparison,
reflected on the gaunt rider with the scarred lip, as stalwart as
his master, as brave and, indeed, perhaps braver, and yet for him
there was obedience, nothing but to give obedience duly and stoutly. . .
Certain sensations of the hands and knees called the little man back
to more immediate things. He became aware of something. He rode up
beside his gaunt fellow. "Do you notice the horses?" he said in an
undertone.
r_azary
04-09-2006, 22:44
The gaunt face looked interrogation.
"They don't like this wind," said the little man, and dropped behind
as the man with the silver bridle turned upon him.
"It's all right," said the gaunt-faced man.
They rode on again for a space in silence. The foremost two rode
downcast upon the trail, the hindmost man watched the haze that
crept down the vastness of the valley, nearer and nearer, and noted
how the wind grew in strength moment by moment. Far away on the left
he saw a line of dark bulks--wild hog perhaps, galloping down
the valley, but of that he said nothing, nor did he remark again upon
the uneasiness of the horses.
And then he saw first one and then a second great white ball,
a great shining white ball like a gigantic head of thistle-down,
that drove before the wind athwart the path. These balls soared
high in the air, and dropped and rose again and caught for a moment,
and hurried on and passed, but at the sight of them the restlessness
of the horses increased.
Then presently he saw that more of these drifting globes--and then
soon very many more--were hurrying towards him down the valley.
They became aware of a squealing. Athwart the path a huge boar rushed,
turning his head but for one instant to glance at them, and then
hurling on down the valley again. And at that, all three stopped
and sat in their saddles, staring into the thickening haze that
was coming upon them.
"If it were not for this thistle-down--" began the leader.
But now a big globe came drifting past within a score of yards
of them. It was really not an even sphere at all, but a vast, soft,
ragged, filmy thing, a sheet gathered by the corners, an aerial
jelly-fish, as it were, but rolling over and over as it advanced,
and trailing long, cobwebby threads and streamers that floated
in its wake.
"It isn't thistle-down," said the little man.
"I don't like the stuff," said the gaunt man.
And they looked at one another.
"Curse it!" cried the leader. "The air's full of it up there.
If it keeps on at this pace long, it will stop us altogether."
An instinctive feeling, such as lines out a herd of deer at the
approach of some ambiguous thing, prompted them to turn their horses
to the wind, ride forward for a few paces, and stare at that advancing
multitude of floating masses. They came on before the wind with a sort
of smooth swiftness, rising and falling noiselessly, sinking to earth,
rebounding high, soaring--all with a perfect unanimity, with a still,
deliberate assurance.
Right and left of the horsemen the pioneers of this strange army
passed. At one that rolled along the ground, breaking shapelessly
and trailing out reluctantly into long grappling ribbons and bands,
all three horses began to shy and dance. The master was seized
with a sudden unreasonable impatience. He cursed the drifting globes
roundly. "Get on!" he cried; "get on! What do these things matter?
How CAN they matter? Back to the trail!" He fell swearing at his horse
and sawed the bit across its mouth.
"They don't like this wind," said the little man, and dropped behind
as the man with the silver bridle turned upon him.
"It's all right," said the gaunt-faced man.
They rode on again for a space in silence. The foremost two rode
downcast upon the trail, the hindmost man watched the haze that
crept down the vastness of the valley, nearer and nearer, and noted
how the wind grew in strength moment by moment. Far away on the left
he saw a line of dark bulks--wild hog perhaps, galloping down
the valley, but of that he said nothing, nor did he remark again upon
the uneasiness of the horses.
And then he saw first one and then a second great white ball,
a great shining white ball like a gigantic head of thistle-down,
that drove before the wind athwart the path. These balls soared
high in the air, and dropped and rose again and caught for a moment,
and hurried on and passed, but at the sight of them the restlessness
of the horses increased.
Then presently he saw that more of these drifting globes--and then
soon very many more--were hurrying towards him down the valley.
They became aware of a squealing. Athwart the path a huge boar rushed,
turning his head but for one instant to glance at them, and then
hurling on down the valley again. And at that, all three stopped
and sat in their saddles, staring into the thickening haze that
was coming upon them.
"If it were not for this thistle-down--" began the leader.
But now a big globe came drifting past within a score of yards
of them. It was really not an even sphere at all, but a vast, soft,
ragged, filmy thing, a sheet gathered by the corners, an aerial
jelly-fish, as it were, but rolling over and over as it advanced,
and trailing long, cobwebby threads and streamers that floated
in its wake.
"It isn't thistle-down," said the little man.
"I don't like the stuff," said the gaunt man.
And they looked at one another.
"Curse it!" cried the leader. "The air's full of it up there.
If it keeps on at this pace long, it will stop us altogether."
An instinctive feeling, such as lines out a herd of deer at the
approach of some ambiguous thing, prompted them to turn their horses
to the wind, ride forward for a few paces, and stare at that advancing
multitude of floating masses. They came on before the wind with a sort
of smooth swiftness, rising and falling noiselessly, sinking to earth,
rebounding high, soaring--all with a perfect unanimity, with a still,
deliberate assurance.
Right and left of the horsemen the pioneers of this strange army
passed. At one that rolled along the ground, breaking shapelessly
and trailing out reluctantly into long grappling ribbons and bands,
all three horses began to shy and dance. The master was seized
with a sudden unreasonable impatience. He cursed the drifting globes
roundly. "Get on!" he cried; "get on! What do these things matter?
How CAN they matter? Back to the trail!" He fell swearing at his horse
and sawed the bit across its mouth.
r_azary
04-09-2006, 22:46
He shouted aloud with rage. "I will follow that trail, I tell you!"
he cried. "Where is the trail?"
He gripped the bridle of his prancing horse and searched amidst
the grass. A long and clinging thread fell across his face, a grey
streamer dropped about his bridle-arm, some big, active thing
with many legs ran down the back of his head. He looked up to discover
one of those grey masses anchored as it were above him by these things
and flapping out ends as a sail flaps when a boat comes, about--
but noiselessly.
He had an impression of many eyes, of a dense crew of squat bodies,
of long, many-jointed limbs hauling at their mooring ropes to bring
the thing down upon him. For a space he stared up, reining in his
prancing horse with the instinct born of years of horsemanship.
Then the flat of a sword smote his back, and a blade flashed overhead
and cut the drifting balloon of spider-web free, and the whole mass
lifted softly and drove clear and away.
"Spiders!" cried the voice of the gaunt man. "The things are full
of big spiders! Look, my lord!"
The man with the silver bridle still followed the mass that drove away.
"Look, my lord!"
The master found himself staring down at a red, smashed thing
on the ground that, in spite of partial obliteration, could still
wriggle unavailing legs. Then when the gaunt man pointed to another
mass that bore down upon them, he drew his sword hastily. Up the
valley now it was like a fog bank torn to rags. He tried to grasp the
situation.
"Ride for it!" the little man was shouting. "Ride for it down the
valley."
What happened then was like the confusion of a battle. The man
with the silver bridle saw the little man go past him slashing
furiously at imaginary cobwebs, saw him cannon into the horse
of the gaunt man and hurl it and its rider to earth. His own horse
went a dozen paces before he could rein it in. Then he looked up
to avoid imaginary dangers, and then back again to see a horse
rolling on the ground, the gaunt man standing and slashing over it
at a rent and fluttering mass of grey that streamed and wrapped
about them both. And thick and fast as thistle-down on waste land
on a windy day in July, the cobweb masses were coming on.
The little man had dismounted, but he dared not release his horse.
He was endeavouring to lug the struggling brute back with the strength
of one arm, while with the other he slashed aimlessly, The tentacles
of a second grey mass had entangled themselves with the struggle,
and this second grey mass came to its moorings, and slowly sank.
he cried. "Where is the trail?"
He gripped the bridle of his prancing horse and searched amidst
the grass. A long and clinging thread fell across his face, a grey
streamer dropped about his bridle-arm, some big, active thing
with many legs ran down the back of his head. He looked up to discover
one of those grey masses anchored as it were above him by these things
and flapping out ends as a sail flaps when a boat comes, about--
but noiselessly.
He had an impression of many eyes, of a dense crew of squat bodies,
of long, many-jointed limbs hauling at their mooring ropes to bring
the thing down upon him. For a space he stared up, reining in his
prancing horse with the instinct born of years of horsemanship.
Then the flat of a sword smote his back, and a blade flashed overhead
and cut the drifting balloon of spider-web free, and the whole mass
lifted softly and drove clear and away.
"Spiders!" cried the voice of the gaunt man. "The things are full
of big spiders! Look, my lord!"
The man with the silver bridle still followed the mass that drove away.
"Look, my lord!"
The master found himself staring down at a red, smashed thing
on the ground that, in spite of partial obliteration, could still
wriggle unavailing legs. Then when the gaunt man pointed to another
mass that bore down upon them, he drew his sword hastily. Up the
valley now it was like a fog bank torn to rags. He tried to grasp the
situation.
"Ride for it!" the little man was shouting. "Ride for it down the
valley."
What happened then was like the confusion of a battle. The man
with the silver bridle saw the little man go past him slashing
furiously at imaginary cobwebs, saw him cannon into the horse
of the gaunt man and hurl it and its rider to earth. His own horse
went a dozen paces before he could rein it in. Then he looked up
to avoid imaginary dangers, and then back again to see a horse
rolling on the ground, the gaunt man standing and slashing over it
at a rent and fluttering mass of grey that streamed and wrapped
about them both. And thick and fast as thistle-down on waste land
on a windy day in July, the cobweb masses were coming on.
The little man had dismounted, but he dared not release his horse.
He was endeavouring to lug the struggling brute back with the strength
of one arm, while with the other he slashed aimlessly, The tentacles
of a second grey mass had entangled themselves with the struggle,
and this second grey mass came to its moorings, and slowly sank.
r_azary
04-09-2006, 22:47
The master set his teeth, gripped his bridle, lowered his head,
and spurred his horse forward. The horse on the ground rolled over,
there were blood and moving shapes upon the flanks, and the gaunt man,
suddenly leaving it, ran forward towards his master, perhaps ten paces.
His legs were swathed and encumbered with grey; he made ineffectual
movements with his sword. Grey streamers waved from him; there was
a thin veil of grey across his face. With his left hand he beat at
something on his body, and suddenly he stumbled and fell. He struggled
to rise, and fell again, and suddenly, horribly, began to howl,
"Oh--ohoo, ohooh!"
The master could see the great spiders upon him, and others upon
the ground.
As he strove to force his horse nearer to this gesticulating,
screaming grey object that struggled up and down, there came a
clatter of hoofs, and the little man, in act of mounting, swordless,
balanced on his belly athwart the white horse, and clutching its mane,
whirled past. And again a clinging thread of grey gossamer swept
across the master's face. All about him, and over him, it seemed
this drifting, noiseless cobweb circled and drew nearer him. . . .
To the day of his death he never knew just how the event of that moment
happened. Did he, indeed, turn his horse, or did it really of its
own accord stampede after its fellow? Suffice it that in another
second he was galloping full tilt down the valley with his sword
whirling furiously overhead. And all about him on the quickening
breeze, the spiders' airships, their air bundles and air sheets,
seemed to him to hurry in a conscious pursuit.
Clatter, clatter, thud, thud--the man with the silver bridle rode,
heedless of his direction, with his fearful face looking up now right,
now left, and his sword arm ready to slash. And a few hundred yards
ahead of him, with a tail of torn cobweb trailing behind him, rode
the little man on the white horse, still but imperfectly in the saddle.
The reeds bent before them, the wind blew fresh and strong, over his
shoulder the master could see the webs hurrying to overtake. . . .
He was so intent to escape the spiders' webs that only as his horse
gathered together for a leap did he realise the ravine ahead. And then
he reaIised it only to misunderstand and interfere. He was leaning
forward on his horse's neck and sat up and back all too late.
But if in his excitement he had failed to leap, at any rate he had
not forgotten how to fall. He was horseman again in mid-air.
He came off clear with a mere bruise upon his shoulder, and his horse
rolled, kicking spasmodic legs, and lay still. But the master's sword
drove its point into the hard soil, and snapped clean across, as
though Chance refused him any longer as her Knight, and the splintered
end missed his face by an inch or so.
He was on his feet in a moment, breathlessly scanning the onrushing
spider-webs. For a moment he was minded to run, and then thought
of the ravine, and turned back. He ran aside once to dodge one drifting
terror, and then he was swiftly clambering down the precipitous sides,
and out of the touch of the gale.
There under the lee of the dry torrent's steeper banks he might
crouch, and watch these strange, grey masses pass and pass in safety
till the wind fell, and it became possible to escape. And there
for a long time he crouched, watching the strange, grey, ragged
masses trail their streamers across his narrowed sky.
Once a stray spider fell into the ravine close beside him--a full
foot it measured from leg to leg, and its body was half a man's hand--
and after he had watched its monstrous alacrity of search and escape
for a little while, and tempted it to bite his broken sword, he lifted
up his iron-heeled boot and smashed it into a pulp. He swore as he did
so, and for a time sought up and down for another.
Then presently, when he was surer these spider swarms could not
drop into the ravine, he found a place where he could sit down,
and sat and fell into deep thought and began after his manner
to gnaw his knuckles and bite his nails. And from this he was moved
by the coming of the man with the white horse.
He heard him long before he saw him, as a clattering of hoofs,
stumbling footsteps, and a reassuring voice. Then the little man
appeared, a rueful figure, still with a tail of white cobweb trailing
behind him. They approached each other without speaking, without
a salutation. The little man was fatigued and shamed to the pitch
of hopeless bitterness, and came to a stop at last, face to face with
his seated master. The latter winced a little under his dependant's
eye. "Well?" he said at last, with no pretence of authority.
and spurred his horse forward. The horse on the ground rolled over,
there were blood and moving shapes upon the flanks, and the gaunt man,
suddenly leaving it, ran forward towards his master, perhaps ten paces.
His legs were swathed and encumbered with grey; he made ineffectual
movements with his sword. Grey streamers waved from him; there was
a thin veil of grey across his face. With his left hand he beat at
something on his body, and suddenly he stumbled and fell. He struggled
to rise, and fell again, and suddenly, horribly, began to howl,
"Oh--ohoo, ohooh!"
The master could see the great spiders upon him, and others upon
the ground.
As he strove to force his horse nearer to this gesticulating,
screaming grey object that struggled up and down, there came a
clatter of hoofs, and the little man, in act of mounting, swordless,
balanced on his belly athwart the white horse, and clutching its mane,
whirled past. And again a clinging thread of grey gossamer swept
across the master's face. All about him, and over him, it seemed
this drifting, noiseless cobweb circled and drew nearer him. . . .
To the day of his death he never knew just how the event of that moment
happened. Did he, indeed, turn his horse, or did it really of its
own accord stampede after its fellow? Suffice it that in another
second he was galloping full tilt down the valley with his sword
whirling furiously overhead. And all about him on the quickening
breeze, the spiders' airships, their air bundles and air sheets,
seemed to him to hurry in a conscious pursuit.
Clatter, clatter, thud, thud--the man with the silver bridle rode,
heedless of his direction, with his fearful face looking up now right,
now left, and his sword arm ready to slash. And a few hundred yards
ahead of him, with a tail of torn cobweb trailing behind him, rode
the little man on the white horse, still but imperfectly in the saddle.
The reeds bent before them, the wind blew fresh and strong, over his
shoulder the master could see the webs hurrying to overtake. . . .
He was so intent to escape the spiders' webs that only as his horse
gathered together for a leap did he realise the ravine ahead. And then
he reaIised it only to misunderstand and interfere. He was leaning
forward on his horse's neck and sat up and back all too late.
But if in his excitement he had failed to leap, at any rate he had
not forgotten how to fall. He was horseman again in mid-air.
He came off clear with a mere bruise upon his shoulder, and his horse
rolled, kicking spasmodic legs, and lay still. But the master's sword
drove its point into the hard soil, and snapped clean across, as
though Chance refused him any longer as her Knight, and the splintered
end missed his face by an inch or so.
He was on his feet in a moment, breathlessly scanning the onrushing
spider-webs. For a moment he was minded to run, and then thought
of the ravine, and turned back. He ran aside once to dodge one drifting
terror, and then he was swiftly clambering down the precipitous sides,
and out of the touch of the gale.
There under the lee of the dry torrent's steeper banks he might
crouch, and watch these strange, grey masses pass and pass in safety
till the wind fell, and it became possible to escape. And there
for a long time he crouched, watching the strange, grey, ragged
masses trail their streamers across his narrowed sky.
Once a stray spider fell into the ravine close beside him--a full
foot it measured from leg to leg, and its body was half a man's hand--
and after he had watched its monstrous alacrity of search and escape
for a little while, and tempted it to bite his broken sword, he lifted
up his iron-heeled boot and smashed it into a pulp. He swore as he did
so, and for a time sought up and down for another.
Then presently, when he was surer these spider swarms could not
drop into the ravine, he found a place where he could sit down,
and sat and fell into deep thought and began after his manner
to gnaw his knuckles and bite his nails. And from this he was moved
by the coming of the man with the white horse.
He heard him long before he saw him, as a clattering of hoofs,
stumbling footsteps, and a reassuring voice. Then the little man
appeared, a rueful figure, still with a tail of white cobweb trailing
behind him. They approached each other without speaking, without
a salutation. The little man was fatigued and shamed to the pitch
of hopeless bitterness, and came to a stop at last, face to face with
his seated master. The latter winced a little under his dependant's
eye. "Well?" he said at last, with no pretence of authority.
r_azary
04-09-2006, 22:48
"You left him?"
"My horse bolted."
"I know. So did mine."
He laughed at his master mirthlessly.
"I say my horse bolted," said the man who once had a silver-studded
bridle.
"Cowards both," said the little man.
The other gnawed his knuckle through some meditative moments,
with his eye on his inferior.
"Don't call me a coward," he said at length.
"You are a coward like myself."
"A coward possibly. There is a limit beyond which every man must fear.
That I have learnt at last. But not like yourself. That is where
the difference comes in."
"I never could have dreamt you would have left him. He saved
your life two minutes before. . . . Why are you our lord?"
The master gnawed his knuckles again, and his countenance was dark.
"No man calls me a coward," he said. "No. A broken sword is better
than none. . . . One spavined white horse cannot be expected to carry
two men a four days' journey. I hate white horses, but this time
it cannot be helped. You begin to understand me? . . . I perceive
that you are minded, on the strength of what you have seen and fancy,
to taint my reputation. It is men of your sort who unmake kings.
Besides which--I never liked you."
"My lord!" said the little man.
"No," said the master. "NO!"
He stood up sharply as the little man moved. For a minute perhaps
they faced one another. Overhead the spiders' balls went driving.
There was a quick movement among the pebbles; a running of feet,
a cry of despair, a gasp and a blow. . . .
Towards nightfall the wind fell. The sun set in a calm serenity,
and the man who had once possessed the silver bridle came at last
very cautiously and by an easy slope out of the ravine again; but now
he led the white horse that once belonged to the little man.
He would have gone back to his horse to get his silver-mounted
bridle again, but he feared night and a quickening breeze might
still find him in the valley, and besides he disliked greatly
to think he might discover his horse all swathed in cobwebs
and perhaps unpleasantly eaten.
And as he thought of those cobwebs and of all the dangers he
had been through, and the manner in which he had been preserved
that day, his hand sought a little reliquary that hung about his neck,
and he clasped it for a moment with heartfelt gratitude. As he did so
his eyes went across the valley.
"My horse bolted."
"I know. So did mine."
He laughed at his master mirthlessly.
"I say my horse bolted," said the man who once had a silver-studded
bridle.
"Cowards both," said the little man.
The other gnawed his knuckle through some meditative moments,
with his eye on his inferior.
"Don't call me a coward," he said at length.
"You are a coward like myself."
"A coward possibly. There is a limit beyond which every man must fear.
That I have learnt at last. But not like yourself. That is where
the difference comes in."
"I never could have dreamt you would have left him. He saved
your life two minutes before. . . . Why are you our lord?"
The master gnawed his knuckles again, and his countenance was dark.
"No man calls me a coward," he said. "No. A broken sword is better
than none. . . . One spavined white horse cannot be expected to carry
two men a four days' journey. I hate white horses, but this time
it cannot be helped. You begin to understand me? . . . I perceive
that you are minded, on the strength of what you have seen and fancy,
to taint my reputation. It is men of your sort who unmake kings.
Besides which--I never liked you."
"My lord!" said the little man.
"No," said the master. "NO!"
He stood up sharply as the little man moved. For a minute perhaps
they faced one another. Overhead the spiders' balls went driving.
There was a quick movement among the pebbles; a running of feet,
a cry of despair, a gasp and a blow. . . .
Towards nightfall the wind fell. The sun set in a calm serenity,
and the man who had once possessed the silver bridle came at last
very cautiously and by an easy slope out of the ravine again; but now
he led the white horse that once belonged to the little man.
He would have gone back to his horse to get his silver-mounted
bridle again, but he feared night and a quickening breeze might
still find him in the valley, and besides he disliked greatly
to think he might discover his horse all swathed in cobwebs
and perhaps unpleasantly eaten.
And as he thought of those cobwebs and of all the dangers he
had been through, and the manner in which he had been preserved
that day, his hand sought a little reliquary that hung about his neck,
and he clasped it for a moment with heartfelt gratitude. As he did so
his eyes went across the valley.
r_azary
04-09-2006, 22:50
"I was hot with passion," he said, "and now she has met her reward.
They also, no doubt--"
And behold! Far away out of the wooded slopes across the valley,
but in the clearness of the sunset distinct and unmistakable,
he saw a little spire of smoke.
At that his expression of serene resignation changed to an amazed
anger. Smoke? He turned the head of the white horse about, and
hesitated. And as he did so a little rustle of air went through the
grass about him. Far away upon some reeds swayed a tattered sheet of
grey. He looked at the cobwebs; he looked at the smoke.
"Perhaps, after all, it is not them," he said at last.
But he knew better.
After he had stared at the smoke for some time, he mounted the white
horse.
As he rode, he picked his way amidst stranded masses of web. For some
reason there were many dead spiders on the ground, and those that
lived feasted guiltily on their fellows. At the sound of his horse's
hoofs they fled.
Their time had passed. From the ground without either a wind to carry
them or a winding sheet ready, these things, for all their poison,
could do him little evil. He flicked with his belt at those
he fancied came too near. Once, where a number ran together over
a bare place, he was minded to dismount and trample them with his boots,
but this impulse he overcame. Ever and again he turned in his saddle,
and looked back at the smoke.
"Spiders," he muttered over and over again. "Spiders! Well, well. . . .
The next time I must spin a web."
They also, no doubt--"
And behold! Far away out of the wooded slopes across the valley,
but in the clearness of the sunset distinct and unmistakable,
he saw a little spire of smoke.
At that his expression of serene resignation changed to an amazed
anger. Smoke? He turned the head of the white horse about, and
hesitated. And as he did so a little rustle of air went through the
grass about him. Far away upon some reeds swayed a tattered sheet of
grey. He looked at the cobwebs; he looked at the smoke.
"Perhaps, after all, it is not them," he said at last.
But he knew better.
After he had stared at the smoke for some time, he mounted the white
horse.
As he rode, he picked his way amidst stranded masses of web. For some
reason there were many dead spiders on the ground, and those that
lived feasted guiltily on their fellows. At the sound of his horse's
hoofs they fled.
Their time had passed. From the ground without either a wind to carry
them or a winding sheet ready, these things, for all their poison,
could do him little evil. He flicked with his belt at those
he fancied came too near. Once, where a number ran together over
a bare place, he was minded to dismount and trample them with his boots,
but this impulse he overcame. Ever and again he turned in his saddle,
and looked back at the smoke.
"Spiders," he muttered over and over again. "Spiders! Well, well. . . .
The next time I must spin a web."
safety
25-09-2006, 09:19
The first day of school our professor introduced himself and challenged us to get to know someone we didn't already know. I stood up to look around when a gentle hand touched my shoulder.
I turned a round to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me with a smile that lit up her entire being.
She said, "Hi handsome. My name is Rose. I'm 87 years old. Can I give you
a hug?"
I laughed and enthusiastically responded, "Of course you may!" and she gave me a giant
squeeze.
"Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?" I asked.
She jokingly replied, "I'm here to meet a rich husband, get married, and have a couple
of kids..."
"No seriously," I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this challenge at her age.
"I always dreamed of having a college education and now I'm getting one!" she told
me.
After class we walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate milkshake.
We became instant friends. Every day for the next 3 months we would leave class together and talk nonstop. I was always mesmerized listening to this "time machine" as she shared her wisdom and experience with me.
Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made friends wherever she went.
She loved to dress up and she revealed in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She was living it up.
At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet.
I'll never forget what she taught us. She was introduced and stepped up to the podium.
As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her three by 5 cards on the
floor.
Frustrated and a little embarrassed she leaned into the microphone and simply said, "I'm sorry I'm so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I'll never get my speech back in order so let me just tell you what I know."
As we laughed she cleared her throat and began, "We do not stop playing because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing.
There are only 4 secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success.
You have to laugh and find humor every day.
You've got to have a dream.
When you lose your dreams, you die.
We have so many people walking around who are dead and don't even know it!
There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up.
If you are 19 years old and lie in bed for one full year and don't do one productive thing, you will turn 20 years old. If I am 87 years old and stay in bed for a year and never do anything I will turn 88.
Anybody can grow older. That doesn't take any talent or ability. The idea is to grow up by always finding opportunity in change. Have no regrets.
The elderly usually don't have regrets for what we did, but rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are those with regrets."
She concluded her speech by courageously singing "The Rose."
She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives.
At the year's end Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years
ago.
One week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep.
Over 2.000 college students attended her funeral in tribute to the wonderful woman who taught by example that it's never too late to be all you can
possibly be.
These words have been passed along in loving memory of ROSE.
REMEMBER, GROWING OLDER IS MANDATORY. GROWING UP IS OPTIONAL.
We make a Living by what we get, We make a Life by what we give.
I turned a round to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me with a smile that lit up her entire being.
She said, "Hi handsome. My name is Rose. I'm 87 years old. Can I give you
a hug?"
I laughed and enthusiastically responded, "Of course you may!" and she gave me a giant
squeeze.
"Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?" I asked.
She jokingly replied, "I'm here to meet a rich husband, get married, and have a couple
of kids..."
"No seriously," I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this challenge at her age.
"I always dreamed of having a college education and now I'm getting one!" she told
me.
After class we walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate milkshake.
We became instant friends. Every day for the next 3 months we would leave class together and talk nonstop. I was always mesmerized listening to this "time machine" as she shared her wisdom and experience with me.
Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made friends wherever she went.
She loved to dress up and she revealed in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She was living it up.
At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet.
I'll never forget what she taught us. She was introduced and stepped up to the podium.
As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her three by 5 cards on the
floor.
Frustrated and a little embarrassed she leaned into the microphone and simply said, "I'm sorry I'm so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I'll never get my speech back in order so let me just tell you what I know."
As we laughed she cleared her throat and began, "We do not stop playing because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing.
There are only 4 secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success.
You have to laugh and find humor every day.
You've got to have a dream.
When you lose your dreams, you die.
We have so many people walking around who are dead and don't even know it!
There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up.
If you are 19 years old and lie in bed for one full year and don't do one productive thing, you will turn 20 years old. If I am 87 years old and stay in bed for a year and never do anything I will turn 88.
Anybody can grow older. That doesn't take any talent or ability. The idea is to grow up by always finding opportunity in change. Have no regrets.
The elderly usually don't have regrets for what we did, but rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are those with regrets."
She concluded her speech by courageously singing "The Rose."
She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives.
At the year's end Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years
ago.
One week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep.
Over 2.000 college students attended her funeral in tribute to the wonderful woman who taught by example that it's never too late to be all you can
possibly be.
These words have been passed along in loving memory of ROSE.
REMEMBER, GROWING OLDER IS MANDATORY. GROWING UP IS OPTIONAL.
We make a Living by what we get, We make a Life by what we give.
Amin Uljay
25-12-2006, 04:07
Very thank!
it was very good!
So hard too!
If you can tell easy and very short stories and jokes again!
it was very good!
So hard too!
If you can tell easy and very short stories and jokes again!
behnam karami
15-01-2007, 23:15
THE BURGLARS FRIEND
it was 3 o'clock in the moning when four-year-old Russell Brown woke up to go to the bothroom.
His parents were fast asleep in bed.but when he heard a noise in the living room and saw a light was on, hewent downstairs.
There he found two men. they asked him his name and told him they were friends of the family.
Unfortunately, Russell believed them. they asked him where the VCR and TV were. Russell showed them and said they had a stereo and CD player, too.
The two men carried these to the kitchen. Russell also told them that his mother kept her wallet in a drawer in the kitchen, so they took that. Russell even gave them his packet money.
They finally left at 4 A.M .
They said, Wil you open the back door while we take these things to the car, because we don't want to wake Mommy and daddy, OK? so Russell held the door open for them.
He then went back to bed.
His parents didn't know about the burglary until they got up the next day. His father said,"I couldn't be angry with Russell because he thought he was doing the right thing."
Fortunately, the police caught the two burglars .
it was 3 o'clock in the moning when four-year-old Russell Brown woke up to go to the bothroom.
His parents were fast asleep in bed.but when he heard a noise in the living room and saw a light was on, hewent downstairs.
There he found two men. they asked him his name and told him they were friends of the family.
Unfortunately, Russell believed them. they asked him where the VCR and TV were. Russell showed them and said they had a stereo and CD player, too.
The two men carried these to the kitchen. Russell also told them that his mother kept her wallet in a drawer in the kitchen, so they took that. Russell even gave them his packet money.
They finally left at 4 A.M .
They said, Wil you open the back door while we take these things to the car, because we don't want to wake Mommy and daddy, OK? so Russell held the door open for them.
He then went back to bed.
His parents didn't know about the burglary until they got up the next day. His father said,"I couldn't be angry with Russell because he thought he was doing the right thing."
Fortunately, the police caught the two burglars .
Reza1969
16-01-2007, 01:01
Little Red Riding Hood
Once upon a time . . . in the middle of a thick forest stood a small
cottage, the home of a pretty little girl known to everyone as Little Red
Riding Hood. One day, her Mummy waved her goodbye at the garden gate, saying:
"Grandma is ill. Take her this basket of cakes, but be very careful. Keep to
the path through the wood and don't ever stop. That way, you will come to no
harm."
Little Red Riding Hood kissed her mother and ran off. "Don't worry,' she
said, "I'll run all the way to Grandma's without stopping."
Full of good intentions, the little girl made her way through the wood, but
she was soon to forget her mother's wise words. "What lovely strawberries! And
so red . . ."
Laying her basket on the ground, Little Red Riding Hood bent over the
strawberry plants. "They're nice and ripe, and so big! Yummy! Delicious! Just
another one. And one more. This is the last . . . Well, this one . . . Mmmm."
The red fruit peeped invitingly through the leaves in the grassy glade, and
Little Red Riding Hood ran back and forth popping strawberries into her mouth.
Suddenly she remembered her mother, her promise, Grandma and the basket . . .
and hurried back towards the path. The basket was still in the grass and,
humming to herself, Little Red Riding Hood walked on.
The wood became thicker and thicker. Suddenly a yellow butterfly fluttered
down through the trees. Little Red Riding Hood started to chase the butterfly.
"I'll catch you! I'll catch you!" she called. Suddenly she saw some large
daisies in the grass.
"Oh, how sweet!" she exclaimed and, thinking of Grandma, she picked a large
bunch of flowers.
In the meantime, two wicked eyes were spying on her from behind a tree . .
a strange rustling in the woods made Little Red Riding Hood's heart thump.
Now quite afraid she said to herself. "I must find the path and run away
from here!"
At last she reached the path again but her heart leapt into her mouth at
the sound of a gruff voice which said: "Where ' . . are you going, my pretty
girl, all alone in the woods?"
"I'm taking Grandma some cakes. She lives at the end of the path," said
Little Riding Hood in a faint voice.
When he heard this, the wolf (for it was the big bad wolf himself) politely
asked: "Does Grandma live by herself?"
"Oh, yes," replied Little Red Riding Hood, "and she never opens the door to
strangers!"
"Goodbye. Perhaps we'll meet again," replied the wolf. Then he loped away
thinking to himself "I'll gobble the grandmother first, then lie in wait for
the grandchild!" At last, the cottage came in sight. Knock! Knock! The wolf
rapped on the door. --~ "Who's there?" cried Grandma from her bed.
"It's me, Little Red Riding Hood. I've brought you some cakes because
you're ill," replied the wolf, trying hard to hide his gruff voice.
"Lift the latch and come in," said Grandma, unaware of anything amiss, till
a horrible shadow appeared on the wall. Poor Grandma! For in one bound, the
wolf leapt across the room and, in a single mouthful, swallowed the old lady.
Soon after, Little Red Riding Hood tapped on the door.
"Grandma, can I come in?" she called.
Now, the wolf had put on the old lady's shawl and cap and slipped into the
bed. Trying to imitate Grandma's quavering little voice, he replied: "Open the latch and come in!
"What a deep voice you have," said the little girl in surpnse.
"The better to greet you with," said the wolf.
"Goodness, what big eyes you have."
"The better to see you with."
"And what big hands you have!" exclaimed Little Red Riding Hood, stepping
over to the bed.
"The better to hug you with," said the wolf.
"What a big mouth you have," the little girl murmured in a weak voice.
"The better to eat you with!" growled the wolf, and jumping out of bed, he
swallowed her up too. Then, with a fat full tummy, he fell fast asleep.
In the meantime, a hunter had emerged from the wood, and on noticing the
cottage, he decided to stop and ask for a drink. He had spent a lot of time
trying to catch a large wolf that had been terrorizing the neighbourhood, but
had lost its tracks. The hunter could hear a strange whistling sound; it
seemed to be coming from inside the cottage. He peered through the window ...
and saw the large wolf himself, with a fat full tummy, snoring away in
Grandma's bed.
"The wolf! He won't get away this time!"
Without making a sound, the hunter carefully loaded his gun and gently
opened the window. He pointed the barrel straight at the wolf's head and . . .
BANG! The wolf was dead.
"Got you at last!" shouted the hunter in glee. "You'll never frighten
anyone agaln.
He cut open the wolf's stomach and to his amazement, out popped Grandma and
Little Red Riding Hood, safe and unharmed.
"You arrived just in time," murmured the old lady, quite overcome by all
the excitement. ~
"It's safe to go home now," the hunter told Little Red Riding Hood. "The
big bad wolf is dead and gone, and there is no danger on the path.
Still scared, the little girl hugged her grandmother. Oh, what a dreadful
fright!"
Much later, as dusk was falling, Little Red Riding Hood's mother arrived,
all out of breath, worried because her llttle girl had not come home. And when
she saw Little Red Riding Hood, safe and sound, she burst into tears of joy.
After thanking the hunter again, Little Red Rldlng Hood and her mother set
off towards the wood. As they walked quickly through the trees, the little
girl told her mother: "We must always keep to the path and never stop. That
way, we come to no harm!"
Once upon a time . . . in the middle of a thick forest stood a small
cottage, the home of a pretty little girl known to everyone as Little Red
Riding Hood. One day, her Mummy waved her goodbye at the garden gate, saying:
"Grandma is ill. Take her this basket of cakes, but be very careful. Keep to
the path through the wood and don't ever stop. That way, you will come to no
harm."
Little Red Riding Hood kissed her mother and ran off. "Don't worry,' she
said, "I'll run all the way to Grandma's without stopping."
Full of good intentions, the little girl made her way through the wood, but
she was soon to forget her mother's wise words. "What lovely strawberries! And
so red . . ."
Laying her basket on the ground, Little Red Riding Hood bent over the
strawberry plants. "They're nice and ripe, and so big! Yummy! Delicious! Just
another one. And one more. This is the last . . . Well, this one . . . Mmmm."
The red fruit peeped invitingly through the leaves in the grassy glade, and
Little Red Riding Hood ran back and forth popping strawberries into her mouth.
Suddenly she remembered her mother, her promise, Grandma and the basket . . .
and hurried back towards the path. The basket was still in the grass and,
humming to herself, Little Red Riding Hood walked on.
The wood became thicker and thicker. Suddenly a yellow butterfly fluttered
down through the trees. Little Red Riding Hood started to chase the butterfly.
"I'll catch you! I'll catch you!" she called. Suddenly she saw some large
daisies in the grass.
"Oh, how sweet!" she exclaimed and, thinking of Grandma, she picked a large
bunch of flowers.
In the meantime, two wicked eyes were spying on her from behind a tree . .
a strange rustling in the woods made Little Red Riding Hood's heart thump.
Now quite afraid she said to herself. "I must find the path and run away
from here!"
At last she reached the path again but her heart leapt into her mouth at
the sound of a gruff voice which said: "Where ' . . are you going, my pretty
girl, all alone in the woods?"
"I'm taking Grandma some cakes. She lives at the end of the path," said
Little Riding Hood in a faint voice.
When he heard this, the wolf (for it was the big bad wolf himself) politely
asked: "Does Grandma live by herself?"
"Oh, yes," replied Little Red Riding Hood, "and she never opens the door to
strangers!"
"Goodbye. Perhaps we'll meet again," replied the wolf. Then he loped away
thinking to himself "I'll gobble the grandmother first, then lie in wait for
the grandchild!" At last, the cottage came in sight. Knock! Knock! The wolf
rapped on the door. --~ "Who's there?" cried Grandma from her bed.
"It's me, Little Red Riding Hood. I've brought you some cakes because
you're ill," replied the wolf, trying hard to hide his gruff voice.
"Lift the latch and come in," said Grandma, unaware of anything amiss, till
a horrible shadow appeared on the wall. Poor Grandma! For in one bound, the
wolf leapt across the room and, in a single mouthful, swallowed the old lady.
Soon after, Little Red Riding Hood tapped on the door.
"Grandma, can I come in?" she called.
Now, the wolf had put on the old lady's shawl and cap and slipped into the
bed. Trying to imitate Grandma's quavering little voice, he replied: "Open the latch and come in!
"What a deep voice you have," said the little girl in surpnse.
"The better to greet you with," said the wolf.
"Goodness, what big eyes you have."
"The better to see you with."
"And what big hands you have!" exclaimed Little Red Riding Hood, stepping
over to the bed.
"The better to hug you with," said the wolf.
"What a big mouth you have," the little girl murmured in a weak voice.
"The better to eat you with!" growled the wolf, and jumping out of bed, he
swallowed her up too. Then, with a fat full tummy, he fell fast asleep.
In the meantime, a hunter had emerged from the wood, and on noticing the
cottage, he decided to stop and ask for a drink. He had spent a lot of time
trying to catch a large wolf that had been terrorizing the neighbourhood, but
had lost its tracks. The hunter could hear a strange whistling sound; it
seemed to be coming from inside the cottage. He peered through the window ...
and saw the large wolf himself, with a fat full tummy, snoring away in
Grandma's bed.
"The wolf! He won't get away this time!"
Without making a sound, the hunter carefully loaded his gun and gently
opened the window. He pointed the barrel straight at the wolf's head and . . .
BANG! The wolf was dead.
"Got you at last!" shouted the hunter in glee. "You'll never frighten
anyone agaln.
He cut open the wolf's stomach and to his amazement, out popped Grandma and
Little Red Riding Hood, safe and unharmed.
"You arrived just in time," murmured the old lady, quite overcome by all
the excitement. ~
"It's safe to go home now," the hunter told Little Red Riding Hood. "The
big bad wolf is dead and gone, and there is no danger on the path.
Still scared, the little girl hugged her grandmother. Oh, what a dreadful
fright!"
Much later, as dusk was falling, Little Red Riding Hood's mother arrived,
all out of breath, worried because her llttle girl had not come home. And when
she saw Little Red Riding Hood, safe and sound, she burst into tears of joy.
After thanking the hunter again, Little Red Rldlng Hood and her mother set
off towards the wood. As they walked quickly through the trees, the little
girl told her mother: "We must always keep to the path and never stop. That
way, we come to no harm!"
amintnt
16-01-2007, 12:25
THE BURGLARS FRIEND
it was 3 o'clock in the moning when four-year-old Russell Brown woke up to go to the bothroom.
His parents were fast asleep in bed.but when he heard a noise in the living room and saw a light was on, hewent downstairs.
There he found two men. they asked him his name and told him they were friends of the family.
Unfortunately, Russell believed them. they asked him where the VCR and TV were. Russell showed them and said they had a stereo and CD player, too.
The two men carried these to the kitchen. Russell also told them that his mother kept her wallet in a drawer in the kitchen, so they took that. Russell even gave them his packet money.
They finally left at 4 A.M .
They said, Wil you open the back door while we take these things to the car, because we don't want to wake Mommy and daddy, OK? so Russell held the door open for them.
He then went back to bed.
His parents didn't know about the burglary until they got up the next day. His father said,"I couldn't be angry with Russell because he thought he was doing the right thing."
This is written in one of interchange work books. In fact, It's a true story. credulous Russel!:happy:.d
Once upon a time . . . in the middle of a thick forest stood a small
cottage, the home of a pretty little girl known to everyone as Little Red
Riding Hood. One day, her Mummy waved her goodbye at the garden gate, saying:
"Grandma is ill. Take her this basket of cakes, but be very careful. Keep to
the path through the wood and don't ever stop. That way, you will come to no
harm."
Little Red Riding Hood kissed her mother and ran off. "Don't worry,' she
said, "I'll run all the way to Grandma's without stopping."
Full of good intentions, the little girl made her way through the wood, but
she was soon to forget her mother's wise words. "What lovely strawberries! And
so red . . ."
Laying her basket on the ground, Little Red Riding Hood bent over the
strawberry plants. "They're nice and ripe, and so big! Yummy! Delicious! Just
another one. And one more. This is the last . . . Well, this one . . . Mmmm."
The red fruit peeped invitingly through the leaves in the grassy glade, and
Little Red Riding Hood ran back and forth popping strawberries into her mouth.
Suddenly she remembered her mother, her promise, Grandma and the basket . . .
and hurried back towards the path. The basket was still in the grass and,
humming to herself, Little Red Riding Hood walked on.
The wood became thicker and thicker. Suddenly a yellow butterfly fluttered
down through the trees. Little Red Riding Hood started to chase the butterfly.
"I'll catch you! I'll catch you!" she called. Suddenly she saw some large
daisies in the grass.
"Oh, how sweet!" she exclaimed and, thinking of Grandma, she picked a large
bunch of flowers.
In the meantime, two wicked eyes were spying on her from behind a tree . .
a strange rustling in the woods made Little Red Riding Hood's heart thump.
Now quite afraid she said to herself. "I must find the path and run away
from here!"
At last she reached the path again but her heart leapt into her mouth at
the sound of a gruff voice which said: "Where ' . . are you going, my pretty
girl, all alone in the woods?"
"I'm taking Grandma some cakes. She lives at the end of the path," said
Little Riding Hood in a faint voice.
When he heard this, the wolf (for it was the big bad wolf himself) politely
asked: "Does Grandma live by herself?"
"Oh, yes," replied Little Red Riding Hood, "and she never opens the door to
strangers!"
"Goodbye. Perhaps we'll meet again," replied the wolf. Then he loped away
thinking to himself "I'll gobble the grandmother first, then lie in wait for
the grandchild!" At last, the cottage came in sight. Knock! Knock! The wolf
rapped on the door. --~ "Who's there?" cried Grandma from her bed.
"It's me, Little Red Riding Hood. I've brought you some cakes because
you're ill," replied the wolf, trying hard to hide his gruff voice.
"Lift the latch and come in," said Grandma, unaware of anything amiss, till
a horrible shadow appeared on the wall. Poor Grandma! For in one bound, the
wolf leapt across the room and, in a single mouthful, swallowed the old lady.
Soon after, Little Red Riding Hood tapped on the door.
"Grandma, can I come in?" she called.
Now, the wolf had put on the old lady's shawl and cap and slipped into the
bed. Trying to imitate Grandma's quavering little voice, he replied: "Open the latch and come in!
"What a deep voice you have," said the little girl in surpnse.
"The better to greet you with," said the wolf.
"Goodness, what big eyes you have."
"The better to see you with."
"And what big hands you have!" exclaimed Little Red Riding Hood, stepping
over to the bed.
"The better to hug you with," said the wolf.
"What a big mouth you have," the little girl murmured in a weak voice.
"The better to eat you with!" growled the wolf, and jumping out of bed, he
swallowed her up too. Then, with a fat full tummy, he fell fast asleep.
In the meantime, a hunter had emerged from the wood, and on noticing the
cottage, he decided to stop and ask for a drink. He had spent a lot of time
trying to catch a large wolf that had been terrorizing the neighbourhood, but
had lost its tracks. The hunter could hear a strange whistling sound; it
seemed to be coming from inside the cottage. He peered through the window ...
and saw the large wolf himself, with a fat full tummy, snoring away in
Grandma's bed.
"The wolf! He won't get away this time!"
Without making a sound, the hunter carefully loaded his gun and gently
opened the window. He pointed the barrel straight at the wolf's head and . . .
BANG! The wolf was dead.
"Got you at last!" shouted the hunter in glee. "You'll never frighten
anyone agaln.
He cut open the wolf's stomach and to his amazement, out popped Grandma and
Little Red Riding Hood, safe and unharmed.
"You arrived just in time," murmured the old lady, quite overcome by all
the excitement. ~
"It's safe to go home now," the hunter told Little Red Riding Hood. "The
big bad wolf is dead and gone, and there is no danger on the path.
Still scared, the little girl hugged her grandmother. Oh, what a dreadful
fright!"
Much later, as dusk was falling, Little Red Riding Hood's mother arrived,
all out of breath, worried because her llttle girl had not come home. And when
she saw Little Red Riding Hood, safe and sound, she burst into tears of joy.
After thanking the hunter again, Little Red Rldlng Hood and her mother set
off towards the wood. As they walked quickly through the trees, the little
girl told her mother: "We must always keep to the path and never stop. That
way, we come to no harm
Isn't it our SHENEL GHERMEZY?!:Laughing:. Y this story is different everywhere?! In persian, The story is a bit different. I don't remember any hunter! :cool:
really thanks dear Reza, it brought me some new words.
Good Luck
it was 3 o'clock in the moning when four-year-old Russell Brown woke up to go to the bothroom.
His parents were fast asleep in bed.but when he heard a noise in the living room and saw a light was on, hewent downstairs.
There he found two men. they asked him his name and told him they were friends of the family.
Unfortunately, Russell believed them. they asked him where the VCR and TV were. Russell showed them and said they had a stereo and CD player, too.
The two men carried these to the kitchen. Russell also told them that his mother kept her wallet in a drawer in the kitchen, so they took that. Russell even gave them his packet money.
They finally left at 4 A.M .
They said, Wil you open the back door while we take these things to the car, because we don't want to wake Mommy and daddy, OK? so Russell held the door open for them.
He then went back to bed.
His parents didn't know about the burglary until they got up the next day. His father said,"I couldn't be angry with Russell because he thought he was doing the right thing."
This is written in one of interchange work books. In fact, It's a true story. credulous Russel!:happy:.d
Once upon a time . . . in the middle of a thick forest stood a small
cottage, the home of a pretty little girl known to everyone as Little Red
Riding Hood. One day, her Mummy waved her goodbye at the garden gate, saying:
"Grandma is ill. Take her this basket of cakes, but be very careful. Keep to
the path through the wood and don't ever stop. That way, you will come to no
harm."
Little Red Riding Hood kissed her mother and ran off. "Don't worry,' she
said, "I'll run all the way to Grandma's without stopping."
Full of good intentions, the little girl made her way through the wood, but
she was soon to forget her mother's wise words. "What lovely strawberries! And
so red . . ."
Laying her basket on the ground, Little Red Riding Hood bent over the
strawberry plants. "They're nice and ripe, and so big! Yummy! Delicious! Just
another one. And one more. This is the last . . . Well, this one . . . Mmmm."
The red fruit peeped invitingly through the leaves in the grassy glade, and
Little Red Riding Hood ran back and forth popping strawberries into her mouth.
Suddenly she remembered her mother, her promise, Grandma and the basket . . .
and hurried back towards the path. The basket was still in the grass and,
humming to herself, Little Red Riding Hood walked on.
The wood became thicker and thicker. Suddenly a yellow butterfly fluttered
down through the trees. Little Red Riding Hood started to chase the butterfly.
"I'll catch you! I'll catch you!" she called. Suddenly she saw some large
daisies in the grass.
"Oh, how sweet!" she exclaimed and, thinking of Grandma, she picked a large
bunch of flowers.
In the meantime, two wicked eyes were spying on her from behind a tree . .
a strange rustling in the woods made Little Red Riding Hood's heart thump.
Now quite afraid she said to herself. "I must find the path and run away
from here!"
At last she reached the path again but her heart leapt into her mouth at
the sound of a gruff voice which said: "Where ' . . are you going, my pretty
girl, all alone in the woods?"
"I'm taking Grandma some cakes. She lives at the end of the path," said
Little Riding Hood in a faint voice.
When he heard this, the wolf (for it was the big bad wolf himself) politely
asked: "Does Grandma live by herself?"
"Oh, yes," replied Little Red Riding Hood, "and she never opens the door to
strangers!"
"Goodbye. Perhaps we'll meet again," replied the wolf. Then he loped away
thinking to himself "I'll gobble the grandmother first, then lie in wait for
the grandchild!" At last, the cottage came in sight. Knock! Knock! The wolf
rapped on the door. --~ "Who's there?" cried Grandma from her bed.
"It's me, Little Red Riding Hood. I've brought you some cakes because
you're ill," replied the wolf, trying hard to hide his gruff voice.
"Lift the latch and come in," said Grandma, unaware of anything amiss, till
a horrible shadow appeared on the wall. Poor Grandma! For in one bound, the
wolf leapt across the room and, in a single mouthful, swallowed the old lady.
Soon after, Little Red Riding Hood tapped on the door.
"Grandma, can I come in?" she called.
Now, the wolf had put on the old lady's shawl and cap and slipped into the
bed. Trying to imitate Grandma's quavering little voice, he replied: "Open the latch and come in!
"What a deep voice you have," said the little girl in surpnse.
"The better to greet you with," said the wolf.
"Goodness, what big eyes you have."
"The better to see you with."
"And what big hands you have!" exclaimed Little Red Riding Hood, stepping
over to the bed.
"The better to hug you with," said the wolf.
"What a big mouth you have," the little girl murmured in a weak voice.
"The better to eat you with!" growled the wolf, and jumping out of bed, he
swallowed her up too. Then, with a fat full tummy, he fell fast asleep.
In the meantime, a hunter had emerged from the wood, and on noticing the
cottage, he decided to stop and ask for a drink. He had spent a lot of time
trying to catch a large wolf that had been terrorizing the neighbourhood, but
had lost its tracks. The hunter could hear a strange whistling sound; it
seemed to be coming from inside the cottage. He peered through the window ...
and saw the large wolf himself, with a fat full tummy, snoring away in
Grandma's bed.
"The wolf! He won't get away this time!"
Without making a sound, the hunter carefully loaded his gun and gently
opened the window. He pointed the barrel straight at the wolf's head and . . .
BANG! The wolf was dead.
"Got you at last!" shouted the hunter in glee. "You'll never frighten
anyone agaln.
He cut open the wolf's stomach and to his amazement, out popped Grandma and
Little Red Riding Hood, safe and unharmed.
"You arrived just in time," murmured the old lady, quite overcome by all
the excitement. ~
"It's safe to go home now," the hunter told Little Red Riding Hood. "The
big bad wolf is dead and gone, and there is no danger on the path.
Still scared, the little girl hugged her grandmother. Oh, what a dreadful
fright!"
Much later, as dusk was falling, Little Red Riding Hood's mother arrived,
all out of breath, worried because her llttle girl had not come home. And when
she saw Little Red Riding Hood, safe and sound, she burst into tears of joy.
After thanking the hunter again, Little Red Rldlng Hood and her mother set
off towards the wood. As they walked quickly through the trees, the little
girl told her mother: "We must always keep to the path and never stop. That
way, we come to no harm
Isn't it our SHENEL GHERMEZY?!:Laughing:. Y this story is different everywhere?! In persian, The story is a bit different. I don't remember any hunter! :cool:
really thanks dear Reza, it brought me some new words.
Good Luck
diana_1989
31-01-2007, 14:00
still remember it as if it were yesterday. The day I ended the life of my best friend. The sound of her voice begging me to slow down will haunt me till the day I die but after what I did, I can truly say that I deserve that and more. I will never forgive myself. -Flashback-
"Jesse, slow down, we're going too fast!" "It's all right Amber, I can handle it. You know I would never do anything to hurt you." "Jesse, please stop. I am scared. “She cried.”I won't let anything happen to you." -End of flashback-
But I did hurt her. I was drunk and didn't notice how fast I was going. A kid, that's all I was. A sixteen-year old boy who thought he could handle anything. I used to be so happy. I had the perfect life and now I get to cry myself to sleep thinking about how I hurt the only girl I ever loved and will ever love.
One year earlier
"Come on Amber, no one cares about what you wear." "Speak for yourself! What about this shirt Jess?" "It's fine, now can we go?" "I'll be there in a minute." "Girls." Jesse mumbled rolling his eyes. "I heard that!" Amber said from her bathroom. To her I was just like a brother. It was the same for me until three years ago. I don't know what happened to me. One second she was like my sister, the next I had fallen in love with her. Every one knows how I feel except for Amber. Now, she's the love of my life, the only one for me but of course I haven't told her yet. I will someday but not right now. When we're older and she's ready to hear it, I'll tell her. We were finally on our way to the party. We had the music blasting and we were talking, laughing and singing like we always did. I had finally convinced her parents to let me take her. I promised to take care of her. They knew I would die for her if it came to that and she would do the same for me. We've been friends since the day we were born. Same day, same hospital and two hours apart, me being the oldest. Our parents had been old friends from high school. The four of them had been inseparable just like Amber and I. As I parked my car a few houses away from the party, Amber started getting a little nervous seeing as she had never been to a party like this before. So I took her hand and gently pulled her to the door. Inside, we met some friends and decided to dance when Terry, a guy from our school, offered me a beer. Amber told me not to but I told her that I would only have one. So she let me. The only problem was that one turned into two and two turned into three. We were still dancing by then, I started to get dizzy and Amber noticed. "Jess come sit down a bit, I think you've had enough to drink." she said removing the bottle of beer from my hand and replacing it with a bottle of water instead. I never did have a high tolerance for alcohol. Feeling a little queasy, I laid my head on Amber's shoulder since she had seated herself next to me. Soon enough I fell asleep. About a half-hour later, I woke up still with my head on Amber's shoulder. When I stood up to go back to the dance floor, my head felt as if someone had hit it with a baseball bat a few times but I told Amber I was fine because I didn't want to worry her. When Amber left to go to the washroom, I decided to have another beer. That was a big mistake. When she got back and saw that I could barely stand on my own two feet, she knew right away what I had done. "Jesse! Don't tell me you had another drink!" I had never seen her so mad at me before. "Okay then, I won't." I replied. "Don't you get smart with me!" "Jeez, now you sound like my mother." "I'm going to go call Brady so that he can pick us up." "Don't bother your brother. I'll be fine." With that I headed out the door and to my car. After managing to open the door, I got in and rested my head on the steering wheel when Amber banged on the window. "What the hell did you do that for!?" "Jesse open this door right now. You know you can't drive like this." "I'll be fine Amber." I insisted. "Then I'm coming with you. There's no way you're going alone." She said as she got into the car. She tried to grab the car keys but the second her door had closed I drove off. I started off at 100 km per hour and quickly reached 160. "Jesse, pull over and we'll call my brother. You can come get your car tomorrow." "It's OK. I'm fine." "Jesse, slow down we're going too fast." "No we're not." "What do you mean! You're doing 160!" She shouted. "It's all right Amber, I can handle it. You know I would never do anything to hurt you." "Jesse, please stop, I'm scared." She started crying. "I promise I won't let anything happen to you." "JESSE! WATCH-" I turned my attention to the road when I saw another car slam into mine. I threw myself on Amber but her head hit and smashed the window of her door. I woke up a few hours later in the hospital with a few scrapes, scratches and bruises. "Amber!" I yelled. A nurse came running in. "Where's Amber!? Tell me!" I yelled louder. "Calm down young man" The nurse said as she attempted to take my pulse. "No! I want to see her!" I insisted, getting out of bed. The nurse desperately tried to push me back into bed but I was stronger then her so she gave up and told me where I would find Amber. With my whole body aching, I made my way to her room. When I entered the room, I saw Amber lying in bed with machines plugged all around her. It was as if someone had just stabbed me in the heart. Then I saw her parents by her side, crying. They looked up and saw me. "I'm sorry, " I said crying " I... I..." I couldn't speak. Her mother ran over to me and instead of hitting me or yelling at me like I expected her to, she took me in her arms and held me tight. Her father did the same. I knew they forgave me but I could never forgive myself. I sat myself in the chair next to her bed and took her soft gentle hand into mine. I refused to move until she came back to me. Everybody told me to get some rest but I didn't care about myself. So they just left me by her side. Two days later, as I still sat next to Amber's bed, she started to wake up. I was about to call a doctor but she told me not to. You're awake!" I practically yelled crying. "You're ok." She said quietly, smiling. "Yeah but I would trade places with you in a heart beat. Do you know how much it hurts me too see you like this?" "Jesse?" "Yeah?" something in her voice worried me. "I love you" "I love you too but-" "Tell my parents and Brady I love them and promise you'll never forget me." She said crying. "WHAT? NO! YOU CAN'T LEAVE ME!" I screamed crying. "I love you Jess." She cried as she closed her eyes. "NO! DON'T GO!" I yelled louder. Her dad ran in when he heard me as the heart monitor went flat. I ran out of the way and into his arms as doctors and nurses rushed to Amber's side.
One year later
The doctors did everything they could that day to save Amber but it was hopeless. We had lost her forever. She was gone and would never come back. To this day, people still tiptoe around me, scared of what I might do if they mention her name and to tell you the truth, I don't blame them. It's exactly one year today since Amber died so I lay here on my bed tears rolling down my cheeks looking at a picture of Amber and I as a song on the radio caught my attention.
Although you're so many miles from me
I just want you to know I could never forget you... Sitting here in my room alone
Got the radio on
And it's playing our song
I keep your picture beside my bed
And as I hold it so close
I keep hearing you saying
"I love you, and wherever I am, I'm thinking of you"
So until you come back to me... (Chorus)
I'll send my love to you straight from the heart
Baby I miss you, baby I miss you
I feel you so near though we're so far apart
Baby I miss you, baby I miss you Tears like rain falling from my eyes
As we said our good-byes
I could feel my heart break
Only emptiness filled my soul
I was half not whole
... I promised her that I wouldn't let anything happen to her and I broke that promise. But one promise I'll never brake is the one of never forgetting her cause she's the one person I'll never forget.
"Jesse, slow down, we're going too fast!" "It's all right Amber, I can handle it. You know I would never do anything to hurt you." "Jesse, please stop. I am scared. “She cried.”I won't let anything happen to you." -End of flashback-
But I did hurt her. I was drunk and didn't notice how fast I was going. A kid, that's all I was. A sixteen-year old boy who thought he could handle anything. I used to be so happy. I had the perfect life and now I get to cry myself to sleep thinking about how I hurt the only girl I ever loved and will ever love.
One year earlier
"Come on Amber, no one cares about what you wear." "Speak for yourself! What about this shirt Jess?" "It's fine, now can we go?" "I'll be there in a minute." "Girls." Jesse mumbled rolling his eyes. "I heard that!" Amber said from her bathroom. To her I was just like a brother. It was the same for me until three years ago. I don't know what happened to me. One second she was like my sister, the next I had fallen in love with her. Every one knows how I feel except for Amber. Now, she's the love of my life, the only one for me but of course I haven't told her yet. I will someday but not right now. When we're older and she's ready to hear it, I'll tell her. We were finally on our way to the party. We had the music blasting and we were talking, laughing and singing like we always did. I had finally convinced her parents to let me take her. I promised to take care of her. They knew I would die for her if it came to that and she would do the same for me. We've been friends since the day we were born. Same day, same hospital and two hours apart, me being the oldest. Our parents had been old friends from high school. The four of them had been inseparable just like Amber and I. As I parked my car a few houses away from the party, Amber started getting a little nervous seeing as she had never been to a party like this before. So I took her hand and gently pulled her to the door. Inside, we met some friends and decided to dance when Terry, a guy from our school, offered me a beer. Amber told me not to but I told her that I would only have one. So she let me. The only problem was that one turned into two and two turned into three. We were still dancing by then, I started to get dizzy and Amber noticed. "Jess come sit down a bit, I think you've had enough to drink." she said removing the bottle of beer from my hand and replacing it with a bottle of water instead. I never did have a high tolerance for alcohol. Feeling a little queasy, I laid my head on Amber's shoulder since she had seated herself next to me. Soon enough I fell asleep. About a half-hour later, I woke up still with my head on Amber's shoulder. When I stood up to go back to the dance floor, my head felt as if someone had hit it with a baseball bat a few times but I told Amber I was fine because I didn't want to worry her. When Amber left to go to the washroom, I decided to have another beer. That was a big mistake. When she got back and saw that I could barely stand on my own two feet, she knew right away what I had done. "Jesse! Don't tell me you had another drink!" I had never seen her so mad at me before. "Okay then, I won't." I replied. "Don't you get smart with me!" "Jeez, now you sound like my mother." "I'm going to go call Brady so that he can pick us up." "Don't bother your brother. I'll be fine." With that I headed out the door and to my car. After managing to open the door, I got in and rested my head on the steering wheel when Amber banged on the window. "What the hell did you do that for!?" "Jesse open this door right now. You know you can't drive like this." "I'll be fine Amber." I insisted. "Then I'm coming with you. There's no way you're going alone." She said as she got into the car. She tried to grab the car keys but the second her door had closed I drove off. I started off at 100 km per hour and quickly reached 160. "Jesse, pull over and we'll call my brother. You can come get your car tomorrow." "It's OK. I'm fine." "Jesse, slow down we're going too fast." "No we're not." "What do you mean! You're doing 160!" She shouted. "It's all right Amber, I can handle it. You know I would never do anything to hurt you." "Jesse, please stop, I'm scared." She started crying. "I promise I won't let anything happen to you." "JESSE! WATCH-" I turned my attention to the road when I saw another car slam into mine. I threw myself on Amber but her head hit and smashed the window of her door. I woke up a few hours later in the hospital with a few scrapes, scratches and bruises. "Amber!" I yelled. A nurse came running in. "Where's Amber!? Tell me!" I yelled louder. "Calm down young man" The nurse said as she attempted to take my pulse. "No! I want to see her!" I insisted, getting out of bed. The nurse desperately tried to push me back into bed but I was stronger then her so she gave up and told me where I would find Amber. With my whole body aching, I made my way to her room. When I entered the room, I saw Amber lying in bed with machines plugged all around her. It was as if someone had just stabbed me in the heart. Then I saw her parents by her side, crying. They looked up and saw me. "I'm sorry, " I said crying " I... I..." I couldn't speak. Her mother ran over to me and instead of hitting me or yelling at me like I expected her to, she took me in her arms and held me tight. Her father did the same. I knew they forgave me but I could never forgive myself. I sat myself in the chair next to her bed and took her soft gentle hand into mine. I refused to move until she came back to me. Everybody told me to get some rest but I didn't care about myself. So they just left me by her side. Two days later, as I still sat next to Amber's bed, she started to wake up. I was about to call a doctor but she told me not to. You're awake!" I practically yelled crying. "You're ok." She said quietly, smiling. "Yeah but I would trade places with you in a heart beat. Do you know how much it hurts me too see you like this?" "Jesse?" "Yeah?" something in her voice worried me. "I love you" "I love you too but-" "Tell my parents and Brady I love them and promise you'll never forget me." She said crying. "WHAT? NO! YOU CAN'T LEAVE ME!" I screamed crying. "I love you Jess." She cried as she closed her eyes. "NO! DON'T GO!" I yelled louder. Her dad ran in when he heard me as the heart monitor went flat. I ran out of the way and into his arms as doctors and nurses rushed to Amber's side.
One year later
The doctors did everything they could that day to save Amber but it was hopeless. We had lost her forever. She was gone and would never come back. To this day, people still tiptoe around me, scared of what I might do if they mention her name and to tell you the truth, I don't blame them. It's exactly one year today since Amber died so I lay here on my bed tears rolling down my cheeks looking at a picture of Amber and I as a song on the radio caught my attention.
Although you're so many miles from me
I just want you to know I could never forget you... Sitting here in my room alone
Got the radio on
And it's playing our song
I keep your picture beside my bed
And as I hold it so close
I keep hearing you saying
"I love you, and wherever I am, I'm thinking of you"
So until you come back to me... (Chorus)
I'll send my love to you straight from the heart
Baby I miss you, baby I miss you
I feel you so near though we're so far apart
Baby I miss you, baby I miss you Tears like rain falling from my eyes
As we said our good-byes
I could feel my heart break
Only emptiness filled my soul
I was half not whole
... I promised her that I wouldn't let anything happen to her and I broke that promise. But one promise I'll never brake is the one of never forgetting her cause she's the one person I'll never forget.
diana_1989
04-02-2007, 16:38
:rolleye: Once there were three trees on a hill in the woods. They were discussing their hopes and dreams when the first tree said, "Someday I hope to be a treasure chest. I could be filled with gold, silver.I could be decorated with intricate carving and everyone would see the beauty.Then the second tree said, "Someday I will be a mighty ship. I will take kings and queens across the waters. Everyone will feel safe in me because of the strength of my hull." Finally, the third tree said, "I want to grow to be the tallest and straightest tree in the forest. People will see me on top of the hill and look up to my branches, and think of the heavens and God and how close to them I am reaching. I will be the greatest tree of all time and people will always remember me." After a few years of praying that their dreams would come true, a group of woodsmen came upon the trees. When one came to the first tree he said, "This looks like a strong tree, I think I should be able to sell the wood to a carpenter" ... and he began cutting it down. The tree was happy, because he knew that the carpenter would make him into a treasure chest. At the second tree a woodsman said, "This looks like a strong tree, I should be able to sell it to the shipyard." The second tree was happy because he knew he was on his way to becoming a mighty ship. When the woodsmen came upon the third tree, the tree was frightened because he knew that if they cut him down his dreams would not come true. One of the woodsmen said, "I don't need anything special from my tree so I'll take this one", and he cut it down. When the first tree arrived at the carpenters, he was made into a feed box for animals. He was then placed in a barn and filled with hay. This was not at all what he had prayed for. The second tree was cut and made into a small fishing boat. His dreams of being a mighty ship and carrying kings had come to an end. The third tree was cut into large pieces and left alone in the dark. The years went by, and the trees forgot about their dreams. Then one day, a man and woman came to the barn. She gave birth and they placed the baby in the hay in the feed box that was made from the first tree. The man wished that he could have made a crib for the baby, but this manger would have to do. The tree could feel the importance of this event and knew that it had held the greatest treasure of all time. Years later, a group of men got in the fishing boat made from the second tree. One of them was tired and went to sleep. While they were out on the water, a great storm arose and the tree didn't think it was strong enough to keep the men safe. The men woke the sleeping man, and he stood and said "Peace" and the storm stopped. At this time, the tree knew that it had carried the King of Kings in its boat. Finally, someone came and got the third tree. It was carried through the streets as the people mocked the man who was carrying it. When they came to a stop, the man was nailed to the tree and raised in the air to die at the top of a hill. When Sunday came, the tree came to realize that it was strong enough to stand at the top of the hill and be as close to God as was possible, because Jesus had been crucified on it.
The moral of this story is that when things don't seem to be going your way, always know that God has a plan for you. If you place your trust in Him, He will give you great gifts. Each of the trees got what they wanted, just not in the way they had imagined. We don't always know what God's plans are for us. We just know that His ways are not our ways, but His ways are always best
The moral of this story is that when things don't seem to be going your way, always know that God has a plan for you. If you place your trust in Him, He will give you great gifts. Each of the trees got what they wanted, just not in the way they had imagined. We don't always know what God's plans are for us. We just know that His ways are not our ways, but His ways are always best
diana_1989
11-02-2007, 00:57
:sad: :sad: The story goes that some time ago, a man punished his 3-year-old daughter for wasting a roll of gold wrapping paper. Money was tight and he became infuriated when the child tried to decorate a box to put under the Christmas tree. Nevertheless, the little girl brought the gift to her father the next morning and said, "This is for you, Daddy”
The man was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction, but his anger flared again when he found out the box was empty. He yelled at her, stating, "Don't you know, when you give someone a present, there is supposed to be something inside? The little girl looked up at him with tears in her eyes and cried, "Oh, Daddy, it's not empty at all. I blew kisses into the box. They're all for you, Daddy."
The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little girl, and he begged for her forgiveness.
Only a short time later, an accident took the life of the child. It is also told that her father kept that gold box by his bed for many years and, whenever he was discouraged, he would take out an imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child who had put it there.[/COLOR
]
[COLOR="Red"]In a very real sense, each one of us, as humans beings, have been given a gold container filled with unconditional love and kisses... from our children, family members, friends, and God. There is simply no other possession, anyone could hold, more precious than this.
The man was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction, but his anger flared again when he found out the box was empty. He yelled at her, stating, "Don't you know, when you give someone a present, there is supposed to be something inside? The little girl looked up at him with tears in her eyes and cried, "Oh, Daddy, it's not empty at all. I blew kisses into the box. They're all for you, Daddy."
The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little girl, and he begged for her forgiveness.
Only a short time later, an accident took the life of the child. It is also told that her father kept that gold box by his bed for many years and, whenever he was discouraged, he would take out an imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child who had put it there.[/COLOR
]
[COLOR="Red"]In a very real sense, each one of us, as humans beings, have been given a gold container filled with unconditional love and kisses... from our children, family members, friends, and God. There is simply no other possession, anyone could hold, more precious than this.
shvalaie
17-02-2007, 16:18
Hi, dear friends
I have an mid-term exam tomorrow and this is my short story.
Please check it and let me know if you find anything wrong in it.
thants a million
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Thorn Bird
Maggie was 49 years old when she lost her son, Dayn. He finished priest school and wanted to spend his holiday in Greece but he drown when he was trying to save some people. In Greece happend a revolution so Maggie couldn't bring his body back to Australia. At first she asked help from bishop Ralf but he refused so she had tell him the truth.
Maggie and bishop Ralf first met eachother 40 years ago, when Maggie was 9 years old. Despite Ralf was about 20 years older than Maggie they loved eachother since they met, but they couldn't marry. When she was 15, he went to the Cindney and after 5 years, she married. Her husband loved his work more than his wife even after their first baby girl was born. Maggie didn't tolerate his unkindness and went back home.
Ralf transfered to Rome, so he wanted to say goodbye to Maggie, but she never told the truth to Ralf that Daye was his son.
I have an mid-term exam tomorrow and this is my short story.
Please check it and let me know if you find anything wrong in it.
thants a million
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Thorn Bird
Maggie was 49 years old when she lost her son, Dayn. He finished priest school and wanted to spend his holiday in Greece but he drown when he was trying to save some people. In Greece happend a revolution so Maggie couldn't bring his body back to Australia. At first she asked help from bishop Ralf but he refused so she had tell him the truth.
Maggie and bishop Ralf first met eachother 40 years ago, when Maggie was 9 years old. Despite Ralf was about 20 years older than Maggie they loved eachother since they met, but they couldn't marry. When she was 15, he went to the Cindney and after 5 years, she married. Her husband loved his work more than his wife even after their first baby girl was born. Maggie didn't tolerate his unkindness and went back home.
Ralf transfered to Rome, so he wanted to say goodbye to Maggie, but she never told the truth to Ralf that Daye was his son.
Reza1969
19-02-2007, 02:16
Hi, dear friends
I have an mid-term exam tomorrow and this is my short story.
Please check it and let me know if you find anything wrong in it.
thants a million
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Thorn Bird
Maggie was 49 years old when she lost her son, Dayn. He finished priest school and wanted to spend his holiday in Greece but he drown when he was trying to save some people. In Greece happend a revolution so Maggie couldn't bring his body back to Australia. At first she asked help from bishop Ralf but he refused so she had tell him the truth.
Maggie and bishop Ralf first met eachother 40 years ago, when Maggie was 9 years old. Despite Ralf was about 20 years older than Maggie they loved eachother since they met, but they couldn't marry. When she was 15, he went to the Cindney and after 5 years, she married. Her husband loved his work more than his wife even after their first baby girl was born. Maggie didn't tolerate his unkindness and went back home.
Ralf transfered to Rome, so he wanted to say goodbye to Maggie, but she never told the truth to Ralf that Daye was his son.
Hi buddy
I noticed the following mistakes in the text:
He finished_He had finished
priest school_religious school
drown_drowned
when he was trying_while he was trying
In Greece happened a revolution_A revolution had happened in Greece
at first_at first,
she asked help from bishop Ralf_she asked bishop Ralph for help
Ralf_Ralph
she had tell him_she had to tell him
Despite Ralf was about 20 years older than Maggie they loved eachother since they met_ Despite Ralf was about 20 years older than Maggie, they loved each other since they had met
the Cindney_Sidney(do you men this city?)
didn't tolerate_couldn't tolerate
Ralf transfered_Ralf was transferred
Daye was his son_Dayn was his son
I have an mid-term exam tomorrow and this is my short story.
Please check it and let me know if you find anything wrong in it.
thants a million
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Thorn Bird
Maggie was 49 years old when she lost her son, Dayn. He finished priest school and wanted to spend his holiday in Greece but he drown when he was trying to save some people. In Greece happend a revolution so Maggie couldn't bring his body back to Australia. At first she asked help from bishop Ralf but he refused so she had tell him the truth.
Maggie and bishop Ralf first met eachother 40 years ago, when Maggie was 9 years old. Despite Ralf was about 20 years older than Maggie they loved eachother since they met, but they couldn't marry. When she was 15, he went to the Cindney and after 5 years, she married. Her husband loved his work more than his wife even after their first baby girl was born. Maggie didn't tolerate his unkindness and went back home.
Ralf transfered to Rome, so he wanted to say goodbye to Maggie, but she never told the truth to Ralf that Daye was his son.
Hi buddy
I noticed the following mistakes in the text:
He finished_He had finished
priest school_religious school
drown_drowned
when he was trying_while he was trying
In Greece happened a revolution_A revolution had happened in Greece
at first_at first,
she asked help from bishop Ralf_she asked bishop Ralph for help
Ralf_Ralph
she had tell him_she had to tell him
Despite Ralf was about 20 years older than Maggie they loved eachother since they met_ Despite Ralf was about 20 years older than Maggie, they loved each other since they had met
the Cindney_Sidney(do you men this city?)
didn't tolerate_couldn't tolerate
Ralf transfered_Ralf was transferred
Daye was his son_Dayn was his son
shahrzad2006
21-02-2007, 16:39
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE ANGEL
by Hans Christian Andersen
"WHENEVER a good child dies, an angel of God comes down from heaven, takes the dead child in his arms, spreads out his great white wings, and flies with him over all the places which the child had loved during his life. Then he gathers a large handful of flowers, which he carries up to the Almighty, that they may bloom more brightly in heaven than they do on earth. And the Almighty presses the flowers to His heart, but He kisses the flower that pleases Him best, and it receives a voice, and is able to join the song of the chorus of bliss."
These words were spoken by an angel of God, as he carried a dead child up to heaven, and the child listened as if in a dream. Then they passed over well-known spots, where the little one had often played, and through beautiful gardens full of lovely flowers.
"Which of these shall we take with us to heaven to be transplanted there?" asked the angel.
Close by grew a slender, beautiful, rose-bush, but some wicked hand had broken the stem, and the half-opened rosebuds hung faded and withered on the trailing branches.
"Poor rose-bush!" said the child, "let us take it with us to heaven, that it may bloom above in God's garden."
The angel took up the rose-bush; then he kissed the child, and the little one half opened his eyes. The angel gathered also some beautiful flowers, as well as a few humble buttercups and heart's-ease.
"Now we have flowers enough," said the child; but the angel only nodded, he did not fly upward to heaven.
It was night, and quite still in the great town. Here they remained, and the angel hovered over a small, narrow street, in which lay a large heap of straw, ashes, and sweepings from the houses of people who had removed. There lay fragments of plates, pieces of plaster, rags, old hats, and other rubbish not pleasant to see. Amidst all this confusion, the angel pointed to the pieces of a broken flower-pot, and to a lump of earth which had fallen out of it. The earth had been kept from falling to pieces by the roots of a withered field-flower, which had been thrown amongst the rubbish.
"We will take this with us," said the angel, "I will tell you why as we fly along."
And as they flew the angel related the history.
"Down in that narrow lane, in a low cellar, lived a poor sick boy; he had been afflicted from his childhood, and even in his best days he could just manage to walk up and down the room on crutches once or twice, but no more. During some days in summer, the sunbeams would lie on the floor of the cellar for about half an hour. In this spot the poor sick boy would sit warming himself in the sunshine, and watching the red blood through his delicate fingers as he held them before his face. Then he would say he had been out, yet he knew nothing of the green forest in its spring verdure, till a neighbor's son brought him a green bough from a beech-tree. This he would place over his head, and fancy that he was in the beech-wood while the sun shone, and the birds carolled gayly. One spring day the neighbor's boy brought him some field-flowers, and among them was one to which the root still adhered. This he carefully planted in a flower-pot, and placed in a window-seat near his bed. And the flower had been planted by a fortunate hand, for it grew, put forth fresh shoots, and blossomed every year. It became a splendid flower-garden to the sick boy, and his little treasure upon earth. He watered it, and cherished it, and took care it should have the benefit of every sunbeam that found its way into the cellar, from the earliest morning ray to the evening sunset. The flower entwined itself even in his dreams- for him it bloomed, for him spread its perfume. And it gladdened his eyes, and to the flower he turned, even in death, when the Lord called him. He has been one year with God. During that time the flower has stood in the window, withered and forgotten, till at length cast out among the sweepings into the street, on the day of the lodgers' removal. And this poor flower, withered and faded as it is, we have added to our nosegay, because it gave more real joy than the most beautiful flower in the garden of a queen."
"But how do you know all this?" asked the child whom the angel was carrying to heaven.
"I know it," said the angel, "because I myself was the poor sick boy who walked upon crutches, and I know my own flower well."
Then the child opened his eyes and looked into the glorious happy face of the angel, and at the same moment they found themselves in that heavenly home where all is happiness and joy. And God pressed the dead child to His heart, and wings were given him so that he could fly with the angel, hand in hand. Then the Almighty pressed all the flowers to His heart; but He kissed the withered field-flower, and it received a voice. Then it joined in the song of the angels, who surrounded the throne, some near, and others in a distant circle, but all equally happy. They all joined in the chorus of praise, both great and small,- the good, happy child, and the poor field-flower, that once lay withered and cast away on a heap of rubbish in a narrow, dark street.
THE END.
THE ANGEL
by Hans Christian Andersen
"WHENEVER a good child dies, an angel of God comes down from heaven, takes the dead child in his arms, spreads out his great white wings, and flies with him over all the places which the child had loved during his life. Then he gathers a large handful of flowers, which he carries up to the Almighty, that they may bloom more brightly in heaven than they do on earth. And the Almighty presses the flowers to His heart, but He kisses the flower that pleases Him best, and it receives a voice, and is able to join the song of the chorus of bliss."
These words were spoken by an angel of God, as he carried a dead child up to heaven, and the child listened as if in a dream. Then they passed over well-known spots, where the little one had often played, and through beautiful gardens full of lovely flowers.
"Which of these shall we take with us to heaven to be transplanted there?" asked the angel.
Close by grew a slender, beautiful, rose-bush, but some wicked hand had broken the stem, and the half-opened rosebuds hung faded and withered on the trailing branches.
"Poor rose-bush!" said the child, "let us take it with us to heaven, that it may bloom above in God's garden."
The angel took up the rose-bush; then he kissed the child, and the little one half opened his eyes. The angel gathered also some beautiful flowers, as well as a few humble buttercups and heart's-ease.
"Now we have flowers enough," said the child; but the angel only nodded, he did not fly upward to heaven.
It was night, and quite still in the great town. Here they remained, and the angel hovered over a small, narrow street, in which lay a large heap of straw, ashes, and sweepings from the houses of people who had removed. There lay fragments of plates, pieces of plaster, rags, old hats, and other rubbish not pleasant to see. Amidst all this confusion, the angel pointed to the pieces of a broken flower-pot, and to a lump of earth which had fallen out of it. The earth had been kept from falling to pieces by the roots of a withered field-flower, which had been thrown amongst the rubbish.
"We will take this with us," said the angel, "I will tell you why as we fly along."
And as they flew the angel related the history.
"Down in that narrow lane, in a low cellar, lived a poor sick boy; he had been afflicted from his childhood, and even in his best days he could just manage to walk up and down the room on crutches once or twice, but no more. During some days in summer, the sunbeams would lie on the floor of the cellar for about half an hour. In this spot the poor sick boy would sit warming himself in the sunshine, and watching the red blood through his delicate fingers as he held them before his face. Then he would say he had been out, yet he knew nothing of the green forest in its spring verdure, till a neighbor's son brought him a green bough from a beech-tree. This he would place over his head, and fancy that he was in the beech-wood while the sun shone, and the birds carolled gayly. One spring day the neighbor's boy brought him some field-flowers, and among them was one to which the root still adhered. This he carefully planted in a flower-pot, and placed in a window-seat near his bed. And the flower had been planted by a fortunate hand, for it grew, put forth fresh shoots, and blossomed every year. It became a splendid flower-garden to the sick boy, and his little treasure upon earth. He watered it, and cherished it, and took care it should have the benefit of every sunbeam that found its way into the cellar, from the earliest morning ray to the evening sunset. The flower entwined itself even in his dreams- for him it bloomed, for him spread its perfume. And it gladdened his eyes, and to the flower he turned, even in death, when the Lord called him. He has been one year with God. During that time the flower has stood in the window, withered and forgotten, till at length cast out among the sweepings into the street, on the day of the lodgers' removal. And this poor flower, withered and faded as it is, we have added to our nosegay, because it gave more real joy than the most beautiful flower in the garden of a queen."
"But how do you know all this?" asked the child whom the angel was carrying to heaven.
"I know it," said the angel, "because I myself was the poor sick boy who walked upon crutches, and I know my own flower well."
Then the child opened his eyes and looked into the glorious happy face of the angel, and at the same moment they found themselves in that heavenly home where all is happiness and joy. And God pressed the dead child to His heart, and wings were given him so that he could fly with the angel, hand in hand. Then the Almighty pressed all the flowers to His heart; but He kissed the withered field-flower, and it received a voice. Then it joined in the song of the angels, who surrounded the throne, some near, and others in a distant circle, but all equally happy. They all joined in the chorus of praise, both great and small,- the good, happy child, and the poor field-flower, that once lay withered and cast away on a heap of rubbish in a narrow, dark street.
THE END.
diana_1989
23-03-2007, 00:04
by GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ
Monday dawned warm and rainless. Aurelio Escovar, a dentist without a degree, and a very early riser, opened his office at six. He took some false teeth, still mounted in their plaster mold, out of the glass case and put on the table a fistful of instruments which he arranged in size order, as if they were on display. He wore a collarless striped shirt, closed at the neck with a golden stud, and pants held up by suspenders He was erect and skinny, with a look that rarely corresponded to the situation, the way deaf people have of looking.
When he had things arranged on the table, he pulled the drill toward the dental chair and sat down to polish the false teeth. He seemed not to be thinking about what he was doing, but worked steadily, pumping the drill with his feet, even when he didn't need it.
After eight he stopped for a while to look at the sky through the window, and he saw two pensive buzzards who were drying themselves in the sun on the ridgepole of the house next door. He went on working with the idea that before lunch it would rain again. The shrill voice of his elevenyear-old son interrupted his concentration.
"Papa."
"What?"
"The Mayor wants to know if you'll pull his tooth."
"Tell him I'm not here."
He was polishing a gold tooth. He held it at arm's length, and examined it with his eyes half closed. His son shouted again from the little waiting room.
"He says you are, too, because he can hear you."
The dentist kept examining the tooth. Only when he had put it on the table with the finished work did he say:
"So much the better."
He operated the drill again. He took several pieces of a bridge out of a cardboard box where he kept the things he still had to do and began to polish the gold.
"Papa."
"What?"
He still hadn't changed his expression.
"He says if you don't take out his tooth, he'll shoot you."
Without hurrying, with an extremely tranquil movement, he stopped pedaling the drill, pushed it away from the chair, and pulled the lower drawer of the table all the way out. There was a revolver. "O.K.," he said. "Tell him to come and shoot me."
He rolled the chair over opposite the door, his hand resting on the edge of the drawer. The Mayor appeared at the door. He had shaved the left side of his face, but the other side, swollen and in pain, had a five-day-old beard. The dentist saw many nights of desperation in his dull eyes. He closed the drawer with his fingertips and said softly:
"Sit down."
"Good morning," said the Mayor.
"Morning," said the dentist.
While the instruments were boiling, the Mayor leaned his skull on the headrest of the chair and felt better. His breath was icy. It was a poor office: an old wooden chair, the pedal drill, a glass case with ceramic bottles. Opposite the chair was a window with a shoulder-high cloth curtain. When he felt the dentist approach, the Mayor braced his heels and opened his mouth.
Aurelio Escovar turned his head toward the light. After inspecting the infected tooth, he closed the Mayor's jaw with a cautious pressure of his fingers.
"It has to be without anesthesia," he said.
"Why?"
"Because you have an abscess."
The Mayor looked him in the eye. "All right," he said, and tried to smile. The dentist did not return the smile. He brought the basin of sterilized instruments to the worktable and took them out of the water with a pair of cold tweezers, still without hurrying. Then he pushed the spittoon with the tip of his shoe, and went to wash his hands in the washbasin. He did all this without looking at the Mayor. But the Mayor didn't take his eyes off him.
It was a lower wisdom tooth. The dentist spread his feet and grasped the tooth with the hot forceps. The Mayor seized the arms of the chair, braced his feet with all his strength, and felt an icy void in his kidneys, but didn't make a sound. The dentist moved only his wrist. Without rancor, rather with a bitter tenderness, he said:
"Now you'll pay for our twenty dead men."
The Mayor felt the crunch of bones in his jaw, and his eyes filled with tears. But he didn't breathe until he felt the tooth come out. Then he saw it through his tears. It seemed so foreign to his pain that he failed to understand his torture of the five previous nights.
Bent over the spittoon, sweating, panting, he unbuttoned his tunic and reached for the handkerchief in his pants pocket. The dentist gave him a clean cloth.
"Dry your tears," he said.
The Mayor did. He was trembling. While the dentist washed his hands, he saw the crumbling ceiling and a dusty spider web with spider's eggs and dead insects. The dentist returned, drying his hands. "Go to bed," he said, "and gargle with salt water." The Mayor stood up, said goodbye with a casual military salute, and walked toward the door, stretching his legs, without buttoning up his tunic.
"Send the bill," he said.
"To you or the town?"
The Mayor didn't look at him. He closed the door and said through the screen:
"It's the same damn thing
Monday dawned warm and rainless. Aurelio Escovar, a dentist without a degree, and a very early riser, opened his office at six. He took some false teeth, still mounted in their plaster mold, out of the glass case and put on the table a fistful of instruments which he arranged in size order, as if they were on display. He wore a collarless striped shirt, closed at the neck with a golden stud, and pants held up by suspenders He was erect and skinny, with a look that rarely corresponded to the situation, the way deaf people have of looking.
When he had things arranged on the table, he pulled the drill toward the dental chair and sat down to polish the false teeth. He seemed not to be thinking about what he was doing, but worked steadily, pumping the drill with his feet, even when he didn't need it.
After eight he stopped for a while to look at the sky through the window, and he saw two pensive buzzards who were drying themselves in the sun on the ridgepole of the house next door. He went on working with the idea that before lunch it would rain again. The shrill voice of his elevenyear-old son interrupted his concentration.
"Papa."
"What?"
"The Mayor wants to know if you'll pull his tooth."
"Tell him I'm not here."
He was polishing a gold tooth. He held it at arm's length, and examined it with his eyes half closed. His son shouted again from the little waiting room.
"He says you are, too, because he can hear you."
The dentist kept examining the tooth. Only when he had put it on the table with the finished work did he say:
"So much the better."
He operated the drill again. He took several pieces of a bridge out of a cardboard box where he kept the things he still had to do and began to polish the gold.
"Papa."
"What?"
He still hadn't changed his expression.
"He says if you don't take out his tooth, he'll shoot you."
Without hurrying, with an extremely tranquil movement, he stopped pedaling the drill, pushed it away from the chair, and pulled the lower drawer of the table all the way out. There was a revolver. "O.K.," he said. "Tell him to come and shoot me."
He rolled the chair over opposite the door, his hand resting on the edge of the drawer. The Mayor appeared at the door. He had shaved the left side of his face, but the other side, swollen and in pain, had a five-day-old beard. The dentist saw many nights of desperation in his dull eyes. He closed the drawer with his fingertips and said softly:
"Sit down."
"Good morning," said the Mayor.
"Morning," said the dentist.
While the instruments were boiling, the Mayor leaned his skull on the headrest of the chair and felt better. His breath was icy. It was a poor office: an old wooden chair, the pedal drill, a glass case with ceramic bottles. Opposite the chair was a window with a shoulder-high cloth curtain. When he felt the dentist approach, the Mayor braced his heels and opened his mouth.
Aurelio Escovar turned his head toward the light. After inspecting the infected tooth, he closed the Mayor's jaw with a cautious pressure of his fingers.
"It has to be without anesthesia," he said.
"Why?"
"Because you have an abscess."
The Mayor looked him in the eye. "All right," he said, and tried to smile. The dentist did not return the smile. He brought the basin of sterilized instruments to the worktable and took them out of the water with a pair of cold tweezers, still without hurrying. Then he pushed the spittoon with the tip of his shoe, and went to wash his hands in the washbasin. He did all this without looking at the Mayor. But the Mayor didn't take his eyes off him.
It was a lower wisdom tooth. The dentist spread his feet and grasped the tooth with the hot forceps. The Mayor seized the arms of the chair, braced his feet with all his strength, and felt an icy void in his kidneys, but didn't make a sound. The dentist moved only his wrist. Without rancor, rather with a bitter tenderness, he said:
"Now you'll pay for our twenty dead men."
The Mayor felt the crunch of bones in his jaw, and his eyes filled with tears. But he didn't breathe until he felt the tooth come out. Then he saw it through his tears. It seemed so foreign to his pain that he failed to understand his torture of the five previous nights.
Bent over the spittoon, sweating, panting, he unbuttoned his tunic and reached for the handkerchief in his pants pocket. The dentist gave him a clean cloth.
"Dry your tears," he said.
The Mayor did. He was trembling. While the dentist washed his hands, he saw the crumbling ceiling and a dusty spider web with spider's eggs and dead insects. The dentist returned, drying his hands. "Go to bed," he said, "and gargle with salt water." The Mayor stood up, said goodbye with a casual military salute, and walked toward the door, stretching his legs, without buttoning up his tunic.
"Send the bill," he said.
"To you or the town?"
The Mayor didn't look at him. He closed the door and said through the screen:
"It's the same damn thing
diana_1989
23-03-2007, 00:06
Count Eriq Gwevare looked over at his uncle, Dre. Dre held himself regally, powerfully as he lifted the snifter of brandy to his lips and took a small draught. Eriq watched the wind sweep over his uncle's features: feathering his cape and pressing his exquisite, noble clothes against his taut, lean body. Dre's hair ruffled and Eriq watched him reflexively groom it. Since Eriq had last seen him, Dre had let his hair grow enough that he could put it back into a ponytail. That ponytail now rested peacefully, protected from the wind by the barrier of Dre's body.
Though Dre had not changed, could not change, since he had taken his unlife, his powerful shoulders droop like some unrelenting weight hung on them. Eriq stepped out of the shadows, letting the eerie moonlight hit his body. This action drew Dre out of his reverie and he turned to meet his nephew.
"Ah, Eriq!" Dre said holding his hand up to beckon Eriq to his side. Eriq strode forth, his own powerful presence radiating confidence and proper demeanor. Having grown up a noble, he found it befitting that he should only present like a lord.
"Uncle, I am sorry if I have disturbed you..." Eriq said. Dre held his hand up, cutting his sentence short.
"Nonsense, it is not everyday that my one and only nephew may join me as I look over my majestic landscape."
Eriq drew by his side. It was dark in the valley and he could see very little. His Uncle beamed with admiration as he remarked, "Look at it young man, does it not fill you with pride!"
Eriq looked out across the expanse. The moon had been obscured by overcast and he could see nothing, other than silhouettes against the horizon, the twinkle of lights from the village, and the battlements on which they stood. He knodded his agreement out of respect.
"It definitely is large," Eriq said, too young and naive to appreciate his Uncle's expropriated boundaries. Dre had won them in combat. He had not inherited them like his young Nephew one day would. In fact, Dre had already bequeathed his entire dynasty to his nephew in the event that he was ever "removed" from power. No one else knew of this, save Dre's secretary. No else would find out until the appropriate time came. It would disturb power within the realm, because it was believed Dre had no known charitable heir.
A gentle, summer breeze swept over them. It felt good to momentarily escape the heat of the night, yet Eriq reflexively shivered. Dre turned to him and grinned. Dre grabbed the hem of his cape with either of his hands, rolling the hem between thumb and forefinger.
"I see you have not completely acclimatized," Dre said turning. Eriq turned with his uncle.
"That's not it," Eriq said as Dre cocked an eyebrow, "I hunger, and when I am hungry I get chills."
"You hunger, eh?" Dre said. At a shadow past nine in the evening Dre was starting to get hungry also, however he usually didn't dine until much later. "Very well, we shall dine early tonight."
"Very well," Eriq said as they stopped.
Both men made their way through the castle and soon came to the front door. Walking out into a small courtyard, they crossed the rickety draw bridge. It tensed at their passage and Dre had been meaning to get the rotted draw bridge replaced; he had simply forgotten about it in the last two hundred years.
A strange, dry rot covered the beams. It could barely hold a carriage, however there were still a few areas that held strong wood. Dre had once experimented with molds and rots, and the malignant rot covering this bridge also covered the lowerwalls of the moat. An experiement that had gotten out of hand, Dre knew it was harmless to most objects, save celluloid objects such as wood.
Dre led his nephew over the strong sections and soon they came to the end of the North Beget road. A large clearing led to the treeline about a quarter of a kilometer away from the edge of the embattlements.
Progressing slowly down the Beget road, their black attire blended in with the night. Their white cuffs and ruffles contrasted in heavy flashes as they disappeared into the treeline.
*****
Both wolves traveled through the woods at a breakneck pace. Their hearts pounded in their ears as they followed the scent given off by the deer. It was sweet nectar to their nostrils; like a beacon in the pitch black night. Branches and shrubs tugged at their furr as they dashed about agilely. Their long, thin legs kept them up to speed.
Eriq and Dre watched as the wolves dashed past them, across the path. Dre smiled wickedly and then suddenly fell to all fours. His body shifted and contorted and soon he stood as a massive, black wolf. Another black wolf stood before the first, and both turned and bounded after their quarry.
They followed the wolves until another scent entered their nostrils. Both of them halted as they tried to pick up the direction of the scent. Sniffing in the air, the wolves found the trail and then bounded off in its direction. Their huge stature was lost to the night once more.
Dre watched as his nephew jumped over a log and dashed ahead of him. Dre caught up. The scent was stronger now and Dre looked around to get his bearings. They were nearing Vakona, and Dre hadn't realized how far they had strayed from the castle.
They came to the edge of the town. They slowed to a trotting pace and crossed the backyard of a citizen's homestead. They were winded, and warm clouds snorted from their snouts, as their tongues wagged over savage canines. Both were monstrous, horrendous beasts of terror. No one in their right mind would bother venturing outside after dark, at least not unless it was absolutely, life threateningly necessary. There were dark and sinister things in the Dalewoodian nights, things left to fable and myth.
Their breath snorting before them in white clouds, they followed the scent down the alley, until it lead them around a corner. Their claws clicked on the cobbles as they approached the corner, their lupine forms stood on their haunches and changed back into Eriq and Dre Gwevare. Both men used their latent senses to keep following the sweet scent.
Dre had smelled this particular scent before and he knew it could've only been the menarche of a virginal soul. They were the easiest to pick out, because their changing pubescent bodies carried many heavy, distinctive fragrances. The scent lead them down several streets until they came to where it was the strongest. They came to the front door of a house.
Dre looked down the street and saw no one. He then stepped to the side of the house and grasped it with his palms and feet. Sticking firmly, he started to scale the side of the sheer vertical wall. Dre was halfway up when he looked around and couldn't find Eriq. He looked down at the ground and didn't see him either.
"Behind you uncle," Eriq said. Dre twisted his body around to see Eriq hovering in the air. "The dark powers are different for each."
"As I can see," Dre acknowledged. "now, how about flying over to that window and telling me what you see."
"Very well," Eriq said willing himself to the window.
Dre scaled the rest of the wall. He peered inside the top story window and saw a master bedroom that held a bed, dressers, mirrors, and the such. Within the bed, a man and a woman slept peacefully. This was not what he was looking for. Suddenly his nephew hissed at him.
Dre drew up beside his nephew and turned to face him. Eriq turned to him. His fangs had protracted down from his gums, his eyes had glazed over a pupilless white and his features were gaunt and paleish white. The effects of the hunger affected each of their kind differently. Dre's eyes blazed crimson red and glowered against the pane of glass.
"Look inside, both sleep tenderly," Eriq smiled evilly. Dre looked in and saw his own reflection in the pane of the glass. Failing to see Eriq's, he looked past himself and saw both of the young women nestled in their beds. Dre smiled and then began to open the window. He did so silently and soon he had it open enough for him to fit through. Once inside he turned to Eriq.
"Well, are you coming?" Dre asked.
"I cannot," Eriq said. "I have not been invited."
"In that case, I invite you." Dre said. Soon both of them were standing in the middle of the room. Their body position denoted which of the two they had chosen.
Dre looked down at his meal. She appeared no more than thirteen; very pretty and carried about herself an innocence which Dre had not known for over a thousand years. Her blankets had pulled away, and underneath her thin nightgown Dre could see that she was well endowed for a girl of her age. He sat in the bed beside her and stroked her hair. He heard her murmur and then her eyes flitted open. She looked up into his eyes with terror; a scream frozen in her vocal chords.
"Calm yourself," he said without communicating any words. His simple will was enough to calm her. He smiled pleasantly at her. "This will not harm you at all."
She smiled and relaxed as he bent over her. Pulling her wrist up to his mouth, he made a careful incision across the artery with his razor sharp fingernail. She quipped and relaxed when he put his mouth to the wound. He drank greedily of her life essence, careful not to spill a drop. Caught inecstatic reverie, the young teenager floated closer and closer to death.
Dre found he still had to suck to purge the liquid out of her faster. Within seconds her anemic, almost dead form lay in her bed. He passed his hand over the wound in her wrist and it healed itself over, leaving nothing but a very fine line. He tucked her back into her bed with an ironic paternal love and then stood. Eriq had just finished.
"Did you take her life?" Dre asked.
"Nay, I am no fool," Eriq said. "Is there not enough of us in this fell land?"
"You learn well, young Eriq." Dre said looking down at his nephew's dinner. She was older, maybe eighteen. She was beautiful, if not more than her sister. There was something about her pale, anemic form that made Dre feel a slight twang of self pity and selfishness.
"Regardless, even if they do die, they are both ours to command," Eriq said.
"Aye, you are correct, however to have too many slaves only breeds rebellion." Dre said cautioning his much younger protege. "I prefer to keep one or two, preferably female. Remember, we are much like their parents, and they are our children. Children are born and bred to eventually overturn their parents. If we wish to continue our existence, we cannot let them grow old enough to do that."
"I feel sated," Eriq said a moment later, after digesting what his uncle had said. His complexion was flushed and vibrant. His eye teeth had retreated and his eyes had returned to their normal, pale blue. Dre was also flushed, however he was still energized from the feeding and his harrowing features had not disappeared.
"Shall we return," Dre said. "Dawn approaches."
"Aye," Both stepped out of the window, one behind the other. Transforming into bats they fluttered off toward the castle.
Dawn came an hour after they returned. Eriq retreated to his coffin, hidden well within the catacombs of the castle. Dre needed rest and he retreated to his personal chamber and slumbered in his bed until about mid-morning.
*****
I woke to see the full radiance of the sun cast through the picture windows of my bedroom. Squinting up painfully at the sun, I experienced no trembles, no searing pain...nothing. I had long since grown immune to the effects of the retched sun.
Rising I began a myriad of daily chores to prepare me for yet another day of existence. Though my body, strong, powerful, and youthful, was dead, I produced no normal human excretions. However I still washed and prepared myself as I had in my mortal life. It was a habit that had continued on through my afterlife.
Once groomed to my satisfaction, I headed out on my personal terrace. From my vantage point, I could spy upon the village far below me. The fools were running about, doing this, doing that, getting here and going there. I was glad I had left that way of life many, many years ago. Almost over a millenia ago. I walked back into my room and hefted a dark, heavy object.
Its well anointed bindings creaked with the sound of fresh oil. This was my only prize, my only true possession. It held all my secrets, all my hopes, my dreams. It embodies all that is dear to my life and to my being.
Flitting absently through the pages, I came to a fresh entry and went onto the terrace with my quill and ink and sat upon the beautifully polished embattlement. It harrowed me not that there was a thousand foot drop directly below me. I could survive the fall, and this book could too. It was just a matter of finding it. It had been lost once, and the land had known no wrath quite as strong as mine, until, of course, it was found. As I began my entry, something passed my nose and I paused.
I could smell their stench. It was more than the rotten stench of broken garbage and refuse. It was the stench of fear, of uncertainty. They lived in a harsh land, which was very unforgiving. And all of them knew this. It was the way I wanted it, liked it...wished it.
I wasn't a monster, but neither was I candy stripper, righteous in my beliefs and thoughts. I was far from perfect, and as a result, even I made mistakes and wasn't always right. But that didn't happen very often.
Having once been human, I still brought that human weakness of love into my heart everyonce in a while. But it wasn't love as you human's would regard love. It was the thrill of the hunt. The feel of draining a Victim, and having his life giving blood run through me was better than any drug you could imagine. It was more intoxicating than wine, more addicting than heroin, more caustic than acid. Yes, caustic. Blood is an amazing body, and as soon as its mixed with my own brackish blood, it becomes the bane of all life. This very thing that brings life to so much in our world, can take it away just as easily.
I pondered my thoughts for a moment, then began my entry:
I'm no sadist, I do not allow my victims to be tortured or hurt, unless they have slighted me. The Victim I fall in love with can be female or male, it makes no difference. Loving me carries its price: life. It is my selfish need that has sent many to the Nine Hells, without chance of retribution. Those that I leave alive do not live pleasant lives. They have the same thirst I must control, but they are young, arrogant, and cocky. They are hapless in their dealings and will kill all. They are a liablility to my secreted existence, and I may only create one every couple hundred years. Man or Woman.
I am not here to judge sexualities, not at least while I am Nosferatu. I am a vampire, and with such I may cling, or discard, the values, morals, and organs of my previous life, but my need for blood outweighs any petty, superficial hang-ups one would have about his, or her sexuality. I do not have --- with my Victims, so what does it matter that I may find a young lass attractive, while I may turn around the next moment and sup upon the lovely neck of a beautiful man. It is wet, it is red, and it all runs amongst our veins. At least human veins.
I've been accused of being beautiful, eccentric, and sometimes egostistical. I revere all those remarks, and show them for what they are worth. They are the truth. I am beautiful, eccentric, and egotistical. You do not survive as long as I do without being all those things. And survive it as a vampire nontheless.
Some believe eternal life is a jewel, a prize; something which every person seeks, yet finds unattainable. I will admit that I foolishly sought it, and I am one of the few in my world that has attained it. You could say I have achieved something that is impossible, something that is locked in mythology. But I assure you, it is nothing of the sort. Yet, the voyage of immortality at first seems beautiful, some could say fun, I have changed. In my human life I was not a lot different than I am now, but the years have eroded away my naivety. Yes, even the most scholarly of wise sages enters immortality with a certain naivety. Where in their previous life they have driven and risen the road of wisdom, having enjoyed the trip, and finally tasted the fruits of their accomplishments, they have no idea how much they truly do not know.
My arrogance is quite apparent, but I do not care. I know what I speak of, and if you do not believe me, I dare you to enter immortality. I need something new to tantalize my senses, something which I may share laughter with, someone to enjoy the thrill of the hunt with, and someone other than my Victims for me to interact with. I need a new protege. Someone that will hold me in the highest regard, until he too reaches that plateau of immortality...the Awakening of his existence. Someone I can mold, shape, and create. Then finally crush.
Reflecting upon my words, I paused to look at the village and felt an evil warmness enter my heart. I could feel my wickedness etch a smile upon my face.
*****
As the moon howled silently overhead, both Eriq and Dre stood by the drawbridge, embracing. "Well, I will definitely miss you," Dre said feeling disappointment at his nephew's departure.
"As I," Eriq said. They separated and Eriq told him he would probably visit in another couple years. Dre knodded his approval. Soon Eriq disappeared inside the carriage.
A black, highly polished coach gleamed in the moonlight as its side door closed. Its driver waved to the count and then cackled an order to the four steeds. Their unearthly whinny echoed into the night as the Night-Mares stamped fire and sparks, their nostrils exuding gouts of thick acrid smoke.
The sinews and muscles of the jet black steeds bulged and rippled as they trotted the coach around so that it pointed properly down the Beget Road. Soon they issued forth, their hooves sparking, and Dre lost sight of them a moment later. Dre turned back to his home.
He was alone once more. As he had been for the last three hundred years. Being the patriarch of the land was very harrowing, especially when one was a vampire. He felt a small piece of his lonely soul twinge as he looked up at the dreary mortars that he called home.
He entered the first entry hall. He leered up at the guardian gargoyles and then headed inside the grande entry. What to do? Dre asked himself. There was nothing for him to do, nowhere to go where he hadn't been already. He couldn't believe it -- he was the lord and master of his own land; he had existed over a thousand years as a vampire! He had nothing to do. He couldn't pillage and torment; that became old hat after the first fifty years. Nor, there was no Victim within his area that sparked enough of his interest to stalk, hung, and finally...kill. He must feed, but he would settle for the mediocrity of a local victim. Even an animal.
Dre skulked as he walked absently around his castle. He hated to be alone. If he had just one person, someone whom he could call his own, he would be very happy. These fleeting visits were fun, but they only reminded him of what he couldn't have; he always knew they would eventually leave. Dre came to an intersection in the hallway when suddenly a grey wolf emerged from around the corner. Dre seemed startled by its presence.
Come here, Dre commanded softly without mouthing a word. The wolf's ears snapped back and it sauntered over to him timidly. Dre kneeled and then began petting the creature. It was not unusual for wolves and bats and the such to roam the halls of his castle, however, this particular grey wolf seemed to spend a lot of his time there. Dre almost considered it his personal pet.
Are you the only one in this land that is truly my friend? He asked it silently. The wolf looked up at him and started licking his face affectionately. Normally, such levels of contact were distasteful to Dre, however, now he lapped them up as greedily as what the wolf gave them.
How can you love me, you surely sense the real creature within me? The wolf just looked up at him. Dre rose and both man and beast continued their walk. Dre chuckled with a thought: Lord and master, a person with great influence in the land, and my only true friend is but a wild dog.
Animal companions were fine, but Dre craved human companionship. He craved once more to come into contact with a woman, someone whom could love him as much as this wolf. But, alas, there was no one in the land that could be deemed worthy of his affections. The burgomaster had a beautiful daughter, whom he had considered on many occasions, however she did not possess a pure lineage. She was a bastard child, dutifully wrought from the burgomasters frequent visits to the brothel. It was just because her mother had died, that the love child lived with the burgomaster. Dre could not dishonor himself by laying with a whore's bastard.
Dre turned a corner and the wolf continued to follow alongside him, never missing a step. Dre rolled the hem of his cape in between the thumb and index finger of each of his hands. It was an old habit he had picked up when he was worried, or when he was thinking too hard.
They passed at a suit of armor that glinted, under the moonlight blazing through the window, in salute. Dre failed to notice it and soon found he was at a dead end. He turned, reached up and grabbed the suit's left arm and pulled downward. There was a scraping and grating sound as a hidden door opened and Dre disappeared, with his wolf cohort, inside.
"Why do I bother?" Dre asked to himself "You, wolf, probably have a more noble reason to exist, than I."
The wolf crossed in front of him and looked back at him inquisitively. The wolf turned back and continued down the passage ahead of his new master. Dre just frowned and sighed when he realized how pitiful the answer was. His eyes glew red in the darkness, and he failed to notice this until he saw the red radiance cast against his hand when he reached up to pull another lever. A door opened. Dre and his companion exited the secret tunnel directly into Dre's study.
"But, how can I end my unlife?" Dre asked himself. "I am a damned patriarch." Dre went to his desk, sat and picked up his diary unspectacularly. There no longer was any flare to his motions. He was simply using it as implement, this prized possession was no more than a shovel to him at this moment. Picking up a quill he began a new entry:
I have confirmed that I grow weary of this life. It is not so much my existence, but the loneliness my existence brings. I have lived over a thousand years, almost two. My exact age was lost to me long ago. I have seen hundreds of generations of the pitiful townsfolk...and I have even come to admire a few of those pitiful souls.
Four distinct societies have risen from the land. Though each succeeded the other, one thing was always certain; their societies were nothing more than passing fads within my lifetime. The current society, dubbed the Gentry, succeeded The Higher Nobility. The Higher Nobility were fine, however overtime their frivolous and ostentatious ways grew tiresome after three or four hundred years. The Gentry is more conservative in their dress, their language, and their beliefs. It had partly something to do with my indirect manipulation of their societal views. I simply attended public functions wearing different clothes, acting different ways, and accepting things while not accepting others. It was subtle, but after twenty years their society suddenly started a shift toward this more conservative approach. That is the only influence, other than Corporeal Law, I impress upon them.
Though I despise my human brethren, I do realize their one advantage: they know they will die, and they prepare for this eventuality. I have already died, yet I live, and I do not know when I will find rest or peace with this evil world.
Who knows, maybe one day I will need their assistance. I highly doubt it. As long as they keep supplying me and my minions with beautiful necks, I will be contented with them.
Who knows, maybe tomorrow I may decree a new rule or law. Maybe one that banes all forms of currency, or maybe I will simply set my wolf packs upon their village. I have done it before, but that was only because of suspected unrest. Bah! Who needs a reason to strike them down with fear! Who knows...maybe I won't do anything, maybe I will just mope around the castle all day griping about my pitiful life. I grow tired of the games.
Count Dre Gwevare
Dre closed his diary, replaced his quill and sat back for a moment. He sighed and then smelled a retched scent assault his nostrils. The ranch smell caused his nose to scrunch up in distaste as he looked at his pet wolf. "Did you flatulate?" Dre asked. The wolf looked up at him and then colapsed back down. "Do not do that again."
Dre stood. Knowing his warning would be of no use, he smiled and beckoned his pet to follow him. He opened the door to his study and was then suddenly confronted by a heavenly image. Her deathly pale body was draped in black linens, and her beautiful face seemed flushed and happy.
"Well, there you are, Hilda." Dre said to one of his servants.
"What do you wish?" the vampiress asked, revealing her eye teeth in subtle defiance. Dre missed the gesture.
"I see you have fed," Dre said, "where did you feed? Not from my personal larders?"
"No, I went into the village," the vampiress hissed, once more revealing her eye teeth less subtly.
"Put those back in your mouth or you will loose them my darling," Dre scolded as the wolf retreated back, baring its teeth and growling at their exchange. Dre calmed the beast and it bounded off into the darkness. "Now leave, go to your sanctuary or wherever you girls go these days."
"Yes master," the vampires said, choking on the words. She was a relatively elder servant, having been with him for a hundred and sixty years. She was by far the oldest servant he had kept, however she was starting to show signs of rebellion. Dre knew within the next couple of years he would have to destroy her, if not within the year.
"Maybe I'll do it tonight," Dre mused to himself as they parted and went their separate ways.
Dre moved through the halls toward the doors that would take him to his necromantic tower. When he made the flight of stairs in the main entryway, which lead to the second floor and continued to the third and fourth, his second servant came running up to him from behind. She grabbed his shoulder and Dre twisted around, seizing her wrist in paranoia. She seemed startled by the action and he released his grip.
"I am sorry Ursula," he started, "I did not realize it was you."
"Dre, there is something happening...Fredric beckons you!
"What could it be?" Dre asked.
"He was fanatical about the fact that he wanted to talk to you,"
"Very well, I shall have a word with dear Fredric," Dre announced as Ursula transformed into a large wolf and bounded off into the darkness.
"Hilda, what have you done?" he said to himself out loud. Frederic was an old prophet he kept in his dungeons. He was blind, mute, and deaf. However, he had an amazing sixth sense of prophecy. If he was agitated, something was wrong. And it was probably Hilda's fault. She had always been careless, never covering her tracks, and Dre was afraid those tracks lead directly to Castle Fatima. "I am an idiot for letting her outside the walls of the castle!"
"Yes you are, my liege," Hilda suddenly said from the shadows. She stepped from them, her body swathed in a beam of moonlight coming from a window high above.
"You! You have done this!" Dre raged, pointing a long, lithe finger at her. "What have you done, you vile slops wench!"
Dre didn't wait for her answer. He used his amazing reflexes and speed to strike out at her. Hilda knew the attack would be coming and in a blinding split second, both had traded places, seemingly without moving. Dre's expression turned gaunt and his eyes blazed crimson. He drew his mouth back into a sneer, revealing his menacing canine eye teeth. He hissed at her as she did the same. They circled around one another, each of them hissing and glaring for control.
Dre found he no longer had the same control over her as he had had. She had effectively cut him off from her mind. When he tried to enter her, all he met was a cloudy fog that he couldn't penetrate.
"You have learned well," Dre hissed, his eyes flaring at each of the stresses in the sentence.
"You are old, Dre," Hilda said. "You no longer have the will you once possessed."
"Rubbish!" Dre said, using another of his latent powers to send a psychic punch against her. He could see her wince in pain and Dre saw a break in the cloud. His will dashed for it and then he felt a sudden sharp, agonizing pain in his own head. The breach had closed as quickly as it had opened and his will slammed into it. He shook his head and then snapped a punch out at her.
The blow was lightning fast and caught her in the nose, the next blow crashed into the side of her skull. Hilda fell back to her knee and Dre was about to grab her when Hilda thrust her heel at Dre's back knee. His back leg had been supporting his weight and when it buckled he fell. Hilda jumped up and was about to jump on top of Dre when suddenly Dre was no longer there.
"Behind you!" Dre warned. She turned around, directly into his grasp. With one fell move, Dre seized her, bending her body over his knee. Sinking his eye teeth into her gorge, he grotesquely tore her throat out. Black, acrid blood exploded out from the tortured wound and Dre dropped her body. She clutched at her throat, as the life giving blood drained from her body. She writhed on the ground and tried to scream, however, each scream only produced a different gurgle of blood. Blood flowed from her mouth and nostrils, and from the hole in her neck. Within half a minute, a huge pool of black, brackish blood had surrounded her lifeless body.
"Foolish wench," Dre scowled, wiping his mouth as he turned and bounded for the parapets, his form transfiguring into that of a huge, black wolf.
*****
Dre opened the chamber door. Fredric was seated, his eyes staring straight forward at the scrying ball. Though they were normally unfocused, he could tell they were intimately locked on the swirling clouds inside the ball. Frederic was mumbling to himself, despite the fact that Dre had long since cut his tongue out.
Frederic was a horrid looking man. What the ravages of time had not taken from him, Dre had. Though born blind at birth, Dre had imprisoned him from the time he was a young man. Dre had cut his ears off, while punching through his ear drum. He had also cut his tongue off so he could not alert anybody to his prescreens. For the last forty years, Frederic had been locked in the small "Sage's Chamber", fed well, and used as Dre's personal fortune telling device.
Frederick could no longer vocalize words, and he could write no better. His gestures were also maniacal, lending the average observer to believe that his sanity had long since departed. However, when he was scrying and a vision hit him, he appeared normal and could write and comprehend as well as any man.
"Frederic," Dre began. Frederic saw it was him and began thrashing at the table, trying to pick up the pencil and parchment that Ursula had given him. Dre looked down to see that his etchings and words were disjointed.
Frederic's frantic motions slowed as his pencil dashed across the parchment. Soon he was done. Dre reached down and tore the piece of paper from his fingers. He looked down and read the only legible writing:
Though Dre had not changed, could not change, since he had taken his unlife, his powerful shoulders droop like some unrelenting weight hung on them. Eriq stepped out of the shadows, letting the eerie moonlight hit his body. This action drew Dre out of his reverie and he turned to meet his nephew.
"Ah, Eriq!" Dre said holding his hand up to beckon Eriq to his side. Eriq strode forth, his own powerful presence radiating confidence and proper demeanor. Having grown up a noble, he found it befitting that he should only present like a lord.
"Uncle, I am sorry if I have disturbed you..." Eriq said. Dre held his hand up, cutting his sentence short.
"Nonsense, it is not everyday that my one and only nephew may join me as I look over my majestic landscape."
Eriq drew by his side. It was dark in the valley and he could see very little. His Uncle beamed with admiration as he remarked, "Look at it young man, does it not fill you with pride!"
Eriq looked out across the expanse. The moon had been obscured by overcast and he could see nothing, other than silhouettes against the horizon, the twinkle of lights from the village, and the battlements on which they stood. He knodded his agreement out of respect.
"It definitely is large," Eriq said, too young and naive to appreciate his Uncle's expropriated boundaries. Dre had won them in combat. He had not inherited them like his young Nephew one day would. In fact, Dre had already bequeathed his entire dynasty to his nephew in the event that he was ever "removed" from power. No one else knew of this, save Dre's secretary. No else would find out until the appropriate time came. It would disturb power within the realm, because it was believed Dre had no known charitable heir.
A gentle, summer breeze swept over them. It felt good to momentarily escape the heat of the night, yet Eriq reflexively shivered. Dre turned to him and grinned. Dre grabbed the hem of his cape with either of his hands, rolling the hem between thumb and forefinger.
"I see you have not completely acclimatized," Dre said turning. Eriq turned with his uncle.
"That's not it," Eriq said as Dre cocked an eyebrow, "I hunger, and when I am hungry I get chills."
"You hunger, eh?" Dre said. At a shadow past nine in the evening Dre was starting to get hungry also, however he usually didn't dine until much later. "Very well, we shall dine early tonight."
"Very well," Eriq said as they stopped.
Both men made their way through the castle and soon came to the front door. Walking out into a small courtyard, they crossed the rickety draw bridge. It tensed at their passage and Dre had been meaning to get the rotted draw bridge replaced; he had simply forgotten about it in the last two hundred years.
A strange, dry rot covered the beams. It could barely hold a carriage, however there were still a few areas that held strong wood. Dre had once experimented with molds and rots, and the malignant rot covering this bridge also covered the lowerwalls of the moat. An experiement that had gotten out of hand, Dre knew it was harmless to most objects, save celluloid objects such as wood.
Dre led his nephew over the strong sections and soon they came to the end of the North Beget road. A large clearing led to the treeline about a quarter of a kilometer away from the edge of the embattlements.
Progressing slowly down the Beget road, their black attire blended in with the night. Their white cuffs and ruffles contrasted in heavy flashes as they disappeared into the treeline.
*****
Both wolves traveled through the woods at a breakneck pace. Their hearts pounded in their ears as they followed the scent given off by the deer. It was sweet nectar to their nostrils; like a beacon in the pitch black night. Branches and shrubs tugged at their furr as they dashed about agilely. Their long, thin legs kept them up to speed.
Eriq and Dre watched as the wolves dashed past them, across the path. Dre smiled wickedly and then suddenly fell to all fours. His body shifted and contorted and soon he stood as a massive, black wolf. Another black wolf stood before the first, and both turned and bounded after their quarry.
They followed the wolves until another scent entered their nostrils. Both of them halted as they tried to pick up the direction of the scent. Sniffing in the air, the wolves found the trail and then bounded off in its direction. Their huge stature was lost to the night once more.
Dre watched as his nephew jumped over a log and dashed ahead of him. Dre caught up. The scent was stronger now and Dre looked around to get his bearings. They were nearing Vakona, and Dre hadn't realized how far they had strayed from the castle.
They came to the edge of the town. They slowed to a trotting pace and crossed the backyard of a citizen's homestead. They were winded, and warm clouds snorted from their snouts, as their tongues wagged over savage canines. Both were monstrous, horrendous beasts of terror. No one in their right mind would bother venturing outside after dark, at least not unless it was absolutely, life threateningly necessary. There were dark and sinister things in the Dalewoodian nights, things left to fable and myth.
Their breath snorting before them in white clouds, they followed the scent down the alley, until it lead them around a corner. Their claws clicked on the cobbles as they approached the corner, their lupine forms stood on their haunches and changed back into Eriq and Dre Gwevare. Both men used their latent senses to keep following the sweet scent.
Dre had smelled this particular scent before and he knew it could've only been the menarche of a virginal soul. They were the easiest to pick out, because their changing pubescent bodies carried many heavy, distinctive fragrances. The scent lead them down several streets until they came to where it was the strongest. They came to the front door of a house.
Dre looked down the street and saw no one. He then stepped to the side of the house and grasped it with his palms and feet. Sticking firmly, he started to scale the side of the sheer vertical wall. Dre was halfway up when he looked around and couldn't find Eriq. He looked down at the ground and didn't see him either.
"Behind you uncle," Eriq said. Dre twisted his body around to see Eriq hovering in the air. "The dark powers are different for each."
"As I can see," Dre acknowledged. "now, how about flying over to that window and telling me what you see."
"Very well," Eriq said willing himself to the window.
Dre scaled the rest of the wall. He peered inside the top story window and saw a master bedroom that held a bed, dressers, mirrors, and the such. Within the bed, a man and a woman slept peacefully. This was not what he was looking for. Suddenly his nephew hissed at him.
Dre drew up beside his nephew and turned to face him. Eriq turned to him. His fangs had protracted down from his gums, his eyes had glazed over a pupilless white and his features were gaunt and paleish white. The effects of the hunger affected each of their kind differently. Dre's eyes blazed crimson red and glowered against the pane of glass.
"Look inside, both sleep tenderly," Eriq smiled evilly. Dre looked in and saw his own reflection in the pane of the glass. Failing to see Eriq's, he looked past himself and saw both of the young women nestled in their beds. Dre smiled and then began to open the window. He did so silently and soon he had it open enough for him to fit through. Once inside he turned to Eriq.
"Well, are you coming?" Dre asked.
"I cannot," Eriq said. "I have not been invited."
"In that case, I invite you." Dre said. Soon both of them were standing in the middle of the room. Their body position denoted which of the two they had chosen.
Dre looked down at his meal. She appeared no more than thirteen; very pretty and carried about herself an innocence which Dre had not known for over a thousand years. Her blankets had pulled away, and underneath her thin nightgown Dre could see that she was well endowed for a girl of her age. He sat in the bed beside her and stroked her hair. He heard her murmur and then her eyes flitted open. She looked up into his eyes with terror; a scream frozen in her vocal chords.
"Calm yourself," he said without communicating any words. His simple will was enough to calm her. He smiled pleasantly at her. "This will not harm you at all."
She smiled and relaxed as he bent over her. Pulling her wrist up to his mouth, he made a careful incision across the artery with his razor sharp fingernail. She quipped and relaxed when he put his mouth to the wound. He drank greedily of her life essence, careful not to spill a drop. Caught inecstatic reverie, the young teenager floated closer and closer to death.
Dre found he still had to suck to purge the liquid out of her faster. Within seconds her anemic, almost dead form lay in her bed. He passed his hand over the wound in her wrist and it healed itself over, leaving nothing but a very fine line. He tucked her back into her bed with an ironic paternal love and then stood. Eriq had just finished.
"Did you take her life?" Dre asked.
"Nay, I am no fool," Eriq said. "Is there not enough of us in this fell land?"
"You learn well, young Eriq." Dre said looking down at his nephew's dinner. She was older, maybe eighteen. She was beautiful, if not more than her sister. There was something about her pale, anemic form that made Dre feel a slight twang of self pity and selfishness.
"Regardless, even if they do die, they are both ours to command," Eriq said.
"Aye, you are correct, however to have too many slaves only breeds rebellion." Dre said cautioning his much younger protege. "I prefer to keep one or two, preferably female. Remember, we are much like their parents, and they are our children. Children are born and bred to eventually overturn their parents. If we wish to continue our existence, we cannot let them grow old enough to do that."
"I feel sated," Eriq said a moment later, after digesting what his uncle had said. His complexion was flushed and vibrant. His eye teeth had retreated and his eyes had returned to their normal, pale blue. Dre was also flushed, however he was still energized from the feeding and his harrowing features had not disappeared.
"Shall we return," Dre said. "Dawn approaches."
"Aye," Both stepped out of the window, one behind the other. Transforming into bats they fluttered off toward the castle.
Dawn came an hour after they returned. Eriq retreated to his coffin, hidden well within the catacombs of the castle. Dre needed rest and he retreated to his personal chamber and slumbered in his bed until about mid-morning.
*****
I woke to see the full radiance of the sun cast through the picture windows of my bedroom. Squinting up painfully at the sun, I experienced no trembles, no searing pain...nothing. I had long since grown immune to the effects of the retched sun.
Rising I began a myriad of daily chores to prepare me for yet another day of existence. Though my body, strong, powerful, and youthful, was dead, I produced no normal human excretions. However I still washed and prepared myself as I had in my mortal life. It was a habit that had continued on through my afterlife.
Once groomed to my satisfaction, I headed out on my personal terrace. From my vantage point, I could spy upon the village far below me. The fools were running about, doing this, doing that, getting here and going there. I was glad I had left that way of life many, many years ago. Almost over a millenia ago. I walked back into my room and hefted a dark, heavy object.
Its well anointed bindings creaked with the sound of fresh oil. This was my only prize, my only true possession. It held all my secrets, all my hopes, my dreams. It embodies all that is dear to my life and to my being.
Flitting absently through the pages, I came to a fresh entry and went onto the terrace with my quill and ink and sat upon the beautifully polished embattlement. It harrowed me not that there was a thousand foot drop directly below me. I could survive the fall, and this book could too. It was just a matter of finding it. It had been lost once, and the land had known no wrath quite as strong as mine, until, of course, it was found. As I began my entry, something passed my nose and I paused.
I could smell their stench. It was more than the rotten stench of broken garbage and refuse. It was the stench of fear, of uncertainty. They lived in a harsh land, which was very unforgiving. And all of them knew this. It was the way I wanted it, liked it...wished it.
I wasn't a monster, but neither was I candy stripper, righteous in my beliefs and thoughts. I was far from perfect, and as a result, even I made mistakes and wasn't always right. But that didn't happen very often.
Having once been human, I still brought that human weakness of love into my heart everyonce in a while. But it wasn't love as you human's would regard love. It was the thrill of the hunt. The feel of draining a Victim, and having his life giving blood run through me was better than any drug you could imagine. It was more intoxicating than wine, more addicting than heroin, more caustic than acid. Yes, caustic. Blood is an amazing body, and as soon as its mixed with my own brackish blood, it becomes the bane of all life. This very thing that brings life to so much in our world, can take it away just as easily.
I pondered my thoughts for a moment, then began my entry:
I'm no sadist, I do not allow my victims to be tortured or hurt, unless they have slighted me. The Victim I fall in love with can be female or male, it makes no difference. Loving me carries its price: life. It is my selfish need that has sent many to the Nine Hells, without chance of retribution. Those that I leave alive do not live pleasant lives. They have the same thirst I must control, but they are young, arrogant, and cocky. They are hapless in their dealings and will kill all. They are a liablility to my secreted existence, and I may only create one every couple hundred years. Man or Woman.
I am not here to judge sexualities, not at least while I am Nosferatu. I am a vampire, and with such I may cling, or discard, the values, morals, and organs of my previous life, but my need for blood outweighs any petty, superficial hang-ups one would have about his, or her sexuality. I do not have --- with my Victims, so what does it matter that I may find a young lass attractive, while I may turn around the next moment and sup upon the lovely neck of a beautiful man. It is wet, it is red, and it all runs amongst our veins. At least human veins.
I've been accused of being beautiful, eccentric, and sometimes egostistical. I revere all those remarks, and show them for what they are worth. They are the truth. I am beautiful, eccentric, and egotistical. You do not survive as long as I do without being all those things. And survive it as a vampire nontheless.
Some believe eternal life is a jewel, a prize; something which every person seeks, yet finds unattainable. I will admit that I foolishly sought it, and I am one of the few in my world that has attained it. You could say I have achieved something that is impossible, something that is locked in mythology. But I assure you, it is nothing of the sort. Yet, the voyage of immortality at first seems beautiful, some could say fun, I have changed. In my human life I was not a lot different than I am now, but the years have eroded away my naivety. Yes, even the most scholarly of wise sages enters immortality with a certain naivety. Where in their previous life they have driven and risen the road of wisdom, having enjoyed the trip, and finally tasted the fruits of their accomplishments, they have no idea how much they truly do not know.
My arrogance is quite apparent, but I do not care. I know what I speak of, and if you do not believe me, I dare you to enter immortality. I need something new to tantalize my senses, something which I may share laughter with, someone to enjoy the thrill of the hunt with, and someone other than my Victims for me to interact with. I need a new protege. Someone that will hold me in the highest regard, until he too reaches that plateau of immortality...the Awakening of his existence. Someone I can mold, shape, and create. Then finally crush.
Reflecting upon my words, I paused to look at the village and felt an evil warmness enter my heart. I could feel my wickedness etch a smile upon my face.
*****
As the moon howled silently overhead, both Eriq and Dre stood by the drawbridge, embracing. "Well, I will definitely miss you," Dre said feeling disappointment at his nephew's departure.
"As I," Eriq said. They separated and Eriq told him he would probably visit in another couple years. Dre knodded his approval. Soon Eriq disappeared inside the carriage.
A black, highly polished coach gleamed in the moonlight as its side door closed. Its driver waved to the count and then cackled an order to the four steeds. Their unearthly whinny echoed into the night as the Night-Mares stamped fire and sparks, their nostrils exuding gouts of thick acrid smoke.
The sinews and muscles of the jet black steeds bulged and rippled as they trotted the coach around so that it pointed properly down the Beget Road. Soon they issued forth, their hooves sparking, and Dre lost sight of them a moment later. Dre turned back to his home.
He was alone once more. As he had been for the last three hundred years. Being the patriarch of the land was very harrowing, especially when one was a vampire. He felt a small piece of his lonely soul twinge as he looked up at the dreary mortars that he called home.
He entered the first entry hall. He leered up at the guardian gargoyles and then headed inside the grande entry. What to do? Dre asked himself. There was nothing for him to do, nowhere to go where he hadn't been already. He couldn't believe it -- he was the lord and master of his own land; he had existed over a thousand years as a vampire! He had nothing to do. He couldn't pillage and torment; that became old hat after the first fifty years. Nor, there was no Victim within his area that sparked enough of his interest to stalk, hung, and finally...kill. He must feed, but he would settle for the mediocrity of a local victim. Even an animal.
Dre skulked as he walked absently around his castle. He hated to be alone. If he had just one person, someone whom he could call his own, he would be very happy. These fleeting visits were fun, but they only reminded him of what he couldn't have; he always knew they would eventually leave. Dre came to an intersection in the hallway when suddenly a grey wolf emerged from around the corner. Dre seemed startled by its presence.
Come here, Dre commanded softly without mouthing a word. The wolf's ears snapped back and it sauntered over to him timidly. Dre kneeled and then began petting the creature. It was not unusual for wolves and bats and the such to roam the halls of his castle, however, this particular grey wolf seemed to spend a lot of his time there. Dre almost considered it his personal pet.
Are you the only one in this land that is truly my friend? He asked it silently. The wolf looked up at him and started licking his face affectionately. Normally, such levels of contact were distasteful to Dre, however, now he lapped them up as greedily as what the wolf gave them.
How can you love me, you surely sense the real creature within me? The wolf just looked up at him. Dre rose and both man and beast continued their walk. Dre chuckled with a thought: Lord and master, a person with great influence in the land, and my only true friend is but a wild dog.
Animal companions were fine, but Dre craved human companionship. He craved once more to come into contact with a woman, someone whom could love him as much as this wolf. But, alas, there was no one in the land that could be deemed worthy of his affections. The burgomaster had a beautiful daughter, whom he had considered on many occasions, however she did not possess a pure lineage. She was a bastard child, dutifully wrought from the burgomasters frequent visits to the brothel. It was just because her mother had died, that the love child lived with the burgomaster. Dre could not dishonor himself by laying with a whore's bastard.
Dre turned a corner and the wolf continued to follow alongside him, never missing a step. Dre rolled the hem of his cape in between the thumb and index finger of each of his hands. It was an old habit he had picked up when he was worried, or when he was thinking too hard.
They passed at a suit of armor that glinted, under the moonlight blazing through the window, in salute. Dre failed to notice it and soon found he was at a dead end. He turned, reached up and grabbed the suit's left arm and pulled downward. There was a scraping and grating sound as a hidden door opened and Dre disappeared, with his wolf cohort, inside.
"Why do I bother?" Dre asked to himself "You, wolf, probably have a more noble reason to exist, than I."
The wolf crossed in front of him and looked back at him inquisitively. The wolf turned back and continued down the passage ahead of his new master. Dre just frowned and sighed when he realized how pitiful the answer was. His eyes glew red in the darkness, and he failed to notice this until he saw the red radiance cast against his hand when he reached up to pull another lever. A door opened. Dre and his companion exited the secret tunnel directly into Dre's study.
"But, how can I end my unlife?" Dre asked himself. "I am a damned patriarch." Dre went to his desk, sat and picked up his diary unspectacularly. There no longer was any flare to his motions. He was simply using it as implement, this prized possession was no more than a shovel to him at this moment. Picking up a quill he began a new entry:
I have confirmed that I grow weary of this life. It is not so much my existence, but the loneliness my existence brings. I have lived over a thousand years, almost two. My exact age was lost to me long ago. I have seen hundreds of generations of the pitiful townsfolk...and I have even come to admire a few of those pitiful souls.
Four distinct societies have risen from the land. Though each succeeded the other, one thing was always certain; their societies were nothing more than passing fads within my lifetime. The current society, dubbed the Gentry, succeeded The Higher Nobility. The Higher Nobility were fine, however overtime their frivolous and ostentatious ways grew tiresome after three or four hundred years. The Gentry is more conservative in their dress, their language, and their beliefs. It had partly something to do with my indirect manipulation of their societal views. I simply attended public functions wearing different clothes, acting different ways, and accepting things while not accepting others. It was subtle, but after twenty years their society suddenly started a shift toward this more conservative approach. That is the only influence, other than Corporeal Law, I impress upon them.
Though I despise my human brethren, I do realize their one advantage: they know they will die, and they prepare for this eventuality. I have already died, yet I live, and I do not know when I will find rest or peace with this evil world.
Who knows, maybe one day I will need their assistance. I highly doubt it. As long as they keep supplying me and my minions with beautiful necks, I will be contented with them.
Who knows, maybe tomorrow I may decree a new rule or law. Maybe one that banes all forms of currency, or maybe I will simply set my wolf packs upon their village. I have done it before, but that was only because of suspected unrest. Bah! Who needs a reason to strike them down with fear! Who knows...maybe I won't do anything, maybe I will just mope around the castle all day griping about my pitiful life. I grow tired of the games.
Count Dre Gwevare
Dre closed his diary, replaced his quill and sat back for a moment. He sighed and then smelled a retched scent assault his nostrils. The ranch smell caused his nose to scrunch up in distaste as he looked at his pet wolf. "Did you flatulate?" Dre asked. The wolf looked up at him and then colapsed back down. "Do not do that again."
Dre stood. Knowing his warning would be of no use, he smiled and beckoned his pet to follow him. He opened the door to his study and was then suddenly confronted by a heavenly image. Her deathly pale body was draped in black linens, and her beautiful face seemed flushed and happy.
"Well, there you are, Hilda." Dre said to one of his servants.
"What do you wish?" the vampiress asked, revealing her eye teeth in subtle defiance. Dre missed the gesture.
"I see you have fed," Dre said, "where did you feed? Not from my personal larders?"
"No, I went into the village," the vampiress hissed, once more revealing her eye teeth less subtly.
"Put those back in your mouth or you will loose them my darling," Dre scolded as the wolf retreated back, baring its teeth and growling at their exchange. Dre calmed the beast and it bounded off into the darkness. "Now leave, go to your sanctuary or wherever you girls go these days."
"Yes master," the vampires said, choking on the words. She was a relatively elder servant, having been with him for a hundred and sixty years. She was by far the oldest servant he had kept, however she was starting to show signs of rebellion. Dre knew within the next couple of years he would have to destroy her, if not within the year.
"Maybe I'll do it tonight," Dre mused to himself as they parted and went their separate ways.
Dre moved through the halls toward the doors that would take him to his necromantic tower. When he made the flight of stairs in the main entryway, which lead to the second floor and continued to the third and fourth, his second servant came running up to him from behind. She grabbed his shoulder and Dre twisted around, seizing her wrist in paranoia. She seemed startled by the action and he released his grip.
"I am sorry Ursula," he started, "I did not realize it was you."
"Dre, there is something happening...Fredric beckons you!
"What could it be?" Dre asked.
"He was fanatical about the fact that he wanted to talk to you,"
"Very well, I shall have a word with dear Fredric," Dre announced as Ursula transformed into a large wolf and bounded off into the darkness.
"Hilda, what have you done?" he said to himself out loud. Frederic was an old prophet he kept in his dungeons. He was blind, mute, and deaf. However, he had an amazing sixth sense of prophecy. If he was agitated, something was wrong. And it was probably Hilda's fault. She had always been careless, never covering her tracks, and Dre was afraid those tracks lead directly to Castle Fatima. "I am an idiot for letting her outside the walls of the castle!"
"Yes you are, my liege," Hilda suddenly said from the shadows. She stepped from them, her body swathed in a beam of moonlight coming from a window high above.
"You! You have done this!" Dre raged, pointing a long, lithe finger at her. "What have you done, you vile slops wench!"
Dre didn't wait for her answer. He used his amazing reflexes and speed to strike out at her. Hilda knew the attack would be coming and in a blinding split second, both had traded places, seemingly without moving. Dre's expression turned gaunt and his eyes blazed crimson. He drew his mouth back into a sneer, revealing his menacing canine eye teeth. He hissed at her as she did the same. They circled around one another, each of them hissing and glaring for control.
Dre found he no longer had the same control over her as he had had. She had effectively cut him off from her mind. When he tried to enter her, all he met was a cloudy fog that he couldn't penetrate.
"You have learned well," Dre hissed, his eyes flaring at each of the stresses in the sentence.
"You are old, Dre," Hilda said. "You no longer have the will you once possessed."
"Rubbish!" Dre said, using another of his latent powers to send a psychic punch against her. He could see her wince in pain and Dre saw a break in the cloud. His will dashed for it and then he felt a sudden sharp, agonizing pain in his own head. The breach had closed as quickly as it had opened and his will slammed into it. He shook his head and then snapped a punch out at her.
The blow was lightning fast and caught her in the nose, the next blow crashed into the side of her skull. Hilda fell back to her knee and Dre was about to grab her when Hilda thrust her heel at Dre's back knee. His back leg had been supporting his weight and when it buckled he fell. Hilda jumped up and was about to jump on top of Dre when suddenly Dre was no longer there.
"Behind you!" Dre warned. She turned around, directly into his grasp. With one fell move, Dre seized her, bending her body over his knee. Sinking his eye teeth into her gorge, he grotesquely tore her throat out. Black, acrid blood exploded out from the tortured wound and Dre dropped her body. She clutched at her throat, as the life giving blood drained from her body. She writhed on the ground and tried to scream, however, each scream only produced a different gurgle of blood. Blood flowed from her mouth and nostrils, and from the hole in her neck. Within half a minute, a huge pool of black, brackish blood had surrounded her lifeless body.
"Foolish wench," Dre scowled, wiping his mouth as he turned and bounded for the parapets, his form transfiguring into that of a huge, black wolf.
*****
Dre opened the chamber door. Fredric was seated, his eyes staring straight forward at the scrying ball. Though they were normally unfocused, he could tell they were intimately locked on the swirling clouds inside the ball. Frederic was mumbling to himself, despite the fact that Dre had long since cut his tongue out.
Frederic was a horrid looking man. What the ravages of time had not taken from him, Dre had. Though born blind at birth, Dre had imprisoned him from the time he was a young man. Dre had cut his ears off, while punching through his ear drum. He had also cut his tongue off so he could not alert anybody to his prescreens. For the last forty years, Frederic had been locked in the small "Sage's Chamber", fed well, and used as Dre's personal fortune telling device.
Frederick could no longer vocalize words, and he could write no better. His gestures were also maniacal, lending the average observer to believe that his sanity had long since departed. However, when he was scrying and a vision hit him, he appeared normal and could write and comprehend as well as any man.
"Frederic," Dre began. Frederic saw it was him and began thrashing at the table, trying to pick up the pencil and parchment that Ursula had given him. Dre looked down to see that his etchings and words were disjointed.
Frederic's frantic motions slowed as his pencil dashed across the parchment. Soon he was done. Dre reached down and tore the piece of paper from his fingers. He looked down and read the only legible writing:
diana_1989
23-03-2007, 00:08
Michael Wolf
I get a kick out of it, you know? No one ever gets onto me, no one that matters, anyway, and I’m making a hell of a living. I perform a live stage show of “talking to the dead,” using a form of sleight‑of‑mind called cold reading. Some of these poor bastards actually believe they’re talking to their croaked grandfather, aunt, puppy, or whatever—and that’s ok. They seem happy. Happy enough to unbend their wallets, so everyone’s prancing in daffodils.
So this girl came on to me after the last show. She was a cute brunette with three short lengths of beaded hair on the left side of her head and a killer body. She learned of my "supernatural abilities" from the television commercials I run before arriving in each town. She couldn’t have been more than twenty‑three, but these were the fruits of being a celebrity. I'm just cruising the profiteering band‑wagon of the '80s. Women just throw themselves at me like I’m a Rock star or something. I have lost count in the last couple years.
She wanted to talk to her deceased brother. My assistants ran her credit card information through the Internet to find the funeral industry had recently bilked her for an extremely expensive burial. Looking through the obituaries of her hometown, they deduced her brother had committed suicide.
My well‑oiled lines for this kind of thing soothed her pleas for details of why he killed himself. She gave me his name and he “spoke to her through me.” He assured her he was in a joyous place surrounded by loved ones at peace with happy memories of her.
Yeah. And all good dogs go to Heaven.
Later, I had her backstage for a private reading. Hey, if the mortuary business can take advantage of her grief, why can’t I? Just when our make‑out session reaches critical mass, she pulls out a condom. Why do they always have those damned buckskins in their purse? So I tell her we’re not going to make it if I have to wear that party favor. She stayed. It’s amazing what a little fame can do for you.
* * *
So now I’m heading to a gig on Texas Highway 37. Out of nowhere, the engine begins making this clanging sound like a monkey wrench in a Laundromat dryer. Dammit. I just dropped a sultan’s salary on this rig.
I need to get off the road so I take the next exit where a bent and shot‑up sign announces the town of Finnigan, Texas. It didn’t say Finnigan was seven more miles off the highway.
By the time I limp into town, the wind is picking up and I’m stuck while the local mechanic—Goober, I could swear his name was—looks at my ride.
I shield my face from blowing sand and see the only place I can wait is a bar named Gary’s. I walk into the place noticing it is like an Army barracks, a lot deeper than wide, but deceptively large. I’m feeling a little nausea lately like I have the flu or something, so I figure I might get something to eat to settle my stomach.
About a dozen good‑old‑boys are lolling in cheap rotting upholstery to the sound of outdated country music. They tended their interests, from dominoes to two tired pool tables and the liquor bar.
A wall of plaques with photographs hanging from them ran to the far end of the building. There, the light bulbs were unlit, leaving the long wall fading down into darkness.
Avoiding a broken stool, I sit. At the other end of the bar is a slight, girlish form in a mocha tan sundress billowing with white flowers. Her back is to me and slight movements reflect a shivering luster off her satin black hair. She is transfixed to a TV wedged above the bar.
I had to see her face, so noticing her empty drink I ask, “Can I buy you a refill?” I puzzle at her flexi‑straw.
“Hi.” She turns and flashes a youthful smile. “You surprised me.”
My surprise far outweighs hers. Her crystal Caribbean‑blue eyes offset by lavish indigo hair staggers me to the core. She is a diamond amongst the dirt‑clods in this drunk‑hut.
“I think I might get in trouble for buying a drink for an underage cutie.” I say, because she is definitely a minor.
She blushes and takes a stool closer to me. “S’ok, I’m eighteen, nobody cares I’m here—I’m just drinking pop.” She glances across the room. “That’s Dale, the chief of police, over there.” She tilts her head toward a chubby, uniformed man absorbed in a game of dominoes.
I motion to the bartender, point to her drink, and look around. “So this is the local hotspot, huh?”
“Hotspot? More like a lukewarm stain.”
I smile and offer my hand. “I’m Ricky. Ricky Peterson.”
She takes it with a cool softness. “I know who you are. I seen your commercials on the TV.”
She pronounces it “Tie‑Vie” but that’s the way they talk around here. I couldn’t help but notice her being a perfect mark for a psychic reading and old enough for some “quality time” with me.
“You look thinner in person.” She says.
I froze. Time to reroute this seduction. “Well, you know television adds ten pounds.” Truth be told, in the last six months I’ve been dropping pounds like loose change, but I’ll gain it back after the stress of the tour.
“What’s your name, farm girl?”
“Amie.”
“Does your Dad work around here, Amie?”
“Used to before he died. Now he’s over there.” She didn’t look up or down but over my shoulder with a sour expression to the wall covered with plaques.
“No, I mean his spirit—his soul,” I say, turning to look at the wall. It showed a variety of small brass memorials. They were all just names with a year inscribed below, mostly men. “What is this, anyway?”
“The Dead Wall,” a baritone voice says from behind me.
I turn to see a tall lean man standing next to Amie, holding a pool cue straight up by his side like a castle guard’s pike. He is dressed in complete Old‑West attire. All black except for silver filigree around the edges. He had an Adam’s apple sticking out like an internal elbow.
“The Dead Wall? You sayin’ that’s where they are? But I had you all pegged for Christians,” I say, “Heaven or Hell, you know.”
“Sometimes Hell won’t have ‘em,” goes the cowboy and spits into a floor spittoon with uncanny accuracy.
Amie snickers sourly, beyond her years. “Besides, I ain’t got a post card or phone call from Heaven yet.” She points her chin up at the trophies. “Up there, that’s something different.”
So I turn around and I’m looking especially at a plaque with borders painted red and blue in the sloppy motif of a toddler. The pictures of four young children and a teenage girl adorn its edges. The inscription is simply “Jim Cadistro,” dated this year. A distant bell rings from the boundaries of my brain.
“This Jim fellow must have been a father or a teacher of some kind,” I say as I reach out to touch the memorial. “You have to admire people like this because—“
When I touch the placard, something wonky takes place. My hand goes into the brass, breaking the skin of the metal like it was perpendicular liquid. Something else happens. Happens to my mind. I am becoming someone else.
Animals. That’s all they are.
Someone who is angry.
Yeah, they’re the future of the world and all that other crap, but to me they’re just life‑enders.
Extremely angry.
I’m in a miserable cracker‑box home a ways outta town with a wife who insists on taking in foster children.
We need the money we get for them. I can’t think of a better solution, so I shut up and sit in the smell of dirty laundry and cat piss enduring the situation. For now.
Always squalling, bawling and needing. They’re like pigeons. Disease infested vermin swimming in bacteria, that’s all they are.
There are five. My two slack‑eyed imbeciles, two booger factories whose names I can never remember, and Courtney, she started it all.
Courtney. So fresh and nubile. Fifteen years old and she don’t have a clue how ---- she is. The way she talks, the way she moves, the lines of her body, all cry for the wild. But when I come to her room at night, she only pushes me away. Why doesn’t she want me? And now my wife is getting suspicious.
Been a long time in the thinking and more than a few beers before I am out in the yard at three a.m., dousing the siding with gasoline. They’re all asleep. I quietly fixed long screws in all the doors and windows, sealing them in.
One match is all it takes for the fire to embrace the house. The screaming comes a few minutes later. I have my gun in case one gets out, but I’m going listen to the shrieks until they stop before I put the barrel in my mouth.
I stand outside Courtney’s bedroom. I laugh while she begs and claws at her window for help.
So I’m there in the light of the fire, thinking of what they’ve done to me, listening to their pleas, when I see the damnedest thing. A huge image of a sitting woman, overlaid on the flames.
The woman’s image competes with the fire for reality. Soon the blaze and the screams are flying away and a different world comes flickering to the forefront.
I’m at that bar. The bar in Finnigan, Texas.
“He’s back,” booms the cowboy, chalking his pool stick in front of himself. He makes a mocking face. “Did you have a ‘ghostly experience’?”
Dizzy and out of phase with plain sight. Covered with the poison film of Jim Cadistro’s insanity, I stumble to the nearest stool and accidentally put my head down in the middle of an ashtray. I raise spitting and batting the butts off my face.
Jim Cadistro. Something important about that name. Jim Cadistro. I shake my head and remember. The girl with the three short beaded braids on the left side of her head. He was her brother.
But we’re a hundred miles from nowhere. This doesn’t make sense, so I point to the memorial and ask, “How did you get a plaque to this guy? Did he live around here?”
Amie shrugs. “New ones appear all the time, and the rest just move back down to the end of the building.” She points to the blackness swallowing the far end of the lengthy room. “We don’t ask questions and we sure as hell don’t touch ‘em like you did.” I watch her and the cowboy bow in private laughter.
“She had a name, you know,” Amie says, who is definitely on the dark side of thirty now, “Do you even remember?”
I turn to her with a stupid grin feeling a cigarette butt fall from my chin. “What?”
“Her name. The girl with the braids. You spent last night with her.”
This is impossible. Amie’s hair is now more pewter‑grey than sable. She is aging before my eyes, and what’s with the mind‑reading routine?
“The girl’s name is Twila Somer,” Amie says into what now looks like a whiskey sour. “She works for a place called Rozer Pharmaceutical. I guess she’s some kind of undiscovered genius. In five years, she’s going to find a cure for AIDS. Well, she would have if you hadn’t killed her.”
“What are you talking about?” This is too much. “I didn’t kill her!” As I speak, I watch Amie age into her ‘90s or even ‘100s. Her skin cracks and I see one of her fingernails fall into her drink. The cowboy by her side, who seemed fine a minute ago, now wears the sagging skin of a dying Basset hound.
“You have AIDS, Ricky Peterson,” she rasps while standing. “Why do you think you’ve been ill lately?”
Smiling nervously, I get the schtick. “Oh, okay. This is some kind of mentalism‑spook show here. You really had me going.” I say, edging away. “You ought to take this on the road.”
Amie grinned at him, a tooth falling out of her wilting face and rattling onto the bar. Her eyes, dancing in the light of youth not a half hour before, were now milky and blind.
I back toward the door as she speaks, her skin falling away in filthy, decayed rags. “In fact you will kill dozens because for the last two years, during the most sexual time of your life, you have been spreading this disease.”
A jolt of 200 proof panic and my wise‑guy image is gone. I crack. Running back to the door, I fumble for the exit. Realizing it had changed to a realistic mural on a solid cement wall, I slumped in disbelief.
I turn and suddenly see living, glistening eyes in Amie’s dead skull. “And those dozens you will kill will also kill others, unaware of their condition. The numbers will keep doubling as they infect more innocents.”
I look to the bartender for help but he is now only a heap of a darkly webbed substance. Frantically searching the room, I see an emaciated woman eating the guts out of a reclining Officer Dale who is unconcerned, like he is pondering his next dominoes move.
The cowboy is standing aside with the meat of his body dropping away, splattering onto the floor in slimy chunks. Now a near‑skeletal form, he says, “Time for his walk, Amie.” He snatches my arm above the elbow.
I try to scream at his cold, wet touch but could only expel a squeaky chirp. Amie’s peeled cadaver quickly moves forward. I try to kick at them, but it is like punching marble statues. In a blink, Amie grabs my other arm.
They drag me toward the far end of the building. Toward an inky howling nothingness. Loose paper flies by into the suction of the icy void. I screech and bawl until my face is a sheet of bubbling snot but they only join in clattering laughter. As they pull me screaming to my fate they stop and briefly point me toward something on the wall.
A plaque inscribed “Ricky Peterson” and today’s date. Attached is a photograph of Twila Somer, smiling with life’s
I get a kick out of it, you know? No one ever gets onto me, no one that matters, anyway, and I’m making a hell of a living. I perform a live stage show of “talking to the dead,” using a form of sleight‑of‑mind called cold reading. Some of these poor bastards actually believe they’re talking to their croaked grandfather, aunt, puppy, or whatever—and that’s ok. They seem happy. Happy enough to unbend their wallets, so everyone’s prancing in daffodils.
So this girl came on to me after the last show. She was a cute brunette with three short lengths of beaded hair on the left side of her head and a killer body. She learned of my "supernatural abilities" from the television commercials I run before arriving in each town. She couldn’t have been more than twenty‑three, but these were the fruits of being a celebrity. I'm just cruising the profiteering band‑wagon of the '80s. Women just throw themselves at me like I’m a Rock star or something. I have lost count in the last couple years.
She wanted to talk to her deceased brother. My assistants ran her credit card information through the Internet to find the funeral industry had recently bilked her for an extremely expensive burial. Looking through the obituaries of her hometown, they deduced her brother had committed suicide.
My well‑oiled lines for this kind of thing soothed her pleas for details of why he killed himself. She gave me his name and he “spoke to her through me.” He assured her he was in a joyous place surrounded by loved ones at peace with happy memories of her.
Yeah. And all good dogs go to Heaven.
Later, I had her backstage for a private reading. Hey, if the mortuary business can take advantage of her grief, why can’t I? Just when our make‑out session reaches critical mass, she pulls out a condom. Why do they always have those damned buckskins in their purse? So I tell her we’re not going to make it if I have to wear that party favor. She stayed. It’s amazing what a little fame can do for you.
* * *
So now I’m heading to a gig on Texas Highway 37. Out of nowhere, the engine begins making this clanging sound like a monkey wrench in a Laundromat dryer. Dammit. I just dropped a sultan’s salary on this rig.
I need to get off the road so I take the next exit where a bent and shot‑up sign announces the town of Finnigan, Texas. It didn’t say Finnigan was seven more miles off the highway.
By the time I limp into town, the wind is picking up and I’m stuck while the local mechanic—Goober, I could swear his name was—looks at my ride.
I shield my face from blowing sand and see the only place I can wait is a bar named Gary’s. I walk into the place noticing it is like an Army barracks, a lot deeper than wide, but deceptively large. I’m feeling a little nausea lately like I have the flu or something, so I figure I might get something to eat to settle my stomach.
About a dozen good‑old‑boys are lolling in cheap rotting upholstery to the sound of outdated country music. They tended their interests, from dominoes to two tired pool tables and the liquor bar.
A wall of plaques with photographs hanging from them ran to the far end of the building. There, the light bulbs were unlit, leaving the long wall fading down into darkness.
Avoiding a broken stool, I sit. At the other end of the bar is a slight, girlish form in a mocha tan sundress billowing with white flowers. Her back is to me and slight movements reflect a shivering luster off her satin black hair. She is transfixed to a TV wedged above the bar.
I had to see her face, so noticing her empty drink I ask, “Can I buy you a refill?” I puzzle at her flexi‑straw.
“Hi.” She turns and flashes a youthful smile. “You surprised me.”
My surprise far outweighs hers. Her crystal Caribbean‑blue eyes offset by lavish indigo hair staggers me to the core. She is a diamond amongst the dirt‑clods in this drunk‑hut.
“I think I might get in trouble for buying a drink for an underage cutie.” I say, because she is definitely a minor.
She blushes and takes a stool closer to me. “S’ok, I’m eighteen, nobody cares I’m here—I’m just drinking pop.” She glances across the room. “That’s Dale, the chief of police, over there.” She tilts her head toward a chubby, uniformed man absorbed in a game of dominoes.
I motion to the bartender, point to her drink, and look around. “So this is the local hotspot, huh?”
“Hotspot? More like a lukewarm stain.”
I smile and offer my hand. “I’m Ricky. Ricky Peterson.”
She takes it with a cool softness. “I know who you are. I seen your commercials on the TV.”
She pronounces it “Tie‑Vie” but that’s the way they talk around here. I couldn’t help but notice her being a perfect mark for a psychic reading and old enough for some “quality time” with me.
“You look thinner in person.” She says.
I froze. Time to reroute this seduction. “Well, you know television adds ten pounds.” Truth be told, in the last six months I’ve been dropping pounds like loose change, but I’ll gain it back after the stress of the tour.
“What’s your name, farm girl?”
“Amie.”
“Does your Dad work around here, Amie?”
“Used to before he died. Now he’s over there.” She didn’t look up or down but over my shoulder with a sour expression to the wall covered with plaques.
“No, I mean his spirit—his soul,” I say, turning to look at the wall. It showed a variety of small brass memorials. They were all just names with a year inscribed below, mostly men. “What is this, anyway?”
“The Dead Wall,” a baritone voice says from behind me.
I turn to see a tall lean man standing next to Amie, holding a pool cue straight up by his side like a castle guard’s pike. He is dressed in complete Old‑West attire. All black except for silver filigree around the edges. He had an Adam’s apple sticking out like an internal elbow.
“The Dead Wall? You sayin’ that’s where they are? But I had you all pegged for Christians,” I say, “Heaven or Hell, you know.”
“Sometimes Hell won’t have ‘em,” goes the cowboy and spits into a floor spittoon with uncanny accuracy.
Amie snickers sourly, beyond her years. “Besides, I ain’t got a post card or phone call from Heaven yet.” She points her chin up at the trophies. “Up there, that’s something different.”
So I turn around and I’m looking especially at a plaque with borders painted red and blue in the sloppy motif of a toddler. The pictures of four young children and a teenage girl adorn its edges. The inscription is simply “Jim Cadistro,” dated this year. A distant bell rings from the boundaries of my brain.
“This Jim fellow must have been a father or a teacher of some kind,” I say as I reach out to touch the memorial. “You have to admire people like this because—“
When I touch the placard, something wonky takes place. My hand goes into the brass, breaking the skin of the metal like it was perpendicular liquid. Something else happens. Happens to my mind. I am becoming someone else.
Animals. That’s all they are.
Someone who is angry.
Yeah, they’re the future of the world and all that other crap, but to me they’re just life‑enders.
Extremely angry.
I’m in a miserable cracker‑box home a ways outta town with a wife who insists on taking in foster children.
We need the money we get for them. I can’t think of a better solution, so I shut up and sit in the smell of dirty laundry and cat piss enduring the situation. For now.
Always squalling, bawling and needing. They’re like pigeons. Disease infested vermin swimming in bacteria, that’s all they are.
There are five. My two slack‑eyed imbeciles, two booger factories whose names I can never remember, and Courtney, she started it all.
Courtney. So fresh and nubile. Fifteen years old and she don’t have a clue how ---- she is. The way she talks, the way she moves, the lines of her body, all cry for the wild. But when I come to her room at night, she only pushes me away. Why doesn’t she want me? And now my wife is getting suspicious.
Been a long time in the thinking and more than a few beers before I am out in the yard at three a.m., dousing the siding with gasoline. They’re all asleep. I quietly fixed long screws in all the doors and windows, sealing them in.
One match is all it takes for the fire to embrace the house. The screaming comes a few minutes later. I have my gun in case one gets out, but I’m going listen to the shrieks until they stop before I put the barrel in my mouth.
I stand outside Courtney’s bedroom. I laugh while she begs and claws at her window for help.
So I’m there in the light of the fire, thinking of what they’ve done to me, listening to their pleas, when I see the damnedest thing. A huge image of a sitting woman, overlaid on the flames.
The woman’s image competes with the fire for reality. Soon the blaze and the screams are flying away and a different world comes flickering to the forefront.
I’m at that bar. The bar in Finnigan, Texas.
“He’s back,” booms the cowboy, chalking his pool stick in front of himself. He makes a mocking face. “Did you have a ‘ghostly experience’?”
Dizzy and out of phase with plain sight. Covered with the poison film of Jim Cadistro’s insanity, I stumble to the nearest stool and accidentally put my head down in the middle of an ashtray. I raise spitting and batting the butts off my face.
Jim Cadistro. Something important about that name. Jim Cadistro. I shake my head and remember. The girl with the three short beaded braids on the left side of her head. He was her brother.
But we’re a hundred miles from nowhere. This doesn’t make sense, so I point to the memorial and ask, “How did you get a plaque to this guy? Did he live around here?”
Amie shrugs. “New ones appear all the time, and the rest just move back down to the end of the building.” She points to the blackness swallowing the far end of the lengthy room. “We don’t ask questions and we sure as hell don’t touch ‘em like you did.” I watch her and the cowboy bow in private laughter.
“She had a name, you know,” Amie says, who is definitely on the dark side of thirty now, “Do you even remember?”
I turn to her with a stupid grin feeling a cigarette butt fall from my chin. “What?”
“Her name. The girl with the braids. You spent last night with her.”
This is impossible. Amie’s hair is now more pewter‑grey than sable. She is aging before my eyes, and what’s with the mind‑reading routine?
“The girl’s name is Twila Somer,” Amie says into what now looks like a whiskey sour. “She works for a place called Rozer Pharmaceutical. I guess she’s some kind of undiscovered genius. In five years, she’s going to find a cure for AIDS. Well, she would have if you hadn’t killed her.”
“What are you talking about?” This is too much. “I didn’t kill her!” As I speak, I watch Amie age into her ‘90s or even ‘100s. Her skin cracks and I see one of her fingernails fall into her drink. The cowboy by her side, who seemed fine a minute ago, now wears the sagging skin of a dying Basset hound.
“You have AIDS, Ricky Peterson,” she rasps while standing. “Why do you think you’ve been ill lately?”
Smiling nervously, I get the schtick. “Oh, okay. This is some kind of mentalism‑spook show here. You really had me going.” I say, edging away. “You ought to take this on the road.”
Amie grinned at him, a tooth falling out of her wilting face and rattling onto the bar. Her eyes, dancing in the light of youth not a half hour before, were now milky and blind.
I back toward the door as she speaks, her skin falling away in filthy, decayed rags. “In fact you will kill dozens because for the last two years, during the most sexual time of your life, you have been spreading this disease.”
A jolt of 200 proof panic and my wise‑guy image is gone. I crack. Running back to the door, I fumble for the exit. Realizing it had changed to a realistic mural on a solid cement wall, I slumped in disbelief.
I turn and suddenly see living, glistening eyes in Amie’s dead skull. “And those dozens you will kill will also kill others, unaware of their condition. The numbers will keep doubling as they infect more innocents.”
I look to the bartender for help but he is now only a heap of a darkly webbed substance. Frantically searching the room, I see an emaciated woman eating the guts out of a reclining Officer Dale who is unconcerned, like he is pondering his next dominoes move.
The cowboy is standing aside with the meat of his body dropping away, splattering onto the floor in slimy chunks. Now a near‑skeletal form, he says, “Time for his walk, Amie.” He snatches my arm above the elbow.
I try to scream at his cold, wet touch but could only expel a squeaky chirp. Amie’s peeled cadaver quickly moves forward. I try to kick at them, but it is like punching marble statues. In a blink, Amie grabs my other arm.
They drag me toward the far end of the building. Toward an inky howling nothingness. Loose paper flies by into the suction of the icy void. I screech and bawl until my face is a sheet of bubbling snot but they only join in clattering laughter. As they pull me screaming to my fate they stop and briefly point me toward something on the wall.
A plaque inscribed “Ricky Peterson” and today’s date. Attached is a photograph of Twila Somer, smiling with life’s
diana_1989
23-03-2007, 00:09
As a married adult, I've lived and raised our children in six different states. I've made moving arrangements and unpacked more times than I care to remember. The hardest part about moving isn't the physical move, it's leaving the familiar behind. Not only do you have to learn your way around in a strange city, but once you find your way there, you realize that you exist in total anonymity. For some reason, I need proof of my existence, and unless someone recognizes me, how will I know I do? I cried for Sandra Bullock in The Net when some crazed computer hacker erased her identity.
The good news about being a stranger in town is that you can go to the grocery store without makeup or fear of running into your boss. The bad news is that you continue to search for friends even when it's logically impossible for them to be there. I'll never forget the day I made a total fool of myself in a mall at Christmas time. I was pushing my way through the crowds when my heart started to pound. Just ahead of me, or so I thought, was an old friend from high school.
"Hey, Fran," I hollered and waved, trying to get her attention. Thank goodness my daughter wasn't with me or she would have called me a dork and told me how embarrassed she was to be seen with me.
Fran apparently didn't hear or see me because she just kept walking. I pushed through the crowd, mumbling excitedly about the odds of running into Fran here in Houston when we went to high school in Independence, Missouri. I hollered again, this time loud enough to be heard over the Christmas music.
"Yoo-hoo, Fran. Wait up."
The woman continued to walk but I certainly got the attention of everyone around me! I continued to push through the crowd, but as soon as I caught up with her I wished I could shrink at will and crawl out of the mall unnoticed.
"Am I the person you've been chasing through the mall?" she asked with an irritated look on her face.
It was definitely not Fran. "I am so sorry," I apologized. "I thought I knew you."
I ducked instinctively as she started to swing her shopping bag in my direction, but apparently she hadn't been aiming at me. She was just making a quick left turn and didn't feel the need to tell me I was in her way.
Like grey hair, this state of confusion has been earned. Unlike June Cleaver, I have not lived in the same small town all my life. I have a huge database of friends in my mind. Apparently some small parts of our personalities or looks are fairly generic and God likes them enough that he keeps giving them to other people. In some ways it's very comforting. When you meet a new person who reminds you of someone you already know, you feel like you have a touch of familiarity even if you don't. It's much easier than starting with a blank page.
In Houston, I ride the Metro and like to watch people as they get on the bus. One day after just moving here I saw a career woman in a very tailored suit with hair that had definitely been styled in a chair. A daily blast of hair spray must have kept it in place between visits to the hairdresser. I'm sure the color was a creation of someone other than Mother Nature, too. This commuter was very prim and proper, with a neatly packed briefcase in one hand and purse in the other. She reminded me of the organist at church in Overland Park, Kansas, right down to the glasses hanging on her chest from a pearl and gold plated chain. I suppose there's nothing too strange about that, except that almost every morning a tall, dark-haired man got on the bus who reminded me of the organists husband. They didn't get on the bus together or even acknowledge that they knew each other, but I watched one morning to see if they approached the bus from the same direction. If they did know each other, they were very good at protecting their secret. I wondered if they had any idea that in another city there were clones of their bodies living as man and wife. I was fascinated with the possibilities.
In Kansas City I worked with a young woman named Mary who was the marketing director for a commercial real estate company. Mary was a petite young woman with sparkling eyes and a bubbly personality. She was trying to start a family, but in the meantime she was building a wardrobe that Jacqueline Onassis would be proud to own. She had a wonderful sense of style that included lots of trousers and short jackets to show off her shape. Her clothes all had designer labels that were still intact and hadn't been mutilated on their way to the clearance rack. Mary's style was so predictable, I was sure I could have done her shopping for her. Now I'm in Houston working in the marketing department with a young woman who could be Mary. Kim goes one step further and has a professional seamstress make her clothes! I know Mary would be impressed. If these two women had the opportunity to meet each other, they would become instant friends. It makes me wonder: Is this something they teach in marketing classes? Does this say that women in marketing are typically bubbly personalities who have great taste in clothes? Does this mean I have to have a marketing degree to get into a size 4? With that degree, will I automatically be drawn to designer racks?
I'm not the only one suffering from this syndrome I call look-alike confusion. My future son-in-law, Roger, just recently met my other daughter and thought she had a remarkable resemblance to his brother's wife. Just imagine the confusion at family reunions when Roger will have two sisters-in-law who look like sisters but are only related by marriage, if actually related at all! That presents a question: What is the relationship of two women if one is married to the brother of the man who is married to your sister?
My youngest daughter, Denise, the one who is marrying Roger, has often been told that she looks like Carrie Fisher. People tease her about the doughnuts on her ears in Star Wars. Personally, I don't see the similarity, but thought it was really weird when one day someone at work told me I looked like Debbie Reynolds! Apparently something in Debbie's gene pool has been infused into ours. Maybe I should check my family history to see if Debbie and I are distant cousins. With her connections, maybe she could get someone to read my unpublished novel. Maybe I could get the lead part in The Debbie Reynolds Story. I could be perky...for a price.
The story continues. Eddie, my husband, not to be confused with Debbie's ex-husband or Carrie's father, Eddie Fisher, has a friend named Jeff. Jeff has an uncanny resemblance to our son, Spencer. Both young men are in their late 20s, about 5'10", have dark brown hair and eyes, olive skin, and at the current time, both have goatees. One day I said to Jeff, "I'll bet if people saw you and Spencer together they would think you are brothers."
Jeff said, "No doubt about it. When Eddie and I are out playing golf, people always think I'm Spencer." Now I have never met Jeff's parents, but what are the chances that his father looks like Eddie Fisher?
Wouldn't you know the one time when I wasn't paying attention, the real McCoy was right in front of me! In church one Sunday, a couple stood up and introduced themselves as having moved to Houston from Denver. Big deal. I was sure I didn't know them. After all, Denver is a big city. After church, I bumped into them, and without even trying to make a connection, realized I had known them. We had gone to church together in Colorado and our oldest daughters knew each other. Now I know I cannot totally discount the chance that a friend from Oklahoma City might cross my path in Houston.
I saw a button on a woman in the fabric store the other day and it said, the face is familiar, but I can't remember who I am. It struck me as funny, probably because as I get older and recognize people I have never seen before, it seems entirely possible that one day I will forget myself. On the other hand, maybe I will be in another city, see someone who looks like me, and be excited to see her again
The good news about being a stranger in town is that you can go to the grocery store without makeup or fear of running into your boss. The bad news is that you continue to search for friends even when it's logically impossible for them to be there. I'll never forget the day I made a total fool of myself in a mall at Christmas time. I was pushing my way through the crowds when my heart started to pound. Just ahead of me, or so I thought, was an old friend from high school.
"Hey, Fran," I hollered and waved, trying to get her attention. Thank goodness my daughter wasn't with me or she would have called me a dork and told me how embarrassed she was to be seen with me.
Fran apparently didn't hear or see me because she just kept walking. I pushed through the crowd, mumbling excitedly about the odds of running into Fran here in Houston when we went to high school in Independence, Missouri. I hollered again, this time loud enough to be heard over the Christmas music.
"Yoo-hoo, Fran. Wait up."
The woman continued to walk but I certainly got the attention of everyone around me! I continued to push through the crowd, but as soon as I caught up with her I wished I could shrink at will and crawl out of the mall unnoticed.
"Am I the person you've been chasing through the mall?" she asked with an irritated look on her face.
It was definitely not Fran. "I am so sorry," I apologized. "I thought I knew you."
I ducked instinctively as she started to swing her shopping bag in my direction, but apparently she hadn't been aiming at me. She was just making a quick left turn and didn't feel the need to tell me I was in her way.
Like grey hair, this state of confusion has been earned. Unlike June Cleaver, I have not lived in the same small town all my life. I have a huge database of friends in my mind. Apparently some small parts of our personalities or looks are fairly generic and God likes them enough that he keeps giving them to other people. In some ways it's very comforting. When you meet a new person who reminds you of someone you already know, you feel like you have a touch of familiarity even if you don't. It's much easier than starting with a blank page.
In Houston, I ride the Metro and like to watch people as they get on the bus. One day after just moving here I saw a career woman in a very tailored suit with hair that had definitely been styled in a chair. A daily blast of hair spray must have kept it in place between visits to the hairdresser. I'm sure the color was a creation of someone other than Mother Nature, too. This commuter was very prim and proper, with a neatly packed briefcase in one hand and purse in the other. She reminded me of the organist at church in Overland Park, Kansas, right down to the glasses hanging on her chest from a pearl and gold plated chain. I suppose there's nothing too strange about that, except that almost every morning a tall, dark-haired man got on the bus who reminded me of the organists husband. They didn't get on the bus together or even acknowledge that they knew each other, but I watched one morning to see if they approached the bus from the same direction. If they did know each other, they were very good at protecting their secret. I wondered if they had any idea that in another city there were clones of their bodies living as man and wife. I was fascinated with the possibilities.
In Kansas City I worked with a young woman named Mary who was the marketing director for a commercial real estate company. Mary was a petite young woman with sparkling eyes and a bubbly personality. She was trying to start a family, but in the meantime she was building a wardrobe that Jacqueline Onassis would be proud to own. She had a wonderful sense of style that included lots of trousers and short jackets to show off her shape. Her clothes all had designer labels that were still intact and hadn't been mutilated on their way to the clearance rack. Mary's style was so predictable, I was sure I could have done her shopping for her. Now I'm in Houston working in the marketing department with a young woman who could be Mary. Kim goes one step further and has a professional seamstress make her clothes! I know Mary would be impressed. If these two women had the opportunity to meet each other, they would become instant friends. It makes me wonder: Is this something they teach in marketing classes? Does this say that women in marketing are typically bubbly personalities who have great taste in clothes? Does this mean I have to have a marketing degree to get into a size 4? With that degree, will I automatically be drawn to designer racks?
I'm not the only one suffering from this syndrome I call look-alike confusion. My future son-in-law, Roger, just recently met my other daughter and thought she had a remarkable resemblance to his brother's wife. Just imagine the confusion at family reunions when Roger will have two sisters-in-law who look like sisters but are only related by marriage, if actually related at all! That presents a question: What is the relationship of two women if one is married to the brother of the man who is married to your sister?
My youngest daughter, Denise, the one who is marrying Roger, has often been told that she looks like Carrie Fisher. People tease her about the doughnuts on her ears in Star Wars. Personally, I don't see the similarity, but thought it was really weird when one day someone at work told me I looked like Debbie Reynolds! Apparently something in Debbie's gene pool has been infused into ours. Maybe I should check my family history to see if Debbie and I are distant cousins. With her connections, maybe she could get someone to read my unpublished novel. Maybe I could get the lead part in The Debbie Reynolds Story. I could be perky...for a price.
The story continues. Eddie, my husband, not to be confused with Debbie's ex-husband or Carrie's father, Eddie Fisher, has a friend named Jeff. Jeff has an uncanny resemblance to our son, Spencer. Both young men are in their late 20s, about 5'10", have dark brown hair and eyes, olive skin, and at the current time, both have goatees. One day I said to Jeff, "I'll bet if people saw you and Spencer together they would think you are brothers."
Jeff said, "No doubt about it. When Eddie and I are out playing golf, people always think I'm Spencer." Now I have never met Jeff's parents, but what are the chances that his father looks like Eddie Fisher?
Wouldn't you know the one time when I wasn't paying attention, the real McCoy was right in front of me! In church one Sunday, a couple stood up and introduced themselves as having moved to Houston from Denver. Big deal. I was sure I didn't know them. After all, Denver is a big city. After church, I bumped into them, and without even trying to make a connection, realized I had known them. We had gone to church together in Colorado and our oldest daughters knew each other. Now I know I cannot totally discount the chance that a friend from Oklahoma City might cross my path in Houston.
I saw a button on a woman in the fabric store the other day and it said, the face is familiar, but I can't remember who I am. It struck me as funny, probably because as I get older and recognize people I have never seen before, it seems entirely possible that one day I will forget myself. On the other hand, maybe I will be in another city, see someone who looks like me, and be excited to see her again
A r c h i
01-08-2008, 01:29
Once upon a time an old man planted a little turnip and said: "Grow, grow, little turnip, grow sweet! Grow, grow, little turnip, grow strong!
And the turnip grew up sweet and strong and big and enormous. Then, one day, the old man went to pull it up. He pulled and pulled again, but he could not pull it up.
He called the old woman.
The old woman pulled the old man,
The old man pulled the turnip.
And they pulled and pulled again, but they could not pull it up.
So the old woman called her granddaughter.
The granddaughter pulled the old woman,
The old woman pulled the old man,
The old man pulled the turnip.
And they pulled and pulled again, but they could not pull it up.
The granddaughter called the black dog.
The black dog pulled the granddaughter,
The granddaughter pulled the old woman,
The old woman pulled the old man,
The old man pulled the turnip.
And they pulled and pulled again,
but they could not pull it up.
The black dog called the cat.
The cat pulled the dog,
The dog pulled the granddaughter,
The granddaughter pulled the old woman,
The old woman pulled the old man,
The old man pulled the turnip.
And they pulled and pulled again, but still they could not pull it up.
The cat called the mouse.
The mouse pulled the cat,
The cat pulled the dog,
The dog pulled the granddaughter,
The granddaughter pulled the old woman,
The old woman pulled the old man,
The old man pulled the turnip.
They pulled and pulled again,
and up came the turnip at last.
And the turnip grew up sweet and strong and big and enormous. Then, one day, the old man went to pull it up. He pulled and pulled again, but he could not pull it up.
He called the old woman.
The old woman pulled the old man,
The old man pulled the turnip.
And they pulled and pulled again, but they could not pull it up.
So the old woman called her granddaughter.
The granddaughter pulled the old woman,
The old woman pulled the old man,
The old man pulled the turnip.
And they pulled and pulled again, but they could not pull it up.
The granddaughter called the black dog.
The black dog pulled the granddaughter,
The granddaughter pulled the old woman,
The old woman pulled the old man,
The old man pulled the turnip.
And they pulled and pulled again,
but they could not pull it up.
The black dog called the cat.
The cat pulled the dog,
The dog pulled the granddaughter,
The granddaughter pulled the old woman,
The old woman pulled the old man,
The old man pulled the turnip.
And they pulled and pulled again, but still they could not pull it up.
The cat called the mouse.
The mouse pulled the cat,
The cat pulled the dog,
The dog pulled the granddaughter,
The granddaughter pulled the old woman,
The old woman pulled the old man,
The old man pulled the turnip.
They pulled and pulled again,
and up came the turnip at last.
A r c h i
01-08-2008, 01:31
A long time ago there lived a King and Queen, who said every day, "If only we had a child!" But for a long time they had none.
One day, as the Queen was bathing, a frog crept out of the water on to the land and said to her, "Your wish shall be fulfilled. Before a year has passed you shall bring a daughter into the world."
The frog's words came true. The Queen had a little girl who was so beautiful that the King could not contain himself for joy. He prepared a great feast and invited all his rela¬tions and friends and neighbors. He invited the fairies, too, in order that they might be kind and good to the child. There were thirteen of them in the kingdom, but as the King had only twelve golden plates for them to eat from, one of the fairies had to be left out.
The feast was held with all splendor, and when it came to an end, each of the fairies presented the child with a magic gift One fairy gave her virtue, another beauty, a third riches, and so on, with everything in the world that she could wish for.
When eleven of the fairies had said their say, the thirteenth suddenly appeared. She wanted to show her spite for not having been invited. Without greeting anyone, or even glancing at anyone, she called out in a loud voice,
"When she is fifteen years old, the Princess shall prick herself with a spindle and shall fall down dead."
Then without another word she turned and left the hall.
Everyone was terror-stricken, but the twelfth fairy, whose wish was still not spoken, stepped forward. She could not take away the curse, but could only soften it, so she said,
"Your daughter shall not die, but shall fall into a deep sleep lasting a hundred years."
The King was so anxious to guard his dear child from this misfortune that he sent out a command that all the spindles in the whole kingdom should be burned.
All the promises of the fairies came true. The Princess grew up so beautiful, modest, kind, and clever that everybody who saw her could not but love her.
Now it happened that on the very day when she was fifteen years old the King and Queen were away from home, and the Princess was left quite alone in the castle. She wandered about over the whole place, looking at rooms and halls as she pleased, and at last she came to an old tower. She went up a narrow, winding staircase and reached a little door. A rusty key was sticking in the lock, and when she turned it the door flew open.
In a little room sat an old woman with a spindle, busily spinning her flax. This old woman was so deaf that she had never heard the King's command that all spindles should he destroyed.
"Good day, Granny," said the Princess, "what are you doing?"
"I am spinning," said the old woman, and nodded her head.
"What is the thing that whirls round so merrily?" asked the Princess, and she took the spindle and tried to spin, too.
But she had scarcely touched the spindle when it pricked her finger. At that moment she fell upon the bed which was standing near, and lay still in a deep sleep.
The King and Queen, who had just come home and had stepped into the hall, fell asleep, too, and all their courtiers with them. The horses fell asleep in the stable, the dogs in the yard, the doves on the roof, the flies on the wall. Yes, even the fire on the hearth grew still and went to sleep, and the meat that was roasting stopped crackling. The kitchen maid, who sat with a fowl before her, ready to pluck its feathers, fell asleep. The cook, too, who was pulling the kitchen boy's hair because he had made a mistake, let him go and both fell asleep. The wind dropped, and on the trees in front of the castle not a leaf stirred.
Round the castle a hedge of brier roses began to grow up. Every year it grew higher, till at last nothing could be seen of the castle.
There was a legend in the land about the lovely Sleeping Beauty, as the King's daughter was called, and from time to time Princes came and tried to force a way through the hedge into the castle. But they found it impossible, for the thorns, as though they had hands, held them fast, and the Princes remained caught in them without being able to free themselves, and so died.
After many, many years a Prince came again to the country and heard an old man tell of the castle which stood behind the
brier hedge, in which a most beautiful maiden called Sleeping Beauty had been asleep for the last hundred years, and with her slept the King and Queen, and all their courtiers. He knew, also, from his grandfather, that many Princes had already come and sought to pierce through the brier hedge, and had been caught in it and died.
Then the young Prince said, "I am not afraid. I must go and see this Sleeping Beauty."
The good old man did all in his power to persuade him not to go, but the Prince would not listen to his words.
Now the hundred years were just ended. When the Prince approached the brier hedge it was covered with beautiful large blossoms. The shrubs made way for him of their own accord and let him pass unharmed, and then closed up again into a hedge.
In the courtyard he saw the horses and dogs lying asleep. On the roof sat the doves with their heads under their wings. When he went into the house the flies were asleep on the walls. Near the throne lay the King and Queen. In the kitchen the cook still had his hand raised as though to strike the kitchen boy, and the maid sat with the black fowl before her ready to pluck its feathers.
He went on farther. All was so still that he could hear his own breathing. At last he reached the tower, and opened the door into the little room where the Princess was asleep. There she
lay, looking so beautiful that he could not take his eyes off her. He bent down and gave her a kiss. As he touched her, Sleeping Beauty opened her eyes and smiled at him.
Then they went down together. The King and the Queen and all the courtiers woke up, and looked at each other with astonished eyes. The horses in the stable stood up and shook themselves. The hounds leaped about and wagged their tails. The doves on the roof lifted their heads from under their wings, looked around, and flew into the fields. The flies on the walls began to crawl again. The fire in the kitchen roused itself and blazed up and cooked the food. The meat began to crackle, and the cook woke up and boxed the kitchen boy's ears so that he screamed aloud, while the maid finished plucking the fowl.
Then the Prince and Sleeping Beauty were married with all splendor, and they lived happily all their lives.
One day, as the Queen was bathing, a frog crept out of the water on to the land and said to her, "Your wish shall be fulfilled. Before a year has passed you shall bring a daughter into the world."
The frog's words came true. The Queen had a little girl who was so beautiful that the King could not contain himself for joy. He prepared a great feast and invited all his rela¬tions and friends and neighbors. He invited the fairies, too, in order that they might be kind and good to the child. There were thirteen of them in the kingdom, but as the King had only twelve golden plates for them to eat from, one of the fairies had to be left out.
The feast was held with all splendor, and when it came to an end, each of the fairies presented the child with a magic gift One fairy gave her virtue, another beauty, a third riches, and so on, with everything in the world that she could wish for.
When eleven of the fairies had said their say, the thirteenth suddenly appeared. She wanted to show her spite for not having been invited. Without greeting anyone, or even glancing at anyone, she called out in a loud voice,
"When she is fifteen years old, the Princess shall prick herself with a spindle and shall fall down dead."
Then without another word she turned and left the hall.
Everyone was terror-stricken, but the twelfth fairy, whose wish was still not spoken, stepped forward. She could not take away the curse, but could only soften it, so she said,
"Your daughter shall not die, but shall fall into a deep sleep lasting a hundred years."
The King was so anxious to guard his dear child from this misfortune that he sent out a command that all the spindles in the whole kingdom should be burned.
All the promises of the fairies came true. The Princess grew up so beautiful, modest, kind, and clever that everybody who saw her could not but love her.
Now it happened that on the very day when she was fifteen years old the King and Queen were away from home, and the Princess was left quite alone in the castle. She wandered about over the whole place, looking at rooms and halls as she pleased, and at last she came to an old tower. She went up a narrow, winding staircase and reached a little door. A rusty key was sticking in the lock, and when she turned it the door flew open.
In a little room sat an old woman with a spindle, busily spinning her flax. This old woman was so deaf that she had never heard the King's command that all spindles should he destroyed.
"Good day, Granny," said the Princess, "what are you doing?"
"I am spinning," said the old woman, and nodded her head.
"What is the thing that whirls round so merrily?" asked the Princess, and she took the spindle and tried to spin, too.
But she had scarcely touched the spindle when it pricked her finger. At that moment she fell upon the bed which was standing near, and lay still in a deep sleep.
The King and Queen, who had just come home and had stepped into the hall, fell asleep, too, and all their courtiers with them. The horses fell asleep in the stable, the dogs in the yard, the doves on the roof, the flies on the wall. Yes, even the fire on the hearth grew still and went to sleep, and the meat that was roasting stopped crackling. The kitchen maid, who sat with a fowl before her, ready to pluck its feathers, fell asleep. The cook, too, who was pulling the kitchen boy's hair because he had made a mistake, let him go and both fell asleep. The wind dropped, and on the trees in front of the castle not a leaf stirred.
Round the castle a hedge of brier roses began to grow up. Every year it grew higher, till at last nothing could be seen of the castle.
There was a legend in the land about the lovely Sleeping Beauty, as the King's daughter was called, and from time to time Princes came and tried to force a way through the hedge into the castle. But they found it impossible, for the thorns, as though they had hands, held them fast, and the Princes remained caught in them without being able to free themselves, and so died.
After many, many years a Prince came again to the country and heard an old man tell of the castle which stood behind the
brier hedge, in which a most beautiful maiden called Sleeping Beauty had been asleep for the last hundred years, and with her slept the King and Queen, and all their courtiers. He knew, also, from his grandfather, that many Princes had already come and sought to pierce through the brier hedge, and had been caught in it and died.
Then the young Prince said, "I am not afraid. I must go and see this Sleeping Beauty."
The good old man did all in his power to persuade him not to go, but the Prince would not listen to his words.
Now the hundred years were just ended. When the Prince approached the brier hedge it was covered with beautiful large blossoms. The shrubs made way for him of their own accord and let him pass unharmed, and then closed up again into a hedge.
In the courtyard he saw the horses and dogs lying asleep. On the roof sat the doves with their heads under their wings. When he went into the house the flies were asleep on the walls. Near the throne lay the King and Queen. In the kitchen the cook still had his hand raised as though to strike the kitchen boy, and the maid sat with the black fowl before her ready to pluck its feathers.
He went on farther. All was so still that he could hear his own breathing. At last he reached the tower, and opened the door into the little room where the Princess was asleep. There she
lay, looking so beautiful that he could not take his eyes off her. He bent down and gave her a kiss. As he touched her, Sleeping Beauty opened her eyes and smiled at him.
Then they went down together. The King and the Queen and all the courtiers woke up, and looked at each other with astonished eyes. The horses in the stable stood up and shook themselves. The hounds leaped about and wagged their tails. The doves on the roof lifted their heads from under their wings, looked around, and flew into the fields. The flies on the walls began to crawl again. The fire in the kitchen roused itself and blazed up and cooked the food. The meat began to crackle, and the cook woke up and boxed the kitchen boy's ears so that he screamed aloud, while the maid finished plucking the fowl.
Then the Prince and Sleeping Beauty were married with all splendor, and they lived happily all their lives.
A r c h i
01-08-2008, 01:32
This is an old, old story which my grandmother told me when I was a little girl. When she was a little girl her grandfather had told it to her, and when he was a little peasant boy in Bohemia, his mother had told it to him. And where she heard it, I don't know, but you can see it is an old, old story, and here it is, the way my grandmother used to tell it.
It is called Gone Is Gone and it is the story of a man who wanted to do housework.
This man, his name was Fritzl—his wife, her name was Liesi. They had a little baby, Kinndli by name, and Spitz who was a dog.
They had one cow, two goats, three pigs, and of geese they had a dozen. That's what they had.
They lived on a patch of land, and that's where they worked.
Fritzl had to plow the ground, sow the seeds and hoe the weeds. He had to cut the hay and rake it too, and stack it up in bunches in the sun. The man worked hard, you see, from day to day.
Liesi had the house to clean, the soup to cook, the butter to churn, the barn yard and the baby to care for. She, too, worked hard each day as you can plainly see.
They both worked hard, but Fritzl always thought that he worked harder. Evenings when he came home from the field, he sat down, mopped his face with his big red handkerchief, and said: "Hu! How hot it was in the sun today, and how hard I did work. Little do you know, Liesi, what a man's work is like, little do you know! Your work now, 'tis nothing at all."
" 'Tis none too easy," said Liesi.
"None too easy!" cried Fritzl. "All you do is to putter and potter around the house a bit—surely there's nothing hard about such things."
"Nay, if you think so," said Liesi, "we'll take it turn and turn about tomorrow. I will do your work, you can do mine. I will go out in the fields and cut the hay, you can stay here at home and putter and potter around. You wish to try it—yes?"
Fritzl thought he would like that well enough—to lie on the grass and keep an eye on his Kinndli-girl, to sit in the cool shade and churn, to fry a bit of sausage and cook a little soup. Ho! that would he easy! Yes, yes, he'd try it.
Well, Liesi lost no time the next morning. There she was at peep of day, striding out across the fields with a jug of water in her hand and the scythe over her shoulder.
And Fritzl, where was he? He was in the kitchen, frying a string of juicy sausages for his breakfast. There he sat, holding the pan over the fire, and as the sausage was sizzling and frizzling in the pan, Fritzl was lost in pleasant thoughts.
"A mug of cider now," that's what he was thinking. "A mug of apple cider with my sausage—that would be just the thing." No sooner thought than done.
Fritz! set the pan on the edge of the fireplace, and went down into the cellar where there was a big barrel full of cider. He pulled the bung from the barrel and watched the cider spurt into his mug, sparkling and foaming so that it was a joy to see.
But Hulla! What was that noise up in the kitchen—such a scuffle and clatter! Could it be that Spitz-dog after the sausages? Yes, that's what it was, and when Fritzl reached the top of the stairs, there he was, that dog, dashing out of the kitchen door with the string of juicy sausages flying after him.
Fritzl made for him, crying, "Huila! Hulla! Hey, hi, ho, hulla!" But the dog wouldn't stop. Fritz! ran, Spitz ran too. Fritzl ran fast, Spitz ran faster, and the end of it was that the dog got away and our Fritzl had to give up the chase.
"Na, na! What's gone is gone," said Fritzl, shrugging his shoulders. And so he turned back, puffing and panting, and mopping his face with his big red handkerchief.
But the cider, now! Had he put the bung back in the barrel? No, that he hadn't, for here he was still holding the bung in his fist.
With big fast steps Fritzl hurried home, but it was too late, for look! the cider had filled the mug and had run all over the cellar besides.
Fritzl looked at the cellar full of cider. Then he scratched his head and said, "Na, na! What's gone is gone."
Well, now it was high time to churn the butter. Fritzl filled the churn with good rich cream, took it under a tree and began to churn with all his might. His little Kinndli was out there too, playing Moo-cow among the daisies. The sky was blue, the sun right gay and golden, and the flowers, they were like angels' eyes blinking in the grass.
"This is pleasant now," thought Fritzl, as he churned away. "At last I can rest my weary legs. But wait! What about the cow? I've forgotten all about her and she hasn't had a drop of water all morning, poor thing."
With big fast steps Fritzl ran to the barn, carrying a bucket of cool fresh water for the cow. And high time it was, I can tell you, for the poor creature's tongue was hanging out of her mouth with the long thirst that was in her. She was hungry too, as a man could well see by the looks of her, so Fritzl took her from the barn and started off with her to the green grassy meadow.
But wait! There was that Kinndli to think of—she would surely get into trouble if he went out to the meadow. No, better not take the cow to the meadow at all. Better keep her nearby on the roof. The roof? Yes, the roof! Fritzl's house was not covered with shingles or tin or tile—it was covered with moss and sod, and a fine crop of grass and flowers grew there.
To take the cow up on the roof was not so hard as you might think, either. Fritzl's house was built into the side of a hill. Up the little hill, over a little shed, and from there to the green grassy roof. That was all there was to do and it was soon done.
The cow liked it right well up there on the roof and was soon munching away with a will, so Fritzl hurried back to his churning.
But Hulla! Hui! What did he see there under the tree?
Kinndli was climbing up on the churn—the churn was tipping! spilling! falling! and now, there on the grass lay Kinndli, all covered with half-churned cream and butter.
"So that's the end of our butter," said Fritzl, and blinked and blinked his blue eyes. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, "Na, na! What's gone is gone."
He picked up his dripping Kinndli and set her in the sun to dry. But the sun, now! It had climbed high up into the heavens. Noontime it was, no dinner made, and Liesi would soon be home for a bite to eat.
With big fast steps Fritzl hurried off to the garden. He gathered potatoes and onions, carrots and cabbages, beets and beans, turnips, parsley and celery.
"A little of everything, that will make a good soup," said Fritzl as he went back to the house, his arms so full of vegetables that he could not even close the garden gate behind him.
He sat on a bench in the kitchen and began cutting and paring away. How the man did work,. and how the peelings and parings did fly!
But now there was a great noise above him. Fritzl jumped to his feet.
"That cow," he said, "she's sliding around right much up there on the roof. She might slip off and break her neck.-
Up on the roof went Fritzl once more, this time with loops of heavy rope. Now listen carefully, and I will tell you what he did with it. He took one end of the rope and tied it around the cow's middle. The other end of the rope he dropped down the chimney and this he pulled through the fireplace in the kitchen below.
And then? And then he took the end of the rope which was hanging out of the fireplace and tied it around his own middle with a good tight knot. That's what he did.
"Oh yo! Oh ho!" he chuckled. "That will keep the cow from falling off the roof." And he began to whistle as he went on with his work.
He heaped some sticks on the fireplace and set a big kettle of water over it.
"Na, na!" he said. "Things are going as they should at last, and we'll soon have a good big soup! Now I'll put the vegetables in the kettle—"
And that he did.
"And now I'll put in the bacon—"
And that he did too.
"And now I'll light the fire—"
But that he never did, for just then, with a bump and a thump, the cow slipped over the edge of the roof after all; and Fritzl- well, he was whisked up into the chimney and there he dan- gled, poor man, and couldn't get up and couldn't get down.
Before long, there came Liesi home from the fields with the water jug in her hand and the scythe over her shoulder.
But Hulla! Hui! What was that hanging over the edge of the roof? The cow? Yes, the cow, and half-choked she was, too, with her eyes bulging and her tongue hanging out.
Liesi lost no time. She took her scythe—and ritsch! rotsch!— the rope was cut, and there was the cow wobbling on her four legs, but alive and well, heaven be praised!
Now Liesi saw the garden with its gate wide open. There were the pigs and the goats and all the geese too. They were full to bursting, but the garden, alas! was empty.
Liesi walked on, and now what did she see? The churn upturned, and Kinndli there in the sun, stiff and sticky with dried cream and butter.
Liesi hurried on. There was Spitz-dog on the grass. He was full of sausages and looked none too well.
Liesi looked at the cellar. There was the cider all over the floor and halfway up the stairs besides.
Liesi looked in the kitchen. The floor! It was piled high with peelings and parings, and littered with dishes and pans.
At last Liesi saw the fireplace. Hu! Hulla! Hui! What was that in the soup-kettle? Two arms were waving, two legs were kicking, and a gurgle, bubbly and weak-like, was coming up out of the water.
"Na, na! What can this mean?" cried Liesi. She did not know (but we do—yes?) that when she saved the cow outside, something happened to Fritzl inside. Yes, yes, as soon as the cow's rope was cut, Fritzl, poor man, he dropped down the chimney and crash! splash! fell right into the kettle of soup in the fireplace.
Liesi lost no time. She pulled at the two arms and tugged at the two legs—and there, dripping and spluttering, with a cabbage-leaf in his hair, celery in his pocket, and a sprig of parsley over one ear, was her Fritzl.
"Na, na, my man!" said Liesi. "Is that the way you keep house —yes?"
"Oh Liesi, Liesi!" sputtered Fritzl. "You're right—that work of yours, 'tis none too easy."
" 'Tis a little hard at first," said Liesi, "but tomorrow, maybe, you'll do better."
"Nay, nay!" cried Fritzl. "What's gone is gone, and so is my housework from this day on. Please, please, my Liesi—let me go back to my work in the fields, and never more will I say that my work is harder than yours."
"Well then," said Liesi, "if that's how it is, we surely can live in peace and happiness for ever and ever."
And that they did.
It is called Gone Is Gone and it is the story of a man who wanted to do housework.
This man, his name was Fritzl—his wife, her name was Liesi. They had a little baby, Kinndli by name, and Spitz who was a dog.
They had one cow, two goats, three pigs, and of geese they had a dozen. That's what they had.
They lived on a patch of land, and that's where they worked.
Fritzl had to plow the ground, sow the seeds and hoe the weeds. He had to cut the hay and rake it too, and stack it up in bunches in the sun. The man worked hard, you see, from day to day.
Liesi had the house to clean, the soup to cook, the butter to churn, the barn yard and the baby to care for. She, too, worked hard each day as you can plainly see.
They both worked hard, but Fritzl always thought that he worked harder. Evenings when he came home from the field, he sat down, mopped his face with his big red handkerchief, and said: "Hu! How hot it was in the sun today, and how hard I did work. Little do you know, Liesi, what a man's work is like, little do you know! Your work now, 'tis nothing at all."
" 'Tis none too easy," said Liesi.
"None too easy!" cried Fritzl. "All you do is to putter and potter around the house a bit—surely there's nothing hard about such things."
"Nay, if you think so," said Liesi, "we'll take it turn and turn about tomorrow. I will do your work, you can do mine. I will go out in the fields and cut the hay, you can stay here at home and putter and potter around. You wish to try it—yes?"
Fritzl thought he would like that well enough—to lie on the grass and keep an eye on his Kinndli-girl, to sit in the cool shade and churn, to fry a bit of sausage and cook a little soup. Ho! that would he easy! Yes, yes, he'd try it.
Well, Liesi lost no time the next morning. There she was at peep of day, striding out across the fields with a jug of water in her hand and the scythe over her shoulder.
And Fritzl, where was he? He was in the kitchen, frying a string of juicy sausages for his breakfast. There he sat, holding the pan over the fire, and as the sausage was sizzling and frizzling in the pan, Fritzl was lost in pleasant thoughts.
"A mug of cider now," that's what he was thinking. "A mug of apple cider with my sausage—that would be just the thing." No sooner thought than done.
Fritz! set the pan on the edge of the fireplace, and went down into the cellar where there was a big barrel full of cider. He pulled the bung from the barrel and watched the cider spurt into his mug, sparkling and foaming so that it was a joy to see.
But Hulla! What was that noise up in the kitchen—such a scuffle and clatter! Could it be that Spitz-dog after the sausages? Yes, that's what it was, and when Fritzl reached the top of the stairs, there he was, that dog, dashing out of the kitchen door with the string of juicy sausages flying after him.
Fritzl made for him, crying, "Huila! Hulla! Hey, hi, ho, hulla!" But the dog wouldn't stop. Fritz! ran, Spitz ran too. Fritzl ran fast, Spitz ran faster, and the end of it was that the dog got away and our Fritzl had to give up the chase.
"Na, na! What's gone is gone," said Fritzl, shrugging his shoulders. And so he turned back, puffing and panting, and mopping his face with his big red handkerchief.
But the cider, now! Had he put the bung back in the barrel? No, that he hadn't, for here he was still holding the bung in his fist.
With big fast steps Fritzl hurried home, but it was too late, for look! the cider had filled the mug and had run all over the cellar besides.
Fritzl looked at the cellar full of cider. Then he scratched his head and said, "Na, na! What's gone is gone."
Well, now it was high time to churn the butter. Fritzl filled the churn with good rich cream, took it under a tree and began to churn with all his might. His little Kinndli was out there too, playing Moo-cow among the daisies. The sky was blue, the sun right gay and golden, and the flowers, they were like angels' eyes blinking in the grass.
"This is pleasant now," thought Fritzl, as he churned away. "At last I can rest my weary legs. But wait! What about the cow? I've forgotten all about her and she hasn't had a drop of water all morning, poor thing."
With big fast steps Fritzl ran to the barn, carrying a bucket of cool fresh water for the cow. And high time it was, I can tell you, for the poor creature's tongue was hanging out of her mouth with the long thirst that was in her. She was hungry too, as a man could well see by the looks of her, so Fritzl took her from the barn and started off with her to the green grassy meadow.
But wait! There was that Kinndli to think of—she would surely get into trouble if he went out to the meadow. No, better not take the cow to the meadow at all. Better keep her nearby on the roof. The roof? Yes, the roof! Fritzl's house was not covered with shingles or tin or tile—it was covered with moss and sod, and a fine crop of grass and flowers grew there.
To take the cow up on the roof was not so hard as you might think, either. Fritzl's house was built into the side of a hill. Up the little hill, over a little shed, and from there to the green grassy roof. That was all there was to do and it was soon done.
The cow liked it right well up there on the roof and was soon munching away with a will, so Fritzl hurried back to his churning.
But Hulla! Hui! What did he see there under the tree?
Kinndli was climbing up on the churn—the churn was tipping! spilling! falling! and now, there on the grass lay Kinndli, all covered with half-churned cream and butter.
"So that's the end of our butter," said Fritzl, and blinked and blinked his blue eyes. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, "Na, na! What's gone is gone."
He picked up his dripping Kinndli and set her in the sun to dry. But the sun, now! It had climbed high up into the heavens. Noontime it was, no dinner made, and Liesi would soon be home for a bite to eat.
With big fast steps Fritzl hurried off to the garden. He gathered potatoes and onions, carrots and cabbages, beets and beans, turnips, parsley and celery.
"A little of everything, that will make a good soup," said Fritzl as he went back to the house, his arms so full of vegetables that he could not even close the garden gate behind him.
He sat on a bench in the kitchen and began cutting and paring away. How the man did work,. and how the peelings and parings did fly!
But now there was a great noise above him. Fritzl jumped to his feet.
"That cow," he said, "she's sliding around right much up there on the roof. She might slip off and break her neck.-
Up on the roof went Fritzl once more, this time with loops of heavy rope. Now listen carefully, and I will tell you what he did with it. He took one end of the rope and tied it around the cow's middle. The other end of the rope he dropped down the chimney and this he pulled through the fireplace in the kitchen below.
And then? And then he took the end of the rope which was hanging out of the fireplace and tied it around his own middle with a good tight knot. That's what he did.
"Oh yo! Oh ho!" he chuckled. "That will keep the cow from falling off the roof." And he began to whistle as he went on with his work.
He heaped some sticks on the fireplace and set a big kettle of water over it.
"Na, na!" he said. "Things are going as they should at last, and we'll soon have a good big soup! Now I'll put the vegetables in the kettle—"
And that he did.
"And now I'll put in the bacon—"
And that he did too.
"And now I'll light the fire—"
But that he never did, for just then, with a bump and a thump, the cow slipped over the edge of the roof after all; and Fritzl- well, he was whisked up into the chimney and there he dan- gled, poor man, and couldn't get up and couldn't get down.
Before long, there came Liesi home from the fields with the water jug in her hand and the scythe over her shoulder.
But Hulla! Hui! What was that hanging over the edge of the roof? The cow? Yes, the cow, and half-choked she was, too, with her eyes bulging and her tongue hanging out.
Liesi lost no time. She took her scythe—and ritsch! rotsch!— the rope was cut, and there was the cow wobbling on her four legs, but alive and well, heaven be praised!
Now Liesi saw the garden with its gate wide open. There were the pigs and the goats and all the geese too. They were full to bursting, but the garden, alas! was empty.
Liesi walked on, and now what did she see? The churn upturned, and Kinndli there in the sun, stiff and sticky with dried cream and butter.
Liesi hurried on. There was Spitz-dog on the grass. He was full of sausages and looked none too well.
Liesi looked at the cellar. There was the cider all over the floor and halfway up the stairs besides.
Liesi looked in the kitchen. The floor! It was piled high with peelings and parings, and littered with dishes and pans.
At last Liesi saw the fireplace. Hu! Hulla! Hui! What was that in the soup-kettle? Two arms were waving, two legs were kicking, and a gurgle, bubbly and weak-like, was coming up out of the water.
"Na, na! What can this mean?" cried Liesi. She did not know (but we do—yes?) that when she saved the cow outside, something happened to Fritzl inside. Yes, yes, as soon as the cow's rope was cut, Fritzl, poor man, he dropped down the chimney and crash! splash! fell right into the kettle of soup in the fireplace.
Liesi lost no time. She pulled at the two arms and tugged at the two legs—and there, dripping and spluttering, with a cabbage-leaf in his hair, celery in his pocket, and a sprig of parsley over one ear, was her Fritzl.
"Na, na, my man!" said Liesi. "Is that the way you keep house —yes?"
"Oh Liesi, Liesi!" sputtered Fritzl. "You're right—that work of yours, 'tis none too easy."
" 'Tis a little hard at first," said Liesi, "but tomorrow, maybe, you'll do better."
"Nay, nay!" cried Fritzl. "What's gone is gone, and so is my housework from this day on. Please, please, my Liesi—let me go back to my work in the fields, and never more will I say that my work is harder than yours."
"Well then," said Liesi, "if that's how it is, we surely can live in peace and happiness for ever and ever."
And that they did.
A r c h i
01-08-2008, 01:33
An Ant was speeding along on its three pair of legs when suddenly, it stopped.
"I'm thirsty," the Ant said aloud.
"Why don't you get a drink of water from the brook?" cooed a Dove perched in a nearby tree. "The brook is close by. Just be careful you don't fall in."
The Ant sped to the brook and began to drink.
A sudden wind blew the Ant into the water.
"Help!" the Ant cried, "I'm drowning!"
The Dove knew it had to act quickly to save the Ant. With its beak, the Dove broke a twig from the tree. Then, the Dove flew over the brook with the twig and dropped it to the Ant.
The Ant climbed onto the twig and Boated ashore.
Not long afterward, the Ant saw a Hunter. He was setting a trap to catch the Dove.
The Dove began to fly toward the trap.
The Ant knew it had to act quickly to save the Dove.
The Ant opened its strong jaws and bit the bare ankle of the Hunter.
"Ouch!" the Hunter cried.
The Dove heard the Hunter and flew away.
One good turn deserves another.
"I'm thirsty," the Ant said aloud.
"Why don't you get a drink of water from the brook?" cooed a Dove perched in a nearby tree. "The brook is close by. Just be careful you don't fall in."
The Ant sped to the brook and began to drink.
A sudden wind blew the Ant into the water.
"Help!" the Ant cried, "I'm drowning!"
The Dove knew it had to act quickly to save the Ant. With its beak, the Dove broke a twig from the tree. Then, the Dove flew over the brook with the twig and dropped it to the Ant.
The Ant climbed onto the twig and Boated ashore.
Not long afterward, the Ant saw a Hunter. He was setting a trap to catch the Dove.
The Dove began to fly toward the trap.
The Ant knew it had to act quickly to save the Dove.
The Ant opened its strong jaws and bit the bare ankle of the Hunter.
"Ouch!" the Hunter cried.
The Dove heard the Hunter and flew away.
One good turn deserves another.
A r c h i
03-08-2008, 12:34
Many years ago there was an Emperor who was so excessively fond of new clothes that he spent all his money on them. He cared nothing about his soldiers or for the theater, or for driving in the woods, except for the sake of showing off his new clothes. He had a costume for every hour in the day. Instead of saying, as one does about any other King or Emperor, "He is in his council chamber," the people here always said, "The Emperor is in his dressing room."
Life was very gay in the great town where he lived. Hosts of strangers came to visit it, and among them one day were two swindlers. They gave themselves out as weavers and said that they knew how to weave the most beautiful fabrics imaginable. Not only were the colors and patterns unusually fine, but the clothes that were made of this cloth had the peculiar quality of becoming invisible to every person who was not fit for the office he held, or who was impossibly dull.
"Those must be splendid clothes," thought the Emperor. "By wearing them I should be able to discover which men in my
kingdom are unfitted for their posts. I shall be able to tell the wise men from the fools. Yes, I certainly must order some of that stuff to be woven for me."
The Emperor paid the two swindlers a lot of money in advance, so that they might begin their work at once.
They did put up two looms and pretended to weave, but they had nothing whatever upon their shuttles. At the outset they asked for a quantity of the finest silk and the purest gold thread, all of which they put into their own bags while they worked away at the empty looms far into the night.
"I should like to know how those weavers are getting on with their cloth," thought the Emperor, but he felt a little queer when he reflected that anyone who was stupid or unfit for his post would not be able to see it. He certainly thought that he need have no fears for himself. Still he thought he would send somebody else first to see how the work was getting on. Everybody in the town knew what wonderful power the stuff possessed, and every one was anxious to see how stupid his neighbor was.
"I will send my faithful old minister to the weavers," thought the Emperor. "He will be best able to see how the stuff looks, for he is a clever man and no one fulfills his duties better than he does!"
So the good old minister went into the room where the two swindlers sat working at the empty loom.
"Heaven help us," thought the old minister, opening his eyes very wide. "Why, I can't see a thing!" But he took care not to say so.
Both the swindlers begged him to be good enough to step a little nearer. They asked if he did not think it a good pattern and beautiful coloring, and they pointed to the empty loom. The poor old minister stared as hard as he could, but he could not see anything, for of course there was nothing to see.
"Good heavens!" thought he. "Is it possible that I am a fool?
I have never thought so, and nobody must know it. Am I not fit for my post? It will never do to say that I cannot see the stuff."
"Well, sir, you don't say anything about the stuff," said the one who was pretending to weave.
"Oh, it is beautiful! Quite charming," said the minister, looking through his spectacles. "Such a pattern and such colors! I will certainly tell the Emperor that the stuff pleases me very much."
"We are delighted to hear you say so," said the swindlers, and then they named all the colors and described the peculiar pattern. The old minister paid close attention to what they said, so as to be able to repeat it when he got home to the Emperor.
Then the swindlers went on to demand more money, more silk, and more gold, to be able to proceed with the weaving. They put it all into their own pockets. Not a single strand was ever put into the loom. But they went on as before, pretending to weave at the empty loom.
The Emperor soon sent another faithful official to see how the stuff was getting on and if it would soon be ready. The same thing happened to him as to the minister. He looked
and looked, but as there was only the empty loom, he could see nothing at all.
"Is not this a beautiful piece of stuff?" said both the swindlers, showing and explaining the beautiful pattern and colors which were not there to be seen.
"I know I am no fool," thought the man, "so it must be that I am unfit for my good post. It is very strange, but I must not let on." So he praised the stuff he did not see, and assured the swindlers of his delight in the beautiful colors and the originality of the design. "It is absolutely charming!" he said to the Emperor.
Everybody in the town was now talking about this splendid stuff, and the Emperor thought he would like to see it while it was still on the loom. So, accompanied by a number of selected courtiers, among whom were the two faithful officials who had already seen the imaginary stuff, he went to visit the crafty im]postors. They were working away as hard as ever they could at the empty loom.
"It is magnificent!" said both the honest officials. "Only see, Your Majesty, what a design! What colors!" And they pointed to the empty loom, for they each thought the others could see the stuff.
"What!" thought the Emperor. "I see nothing at all. This is terrible! Am I a fool? Am I not fit to be Emperor? Why, nothing worse could happen to me!
"Oh, it is beautiful," said the Emperor. "It has my highest approval." He nodded his satisfaction as he gazed at the empty loom. Nothing would induce him to say that he could not see anything.
The whole suite gazed and gazed, but saw nothing more than all the others. However, they all exclaimed with His Majesty, "It is very beautiful!" They advised him to wear a suit made of this wonderful cloth on the occasion of a great procession which was just about to take place. "Magnificent! Gorgeous! Excellent!"
went from mouth to mouth. They were all equally delighted with it. The Emperor gave each of the weavers 'an order of knighthood to be worn in his buttonhole and the title of "Gentleman Weaver."
The swindlers sat up the whole night before the day on which the procession was to take place. They burned sixteen candles, so that people might see how anxious they were to get the Emperor's new clothes ready. They pretended to take the stuff off the loom. They cut it out in the air with a huge pair of scissors, and they stitched away with needles without any thread in them.
At last they said, "Now the Emperor's new clothes are ready. The Emperor, with his grandest courtiers, went to them himself. Both the swindlers raised one arm in the air, as if they were holding something. They said, "See, these are the trousers. This is the coat. Here is the mantle," and so on. "They are as light as a spider's web. One might think one had nothing on, but that is the very beauty of it.
"Yes," said all the courtiers, but they could not see anything, for there was nothing to see.
"Will Your Imperial Majesty be graciously pleased to take off your clothes?" said the impostors. "Then we may put on the new ones, along here before the great mirror."
The Emperor took off all his clothes, and the impostors pretended to give him one article of dress after the other of the new clothes which they had pretended to make. They pretended to fasten something around his waist and to tie on something. This was the train. The Emperor turned round and round in front of the mirror.
"How well His Majesty looks in the new clothes! How becom¬ing they are!" cried all the people. "What a design, and what colors! They are most gorgeous robes!"
"The canopy is waiting outside which is to be carried over
Your Majesty in the procession," said the master of ceremonies.
"Well, I am quite ready,- said the Emperor. "Don't the clothes fit well?" Then he turned round again in front of the mirror, so that he should seem to be looking at his grand things.
The chamberlains who were to carry the train stooped and pretended to lift it from the ground with both hands, and they walked along with their hands in the air. They dared not let it appear that they could not see anything.
Then the Emperor walked along in the procession under the gorgeous canopy, and everybody in the streets and at the windows exclaimed, "How beautiful the Emperor's new clothes are! What a splendid train! And they fit to perfection!" Nobody would let it appear that he could see nothing, for that would prove that he was not fit for his post, or else he was a fool. None of the Emperor's clothes had been so successful before.
"But he has nothing on," said a little child.
"Oh, listen to the innocent," said its father. And one person whispered to the other what the child had said. "He has nothing on—a child says he has nothing on!"
"But he has nothing on!" at last cried all the people.
The Emperor writhed, for he knew it was true. But he thought, "The procession must go on now." So he held himself stiffer than ever, and the chamberlains held up the invisible train.
Life was very gay in the great town where he lived. Hosts of strangers came to visit it, and among them one day were two swindlers. They gave themselves out as weavers and said that they knew how to weave the most beautiful fabrics imaginable. Not only were the colors and patterns unusually fine, but the clothes that were made of this cloth had the peculiar quality of becoming invisible to every person who was not fit for the office he held, or who was impossibly dull.
"Those must be splendid clothes," thought the Emperor. "By wearing them I should be able to discover which men in my
kingdom are unfitted for their posts. I shall be able to tell the wise men from the fools. Yes, I certainly must order some of that stuff to be woven for me."
The Emperor paid the two swindlers a lot of money in advance, so that they might begin their work at once.
They did put up two looms and pretended to weave, but they had nothing whatever upon their shuttles. At the outset they asked for a quantity of the finest silk and the purest gold thread, all of which they put into their own bags while they worked away at the empty looms far into the night.
"I should like to know how those weavers are getting on with their cloth," thought the Emperor, but he felt a little queer when he reflected that anyone who was stupid or unfit for his post would not be able to see it. He certainly thought that he need have no fears for himself. Still he thought he would send somebody else first to see how the work was getting on. Everybody in the town knew what wonderful power the stuff possessed, and every one was anxious to see how stupid his neighbor was.
"I will send my faithful old minister to the weavers," thought the Emperor. "He will be best able to see how the stuff looks, for he is a clever man and no one fulfills his duties better than he does!"
So the good old minister went into the room where the two swindlers sat working at the empty loom.
"Heaven help us," thought the old minister, opening his eyes very wide. "Why, I can't see a thing!" But he took care not to say so.
Both the swindlers begged him to be good enough to step a little nearer. They asked if he did not think it a good pattern and beautiful coloring, and they pointed to the empty loom. The poor old minister stared as hard as he could, but he could not see anything, for of course there was nothing to see.
"Good heavens!" thought he. "Is it possible that I am a fool?
I have never thought so, and nobody must know it. Am I not fit for my post? It will never do to say that I cannot see the stuff."
"Well, sir, you don't say anything about the stuff," said the one who was pretending to weave.
"Oh, it is beautiful! Quite charming," said the minister, looking through his spectacles. "Such a pattern and such colors! I will certainly tell the Emperor that the stuff pleases me very much."
"We are delighted to hear you say so," said the swindlers, and then they named all the colors and described the peculiar pattern. The old minister paid close attention to what they said, so as to be able to repeat it when he got home to the Emperor.
Then the swindlers went on to demand more money, more silk, and more gold, to be able to proceed with the weaving. They put it all into their own pockets. Not a single strand was ever put into the loom. But they went on as before, pretending to weave at the empty loom.
The Emperor soon sent another faithful official to see how the stuff was getting on and if it would soon be ready. The same thing happened to him as to the minister. He looked
and looked, but as there was only the empty loom, he could see nothing at all.
"Is not this a beautiful piece of stuff?" said both the swindlers, showing and explaining the beautiful pattern and colors which were not there to be seen.
"I know I am no fool," thought the man, "so it must be that I am unfit for my good post. It is very strange, but I must not let on." So he praised the stuff he did not see, and assured the swindlers of his delight in the beautiful colors and the originality of the design. "It is absolutely charming!" he said to the Emperor.
Everybody in the town was now talking about this splendid stuff, and the Emperor thought he would like to see it while it was still on the loom. So, accompanied by a number of selected courtiers, among whom were the two faithful officials who had already seen the imaginary stuff, he went to visit the crafty im]postors. They were working away as hard as ever they could at the empty loom.
"It is magnificent!" said both the honest officials. "Only see, Your Majesty, what a design! What colors!" And they pointed to the empty loom, for they each thought the others could see the stuff.
"What!" thought the Emperor. "I see nothing at all. This is terrible! Am I a fool? Am I not fit to be Emperor? Why, nothing worse could happen to me!
"Oh, it is beautiful," said the Emperor. "It has my highest approval." He nodded his satisfaction as he gazed at the empty loom. Nothing would induce him to say that he could not see anything.
The whole suite gazed and gazed, but saw nothing more than all the others. However, they all exclaimed with His Majesty, "It is very beautiful!" They advised him to wear a suit made of this wonderful cloth on the occasion of a great procession which was just about to take place. "Magnificent! Gorgeous! Excellent!"
went from mouth to mouth. They were all equally delighted with it. The Emperor gave each of the weavers 'an order of knighthood to be worn in his buttonhole and the title of "Gentleman Weaver."
The swindlers sat up the whole night before the day on which the procession was to take place. They burned sixteen candles, so that people might see how anxious they were to get the Emperor's new clothes ready. They pretended to take the stuff off the loom. They cut it out in the air with a huge pair of scissors, and they stitched away with needles without any thread in them.
At last they said, "Now the Emperor's new clothes are ready. The Emperor, with his grandest courtiers, went to them himself. Both the swindlers raised one arm in the air, as if they were holding something. They said, "See, these are the trousers. This is the coat. Here is the mantle," and so on. "They are as light as a spider's web. One might think one had nothing on, but that is the very beauty of it.
"Yes," said all the courtiers, but they could not see anything, for there was nothing to see.
"Will Your Imperial Majesty be graciously pleased to take off your clothes?" said the impostors. "Then we may put on the new ones, along here before the great mirror."
The Emperor took off all his clothes, and the impostors pretended to give him one article of dress after the other of the new clothes which they had pretended to make. They pretended to fasten something around his waist and to tie on something. This was the train. The Emperor turned round and round in front of the mirror.
"How well His Majesty looks in the new clothes! How becom¬ing they are!" cried all the people. "What a design, and what colors! They are most gorgeous robes!"
"The canopy is waiting outside which is to be carried over
Your Majesty in the procession," said the master of ceremonies.
"Well, I am quite ready,- said the Emperor. "Don't the clothes fit well?" Then he turned round again in front of the mirror, so that he should seem to be looking at his grand things.
The chamberlains who were to carry the train stooped and pretended to lift it from the ground with both hands, and they walked along with their hands in the air. They dared not let it appear that they could not see anything.
Then the Emperor walked along in the procession under the gorgeous canopy, and everybody in the streets and at the windows exclaimed, "How beautiful the Emperor's new clothes are! What a splendid train! And they fit to perfection!" Nobody would let it appear that he could see nothing, for that would prove that he was not fit for his post, or else he was a fool. None of the Emperor's clothes had been so successful before.
"But he has nothing on," said a little child.
"Oh, listen to the innocent," said its father. And one person whispered to the other what the child had said. "He has nothing on—a child says he has nothing on!"
"But he has nothing on!" at last cried all the people.
The Emperor writhed, for he knew it was true. But he thought, "The procession must go on now." So he held himself stiffer than ever, and the chamberlains held up the invisible train.
A r c h i
03-08-2008, 12:34
People from many lands live on the island of Trinidad. If you lived there, your friends and neighbors might be Negro, East Indian, European, or Chinese.
There are five streams flowing near the village in Trini-dad where Sam lived when he was a little boy. People used the crystal-clear water for all purposes.
Those five streams were as much a part of the village as the huts and the people and the tracks they called streets. That was why the settlement was known as Five Rivers.
At that time, they didn't have any school or police station or electric lights. Sam used to walk about five miles to the nearest school, carrying homemade bread and salted fish in his satchel to eat for lunch.
Every morning Sam waited for Popo, the little Indian boy who was his best friend. Sam was nine years old and Popo was seven, and because he was smaller than Sam, Sam used to make Popo carry his books for him. Many times Popo argued with Sam about this, but in the end Sam usually got his way when he promised to allow Popo to play with him and the older boys at school.
Until school closed for the August holidays, the children didn't have much time to bother with what was going on in the village. Coming back from school that last day, Popo was full of excitement. He said to Sam, speaking in the kind of broken English they were used to, "Plenty holiday, we will have time to do plenty things."
"Plenty things, yes!" Sam told him, "but I warning you in front, that I don't want you hanging around me all the time. You still a little boy."
"I won't do anything." Popo held Sam's hand. "I just want to be with you, because you always doing brave things. And I getting big now."
Sam flung Popo's hand away. "Ah, you too small to have any sense, you always making noise, or starting to cry and say you want to go home."
"I promise you I won't make any noise." Popo walked backwards in front of Sam, so he could talk to Sam's face. And Popo continued walking that way as they went home, trying to convince Sam that he would be no trouble.
Well, to tell you the truth, Popo really wasn't. They hunted squirrels and birds, and bathed in the streams or went rambling in the bush. There were many things to do. One of their favorite pastimes was to tease More Lazy, but in his laziness he ignored them so much that they soon tired of that.
Popo was the only one who still found this amusing, perhaps because More Lazy was a coward and Popo could say or do anything to him without fear.
But it was Popo who caused Sam's greatest adventure that holiday. One morning Sam was going out to fish with some of the older boys when Popo ran up and drew him aside.
"I have a big secret!" he said.
"Ah," Sam said, "you never have any good ideas. I going to fish, and I don't want you to come."
"But listen, this is a good thing! Is to look for treasure!" "Treasure!" Sam said, "who would have treasure in Five Rivers, where everybody so poor?"
Popo was so excited that he kept jumping up and down.
"This is a good secret! More Lazy say that Jagroop have treasure! He say all we have to do is look for it!"
Everybody knew that Jagroop had hidden his money somewhere, but the trouble was to find out where. He boasted that no one would ever discover his hiding place, and this was taken up as a challenge. No one wanted to rob the old Indian, but saying they could never find his money was a dare that couldn't go unanswered.
"I ain't have no time for that," Sam said.
"And besides," Popo went on, "Jagroop have a mango tree in his garden. You ain't notice it? Is the only one that bearing now!"
Well, that was true, anyway. All the fruit trees in the valley were bare except for this one, which looked as if it had sucked all the life from the other trees, for it was in full fruit. From a distance, Sam and Popo could see the mangoes dangling on their stems.
Sam thought it was a better idea to go after Jagroop's mangoes than to fish, because it was the dry season, and the five streams around the village were mere trickles. So Sam decided to go, and of course Popo went with him.
They went up the hill. The dry leaves and twigs crackled like shells under their feet. There was no sign of Jagroop, and they managed to get behind his hut and right under the mango tree.
Sam hoisted Popo up and when he was safe in a fork of the tree, Sam went up after him. Soon they were feasting on the fruit.
They had filled their pockets with mangoes and were just about to climb down when Popo grabbed Sam's arm and pointed.
Below them the bushes were so thick they couldn't see anyone at first. Then they saw the bushes shake. It was Jagroop!
He was walking in a kind of half-crouch. With one hand he clutched a cutlass and tin to his chest while his other hand cleared the way of brambles. He stopped where one of the streams crawled through his land. Glancing around, he sat down on the bank, wet his cutlass, and began to sharpen it on a stone.
The boys could see him clearly now, and it appeared to them that he was only pretending, or "playing possum." For all the time he kept watching the bushes, like a deer which had smelt man but wasn't sure where he was. The boys were scared, for it looked as if Jagroop knew they were up in his mango tree, and it looked, too, the easy way he was sitting, that he was only waiting for them to climb down to give chase with his cutlass!
The boys scarcely dared breathe, and you can imagine what a state Popo was in! He was squeezing and relaxing his fingers on Sam's arm.
"You think he see us?" Popo's whisper was hot in Sam's ear.
"We just have to wait and see," Sam whispered back.
Half an hour passed. Jagroop was humming a Hindi song as he moved the cutlass to and fro on the stone. The cutlass must have been as sharp as a razor, yet he went on. He struck it lightly at a hanging bamboo leaf. Then he tested the blade again by shaving an inch or two of hair off his leg. That seemed to satisfy him, for he got up at last.
Near a large slab of rock which jutted out from the bank, he stood for a minute. Then muttering to himself, he gathered stones and dammed the thin trickle of water with them, digging earth from the bank and packing the wall. When the water ceased to flow, he began to dig in the bed of the stream itself.
The boys could see beads of perspiration glistening on Jagroop's dark skin as he dug and dug, stopping at sudden moments and cocking his head sideways as dry leaves rustled or a dove flew noisily in the bush.
Then Jagroop stopped digging and reached into the hole with his hands.
He brought out two tins and he sat down and opened them.
The sunlight fell on silver. Hundreds of shillings and half crowns. They glinted, and the boys heard them ring as Jagroop let them trickle through his fingers and fall back into the tins. They had never seen so much money in all their lives.
Now they knew why no one was able to discover Jagroop's hiding place. Who would have dreamed of digging in the bed of a flowing stream? Now, all the Indian had to do was bury the money, fill the hole firmly with stones and earth, and break the dam. The water would flow over the spot and keep his secret forever.
It was too good. It was too clever. Sam and Popo couldn't contain themselves. They were bursting to tell the secret.
Scrambling down the mango tree, they began to shout loudly to give themselves courage and, flinging mangoes left and right from their pockets, they ran down the hill to the village.
There are five streams flowing near the village in Trini-dad where Sam lived when he was a little boy. People used the crystal-clear water for all purposes.
Those five streams were as much a part of the village as the huts and the people and the tracks they called streets. That was why the settlement was known as Five Rivers.
At that time, they didn't have any school or police station or electric lights. Sam used to walk about five miles to the nearest school, carrying homemade bread and salted fish in his satchel to eat for lunch.
Every morning Sam waited for Popo, the little Indian boy who was his best friend. Sam was nine years old and Popo was seven, and because he was smaller than Sam, Sam used to make Popo carry his books for him. Many times Popo argued with Sam about this, but in the end Sam usually got his way when he promised to allow Popo to play with him and the older boys at school.
Until school closed for the August holidays, the children didn't have much time to bother with what was going on in the village. Coming back from school that last day, Popo was full of excitement. He said to Sam, speaking in the kind of broken English they were used to, "Plenty holiday, we will have time to do plenty things."
"Plenty things, yes!" Sam told him, "but I warning you in front, that I don't want you hanging around me all the time. You still a little boy."
"I won't do anything." Popo held Sam's hand. "I just want to be with you, because you always doing brave things. And I getting big now."
Sam flung Popo's hand away. "Ah, you too small to have any sense, you always making noise, or starting to cry and say you want to go home."
"I promise you I won't make any noise." Popo walked backwards in front of Sam, so he could talk to Sam's face. And Popo continued walking that way as they went home, trying to convince Sam that he would be no trouble.
Well, to tell you the truth, Popo really wasn't. They hunted squirrels and birds, and bathed in the streams or went rambling in the bush. There were many things to do. One of their favorite pastimes was to tease More Lazy, but in his laziness he ignored them so much that they soon tired of that.
Popo was the only one who still found this amusing, perhaps because More Lazy was a coward and Popo could say or do anything to him without fear.
But it was Popo who caused Sam's greatest adventure that holiday. One morning Sam was going out to fish with some of the older boys when Popo ran up and drew him aside.
"I have a big secret!" he said.
"Ah," Sam said, "you never have any good ideas. I going to fish, and I don't want you to come."
"But listen, this is a good thing! Is to look for treasure!" "Treasure!" Sam said, "who would have treasure in Five Rivers, where everybody so poor?"
Popo was so excited that he kept jumping up and down.
"This is a good secret! More Lazy say that Jagroop have treasure! He say all we have to do is look for it!"
Everybody knew that Jagroop had hidden his money somewhere, but the trouble was to find out where. He boasted that no one would ever discover his hiding place, and this was taken up as a challenge. No one wanted to rob the old Indian, but saying they could never find his money was a dare that couldn't go unanswered.
"I ain't have no time for that," Sam said.
"And besides," Popo went on, "Jagroop have a mango tree in his garden. You ain't notice it? Is the only one that bearing now!"
Well, that was true, anyway. All the fruit trees in the valley were bare except for this one, which looked as if it had sucked all the life from the other trees, for it was in full fruit. From a distance, Sam and Popo could see the mangoes dangling on their stems.
Sam thought it was a better idea to go after Jagroop's mangoes than to fish, because it was the dry season, and the five streams around the village were mere trickles. So Sam decided to go, and of course Popo went with him.
They went up the hill. The dry leaves and twigs crackled like shells under their feet. There was no sign of Jagroop, and they managed to get behind his hut and right under the mango tree.
Sam hoisted Popo up and when he was safe in a fork of the tree, Sam went up after him. Soon they were feasting on the fruit.
They had filled their pockets with mangoes and were just about to climb down when Popo grabbed Sam's arm and pointed.
Below them the bushes were so thick they couldn't see anyone at first. Then they saw the bushes shake. It was Jagroop!
He was walking in a kind of half-crouch. With one hand he clutched a cutlass and tin to his chest while his other hand cleared the way of brambles. He stopped where one of the streams crawled through his land. Glancing around, he sat down on the bank, wet his cutlass, and began to sharpen it on a stone.
The boys could see him clearly now, and it appeared to them that he was only pretending, or "playing possum." For all the time he kept watching the bushes, like a deer which had smelt man but wasn't sure where he was. The boys were scared, for it looked as if Jagroop knew they were up in his mango tree, and it looked, too, the easy way he was sitting, that he was only waiting for them to climb down to give chase with his cutlass!
The boys scarcely dared breathe, and you can imagine what a state Popo was in! He was squeezing and relaxing his fingers on Sam's arm.
"You think he see us?" Popo's whisper was hot in Sam's ear.
"We just have to wait and see," Sam whispered back.
Half an hour passed. Jagroop was humming a Hindi song as he moved the cutlass to and fro on the stone. The cutlass must have been as sharp as a razor, yet he went on. He struck it lightly at a hanging bamboo leaf. Then he tested the blade again by shaving an inch or two of hair off his leg. That seemed to satisfy him, for he got up at last.
Near a large slab of rock which jutted out from the bank, he stood for a minute. Then muttering to himself, he gathered stones and dammed the thin trickle of water with them, digging earth from the bank and packing the wall. When the water ceased to flow, he began to dig in the bed of the stream itself.
The boys could see beads of perspiration glistening on Jagroop's dark skin as he dug and dug, stopping at sudden moments and cocking his head sideways as dry leaves rustled or a dove flew noisily in the bush.
Then Jagroop stopped digging and reached into the hole with his hands.
He brought out two tins and he sat down and opened them.
The sunlight fell on silver. Hundreds of shillings and half crowns. They glinted, and the boys heard them ring as Jagroop let them trickle through his fingers and fall back into the tins. They had never seen so much money in all their lives.
Now they knew why no one was able to discover Jagroop's hiding place. Who would have dreamed of digging in the bed of a flowing stream? Now, all the Indian had to do was bury the money, fill the hole firmly with stones and earth, and break the dam. The water would flow over the spot and keep his secret forever.
It was too good. It was too clever. Sam and Popo couldn't contain themselves. They were bursting to tell the secret.
Scrambling down the mango tree, they began to shout loudly to give themselves courage and, flinging mangoes left and right from their pockets, they ran down the hill to the village.
A r c h i
03-08-2008, 12:36
Nearly half the people in Poland are farmers. The farming villages are small, and few have so much as a movie theater. You can imagine, then, how excited Celka was when she heard that a movie was to be shown at the firehouse.
Celka lived with Grandma in a house at the very edge of the village. There were only fields beyond the house, and beyond the fields, a blue ribbon of trees.
In order to reach the center of the village where the store and the firehouse are, you have to walk behind the barn that leaks, go past four green cabbage beds and the water pump that squeaks, follow the edge of the meadow to a pond for ducks, cross a bridge, and then turn left behind some beehives. Only then will you see the store and the firehouse. Are they near or far? Well, let's see!
Celka did not like it very much when Grandma sent her to the store. She often made excuses whenever they needed salt, sugar, or soap. And Grandma, whether she liked it or not, had to go to the store herself.
Today, Grandma was very tired. She had a lot more work to do, and there was no salt in the house.
"Celka, go to the store and fetch some salt. We don't even have a pinch!"
"Oh, Grandma, it is so far," complained the little girl. "You have to walk behind the barn that leaks, go past four green cabbage beds and the water pump that squeaks, follow the edge of the meadow to a pond for ducks, cross a bridge, and then turn left behind some beehives. All that, before you get to the store. It's so far, so far, Grandma! I'll never get there. My feet hurt already!"
"All right, what can we do instead?" asked Grandma. "If you don't go, I guess we'll just eat supper without salt."
Maybe Celka would not have gone to the store this time if her black dog, Zuczek, had not barked and grabbed her apron. Maybe he was angry because she did not want to play with him. Maybe he was urging her to go for a walk with him.
Celka dragged her feet past the barn that leaked, the cabbage patch, and the pump that squeaked. Then she came to the edge of the meadow. After she had walked for nearly a mile, she stopped on the bridge to look at the stream below and the sky above. Walking was something Celka did not enjoy.
Zuczek had followed her. He jumped and barked gaily when he caught up with her.
"Why are you so happy, silly dog?" wondered Celka. "Your feet probably don't hurt the way mine do."
Celka finally arrived at the store and bought the salt. On the way back home, she met three girls, Basia, Kasia, and Sabinka.
"You know, Celka," said Basia, "this afternoon there's going to be a movie at the firehouse. The firemen are arranging the benches right now. Anyone can come and see the movie."
"Me too?" asked Celka.
"Of course, you too. But you should go there right away. The movie starts soon."
Without even saying good-by to the girls, Celka ran home. Zuczek ran after her, barking loudly.
"Here is the salt, Grandma," said the girl, a little out of breath. Then, quickly, "Please let me go to the village once more. They are going to have a movie at the firehouse this afternoon."
"Really," said Grandma. "And your feet won't hurt? The firehouse is next to the store, and that is very far away."
"Oh, what are you saying, Grandma?" protested Celka. "It's near. You only have to walk behind the barn that leaks, pass four green cabbage beds and the water pump that squeaks, follow the edge of the meadow to a pond for ducks, cross the bridge, and turn left behind some beehives, and you are at the firehouse. It's not far at all!"
"All right, all right, you can go," Grandma said.
Celka ran out of the house followed by Mruczek, the cat. Mruczek was lazy. He liked to lie in the sun or sit by the warm stove. Therefore, Celka wondered why Mruczek suddenly wanted to go for a walk.
"Mruczek, let's go faster! Or maybe your feet hurt?"
The cat looked at the path, then sat down near the gate, curled up, and fell asleep. In the meantime, Celka ran toward the village. She ran very fast, kicking up her heels, her pigtails flying.
In a flash she was past the barn that leaks and the four green cabbage beds. The water pump squeaked and the girl sang. She followed the edge of the meadow to the pond for ducks, crossed the bridge, and then turned left behind the beehives.
Basia, Kasia, and Sabinka were sitting in the firehouse when Celka arrived. The movie started right away.
When it was over, Celka returned home and said, "You know what I am thinking, Grandma?"
"You want to see the movie again," guessed Grandma.
"No, I wasn't thinking about that. I was wondering whether the firehouse and the store are near or far from our house."
"Yes, indeed," nodded Grandma, "are they near or far? What did you decide?"
Celka thought for a while. Then she said, "uczek followed me to the store. He ran and barked and jumped. He wanted to go to the store with me. Mruczek only got as far as the gate when he meowed and complained and fell asleep. For Zuczek it was a short way, but for Mruczek the way was too long. For me? Sometimes it's long and sometimes it's short."
Celka lived with Grandma in a house at the very edge of the village. There were only fields beyond the house, and beyond the fields, a blue ribbon of trees.
In order to reach the center of the village where the store and the firehouse are, you have to walk behind the barn that leaks, go past four green cabbage beds and the water pump that squeaks, follow the edge of the meadow to a pond for ducks, cross a bridge, and then turn left behind some beehives. Only then will you see the store and the firehouse. Are they near or far? Well, let's see!
Celka did not like it very much when Grandma sent her to the store. She often made excuses whenever they needed salt, sugar, or soap. And Grandma, whether she liked it or not, had to go to the store herself.
Today, Grandma was very tired. She had a lot more work to do, and there was no salt in the house.
"Celka, go to the store and fetch some salt. We don't even have a pinch!"
"Oh, Grandma, it is so far," complained the little girl. "You have to walk behind the barn that leaks, go past four green cabbage beds and the water pump that squeaks, follow the edge of the meadow to a pond for ducks, cross a bridge, and then turn left behind some beehives. All that, before you get to the store. It's so far, so far, Grandma! I'll never get there. My feet hurt already!"
"All right, what can we do instead?" asked Grandma. "If you don't go, I guess we'll just eat supper without salt."
Maybe Celka would not have gone to the store this time if her black dog, Zuczek, had not barked and grabbed her apron. Maybe he was angry because she did not want to play with him. Maybe he was urging her to go for a walk with him.
Celka dragged her feet past the barn that leaked, the cabbage patch, and the pump that squeaked. Then she came to the edge of the meadow. After she had walked for nearly a mile, she stopped on the bridge to look at the stream below and the sky above. Walking was something Celka did not enjoy.
Zuczek had followed her. He jumped and barked gaily when he caught up with her.
"Why are you so happy, silly dog?" wondered Celka. "Your feet probably don't hurt the way mine do."
Celka finally arrived at the store and bought the salt. On the way back home, she met three girls, Basia, Kasia, and Sabinka.
"You know, Celka," said Basia, "this afternoon there's going to be a movie at the firehouse. The firemen are arranging the benches right now. Anyone can come and see the movie."
"Me too?" asked Celka.
"Of course, you too. But you should go there right away. The movie starts soon."
Without even saying good-by to the girls, Celka ran home. Zuczek ran after her, barking loudly.
"Here is the salt, Grandma," said the girl, a little out of breath. Then, quickly, "Please let me go to the village once more. They are going to have a movie at the firehouse this afternoon."
"Really," said Grandma. "And your feet won't hurt? The firehouse is next to the store, and that is very far away."
"Oh, what are you saying, Grandma?" protested Celka. "It's near. You only have to walk behind the barn that leaks, pass four green cabbage beds and the water pump that squeaks, follow the edge of the meadow to a pond for ducks, cross the bridge, and turn left behind some beehives, and you are at the firehouse. It's not far at all!"
"All right, all right, you can go," Grandma said.
Celka ran out of the house followed by Mruczek, the cat. Mruczek was lazy. He liked to lie in the sun or sit by the warm stove. Therefore, Celka wondered why Mruczek suddenly wanted to go for a walk.
"Mruczek, let's go faster! Or maybe your feet hurt?"
The cat looked at the path, then sat down near the gate, curled up, and fell asleep. In the meantime, Celka ran toward the village. She ran very fast, kicking up her heels, her pigtails flying.
In a flash she was past the barn that leaks and the four green cabbage beds. The water pump squeaked and the girl sang. She followed the edge of the meadow to the pond for ducks, crossed the bridge, and then turned left behind the beehives.
Basia, Kasia, and Sabinka were sitting in the firehouse when Celka arrived. The movie started right away.
When it was over, Celka returned home and said, "You know what I am thinking, Grandma?"
"You want to see the movie again," guessed Grandma.
"No, I wasn't thinking about that. I was wondering whether the firehouse and the store are near or far from our house."
"Yes, indeed," nodded Grandma, "are they near or far? What did you decide?"
Celka thought for a while. Then she said, "uczek followed me to the store. He ran and barked and jumped. He wanted to go to the store with me. Mruczek only got as far as the gate when he meowed and complained and fell asleep. For Zuczek it was a short way, but for Mruczek the way was too long. For me? Sometimes it's long and sometimes it's short."
A r c h i
03-08-2008, 12:37
Marmots have fat bodies, short bushy tails, and tiny ears. They eat plants. They live in the ground under piles of loose rocks on the slopes of mountains.
Little Raimund, whom everyone called "Raimi," sat in the velvety green grass and looked after Farmer Holz's sheep. The sheep, quietly grazing, were no trouble at all. Once in a while a big stone rolled down the mountainside with a loud "pjuuu, pjuuu, pjuuu." Then the frightened sheep scattered in all directions. But they soon came back. Raimi looked after the sheep every day from early morning till nightfall. But he was never bored. In these mountains, no matter where he looked, there was something interesting to see.
For instance, he could see piles of stones under which fat, brown marmots built their caves. Sometimes the marmots came out and wrestled with one another or sat on their hind legs nibbling the juicy grass. But as soon as Raimi moved toward them to get a better look, they disappeared into their caves.
One lovely summer morning, Raimi lay in the grass watching the marmots. How he wished he had a pair of shiny black binoculars like those his friend the forest ranger wore around his neck. Every time the forest ranger let Raimi look through the binoculars, Raimi was amazed at how close faraway things could look. If he had binoculars he really could get a close look at the marmots. But there was no use in even thinking about it. To buy binoculars, Raimi would have to save all the money Farmer Holz paid him for three years.
Suddenly the marmots began to make loud, piercing sounds such as Raimi had never heard before. He was startled out of his daydream. Faster than he could blink an eye, the marmots disappeared into their caves.
Raimi saw an enormous gray-brown shadow swoop down over the exact spot where the marmots had been only a moment ago. He jumped to his feet and began to wave his arms while he shouted as loudly as he could. Now he saw what had frightened the marmots. A golden eagle soared above him. Raimi's shouting and arm waving drove it away. The eagle circled a few times and then disappeared behind a mountain peak.
In his bare feet, the soles of which were as tough as leather from walking barefooted all summer, Raimi ran over stones and pebbles to the marmots' caves. There, on a pile of stones, lay a tiny, bloody bundle, too hurt to run away.
For the first time, Raimi got a real close look at a marmot. This one was very small, hardly as big as a young rabbit. The marmot looked at Raimi with anxious black eyes, and bared its teeth. Quickly, Raimi wrapped it in his handkerchief and, as fast as he could, he ran to the farmhouse.
When the stable boy saw the injured marmot, he said to Raimi, "You had better kill it."
Raimi was furious. "I'll make it well, you blockhead," he shouted, and ran on.
In an old basket, Raimi made a nest of hay and put the marmot into it. Then he fed the marmot warm milk. And wonder of wonders, after two weeks, the marmot was completely well.
At night, the marmot slept at the foot of Raimi's straw bed. Mornings, Raimi took the marmot with him when he went to watch his sheep. There, in the pasture, the marmot feasted on the juicy green grass. Raimi gave it as much warm milk as it wanted and some bread and grains of white corn. Once in a while on Sundays, Raimi gave it a piece of raisin cake.
By the time autumn appeared, the marmot was half-grown and very lively. It wandered about the house nibbling on chair legs and table legs. It gnawed holes in the farmer's boots. It even ate the strings of the maid's apron.
One day after the marmot had torn a hole in the big puffed-up feather bed, the farmer's wife said, "Tomorrow, you must lock it up in the rabbit hutch."
Raimi was miserable. All night, he lay awake thinking. What should he do? He simply could not bring himself to put his marmot into a cage with rabbits. Finally, he had an idea.
Early the next morning, long before anyone else was awake, Raimi carried his marmot out of the house. First he climbed to the sheep pasture, now a pale misty gray in the first light of morning. Then, he climbed still higher till, in the rocky side of the mountain, he found an empty cave. There, his marmot would be safe from the teeth of wild marmots.
Raimi set his marmot free. It scampered into the cave and began to burrow deeper and deeper. Soon it disappeared from sight. Sadly, Raimi returned home.
The next day Raimi visited the cave. He called to his marmot. But, already, it had become shy and watchful. It would not let Raimi come near it.
Not long afterward all the marmots crawled deep under the earth for the long sleep of winter.
It was not until late in April that they finally came out of the caves. Because he could not get close to them, Raimi was unable to see whether or not his marmot was among them. That made him sad.
One day the forest ranger came to the farmhouse for a short visit. "Raimi," he said, "I have something for you." He put a small, worn leather case on the table.
Hesitating, Raimi picked up the case. At first he couldn't believe his eyes—it was a pair of binoculars!
"I don't need these old things right now," said the forest ranger. "You can borrow them for a while to observe your marmots. You are a brave lad, and good to animals."
Raimi laughed out loud. He was so excited, he didn't know what to do first. Then he ran as fast as he could up the rocky slope above the sheep pasture and waited. Soon the marmots came out to eat and play. Raimi looked at them through the binoculars. There, apart from the others was his marmot! Even though they were quite faint, Raimi could see the scars that the eagle's claws had made on the marmot's back.
At that very moment, not even the richest man in the world could have been as happy as Raimi.
Little Raimund, whom everyone called "Raimi," sat in the velvety green grass and looked after Farmer Holz's sheep. The sheep, quietly grazing, were no trouble at all. Once in a while a big stone rolled down the mountainside with a loud "pjuuu, pjuuu, pjuuu." Then the frightened sheep scattered in all directions. But they soon came back. Raimi looked after the sheep every day from early morning till nightfall. But he was never bored. In these mountains, no matter where he looked, there was something interesting to see.
For instance, he could see piles of stones under which fat, brown marmots built their caves. Sometimes the marmots came out and wrestled with one another or sat on their hind legs nibbling the juicy grass. But as soon as Raimi moved toward them to get a better look, they disappeared into their caves.
One lovely summer morning, Raimi lay in the grass watching the marmots. How he wished he had a pair of shiny black binoculars like those his friend the forest ranger wore around his neck. Every time the forest ranger let Raimi look through the binoculars, Raimi was amazed at how close faraway things could look. If he had binoculars he really could get a close look at the marmots. But there was no use in even thinking about it. To buy binoculars, Raimi would have to save all the money Farmer Holz paid him for three years.
Suddenly the marmots began to make loud, piercing sounds such as Raimi had never heard before. He was startled out of his daydream. Faster than he could blink an eye, the marmots disappeared into their caves.
Raimi saw an enormous gray-brown shadow swoop down over the exact spot where the marmots had been only a moment ago. He jumped to his feet and began to wave his arms while he shouted as loudly as he could. Now he saw what had frightened the marmots. A golden eagle soared above him. Raimi's shouting and arm waving drove it away. The eagle circled a few times and then disappeared behind a mountain peak.
In his bare feet, the soles of which were as tough as leather from walking barefooted all summer, Raimi ran over stones and pebbles to the marmots' caves. There, on a pile of stones, lay a tiny, bloody bundle, too hurt to run away.
For the first time, Raimi got a real close look at a marmot. This one was very small, hardly as big as a young rabbit. The marmot looked at Raimi with anxious black eyes, and bared its teeth. Quickly, Raimi wrapped it in his handkerchief and, as fast as he could, he ran to the farmhouse.
When the stable boy saw the injured marmot, he said to Raimi, "You had better kill it."
Raimi was furious. "I'll make it well, you blockhead," he shouted, and ran on.
In an old basket, Raimi made a nest of hay and put the marmot into it. Then he fed the marmot warm milk. And wonder of wonders, after two weeks, the marmot was completely well.
At night, the marmot slept at the foot of Raimi's straw bed. Mornings, Raimi took the marmot with him when he went to watch his sheep. There, in the pasture, the marmot feasted on the juicy green grass. Raimi gave it as much warm milk as it wanted and some bread and grains of white corn. Once in a while on Sundays, Raimi gave it a piece of raisin cake.
By the time autumn appeared, the marmot was half-grown and very lively. It wandered about the house nibbling on chair legs and table legs. It gnawed holes in the farmer's boots. It even ate the strings of the maid's apron.
One day after the marmot had torn a hole in the big puffed-up feather bed, the farmer's wife said, "Tomorrow, you must lock it up in the rabbit hutch."
Raimi was miserable. All night, he lay awake thinking. What should he do? He simply could not bring himself to put his marmot into a cage with rabbits. Finally, he had an idea.
Early the next morning, long before anyone else was awake, Raimi carried his marmot out of the house. First he climbed to the sheep pasture, now a pale misty gray in the first light of morning. Then, he climbed still higher till, in the rocky side of the mountain, he found an empty cave. There, his marmot would be safe from the teeth of wild marmots.
Raimi set his marmot free. It scampered into the cave and began to burrow deeper and deeper. Soon it disappeared from sight. Sadly, Raimi returned home.
The next day Raimi visited the cave. He called to his marmot. But, already, it had become shy and watchful. It would not let Raimi come near it.
Not long afterward all the marmots crawled deep under the earth for the long sleep of winter.
It was not until late in April that they finally came out of the caves. Because he could not get close to them, Raimi was unable to see whether or not his marmot was among them. That made him sad.
One day the forest ranger came to the farmhouse for a short visit. "Raimi," he said, "I have something for you." He put a small, worn leather case on the table.
Hesitating, Raimi picked up the case. At first he couldn't believe his eyes—it was a pair of binoculars!
"I don't need these old things right now," said the forest ranger. "You can borrow them for a while to observe your marmots. You are a brave lad, and good to animals."
Raimi laughed out loud. He was so excited, he didn't know what to do first. Then he ran as fast as he could up the rocky slope above the sheep pasture and waited. Soon the marmots came out to eat and play. Raimi looked at them through the binoculars. There, apart from the others was his marmot! Even though they were quite faint, Raimi could see the scars that the eagle's claws had made on the marmot's back.
At that very moment, not even the richest man in the world could have been as happy as Raimi.
A r c h i
03-08-2008, 12:38
An elephant trainer, or mahout as he is known in India, teaches elephants to obey commands. When an elephant disobeys, the mahout pokes him with a stick that has a sharp metal point. But, as this story shows, everyone would do well to remember that there may be some truth in the old saying, "An elephant never forgets."
Everybody called him "Raja." It was not his real name but he liked being called "Raja." He lived with his Grandfather and Grandmother. They were his guardians. Raja's mother died when he was young. His father left Raja with his grandparents, who brought him up.
Grandfather was a tall, strong man. He always spoke in a loud voice. He knew everyone in the village. People respected him. They came to him for advice and help.
Grandmother was kind and gentle. She took good care of Raja. She would follow him like a shadow, saying, "Drink this milk" or "Eat your food" or "Have your bath" or "Go to bed." Raja did not like this, but still he loved his grandmother very much.
At home Raja did not have any friend to play with. Grandfather did not like Raja going out to play with other children. He believed that Raja would be spoiled if he did so. Other children did not like to come to the house because they were afraid of Grandfather.
Yet life with Grandfather was not dull. Raja liked his home and the very large garden all round it. There were many trees in the garden: coconut trees, mango trees, and other kinds of trees. There were birds, butterflies, and honeybees. There were many tanks, with plenty of fish in them. Kingfishers, storks, and other water birds came to the tanks to catch the fish.
In a corner of the compound was a grove, where trees, shrubs, and creepers grew wild. Jackals, mongooses, wildcats, and owls lived in the grove.
Raja's grandfather owned many cows, bulls, and bullocks. Little calves played and ran about in the garden.
Raja liked to play with the calves. He liked to watch the birds in the garden. He looked for jackals coming out of the grove. He ran after mongooses. He caught butterflies and reptiles.
Once Raja's grandparents had a big guest at home. It was Lakshmi, a young cow elephant. She belonged to a rich relative. The relative wanted Raja's grandparents to keep the elephant for some days. Grandfather did not like the idea very much. It was costly to feed an elephant, even a young elephant. But Grandfather could not refuse the request of a relative.
Raja was excited when he heard Lakshmi was coming. Raja asked people how he should welcome the elephant. Grandmother told him that elephants loved sugar cane and that he should keep some for Lakshmi.
One evening Lakshmi arrived with her mahout, Kittu. Everybody in the house came out to welcome her. She was a beautiful young elephant.
Kittu said, "She is young. She is hardly eight years old. She is intelligent and learns things quickly. She is very loving and likes to play with people."
Kittu said so many good things about Lakshmi that Raja thought Lakshmi could have been Kittu's own daughter.
Raja had a piece of sugar cane with him and he wanted to give it to Lakshmi. But he was afraid to go near her. Kittu saw Raja holding the sugar cane and took him near Lakshmi, saying, "She loves children." Raja offered the sugar cane to Lakshmi and she took it and ate it.
At night Lakshmi was chained to a tree in the courtyard. Raja sat there for a long time watching her. He would have remained there longer but Grandmother came out and said, "Now, Raja, you go to bed. You can watch the elephant in the morning."
Raja woke up early next morning and went out. Lakshmi saw him and she waved her trunk as if welcoming him. He was still afraid to go near the elephant. Lakshmi tried to come to Raja but she could not as she was chained to the tree.
Kittu came in the morning. He took Lakshmi out for a bath. Raja had never seen an elephant bathing. So he followed them to the tank. Lakshmi first went into the water alone. She played in the water. She took water in her trunk and poured it over her body several times.
Then Kittu went in and asked her to sit down. She filled her trunk again with water and looked at Kittu. Kittu said, "Don't, don't do it." But Lakshmi would not listen. She spouted all the water on Kittu.
Kittu did not get angry. He again asked Lakshmi to sit. But Lakshmi again filled her trunk with water. Now Kittu showed her his stick and warned her not to repeat
the mischief. This time Lakshmi did not pour water on him but threw it backward with force. Raja was standing just behind and the water fell all over him. It was great fun. Lakshmi was only playing.
Kittu pulled Lakshmi by the ear and ordered her to sit. She obeyed. He then scrubbed her with a piece of stone and cleaned her all over.
On the way back Kittu gave Raja a ride on Lakshmi. Raja was thrilled. When they reached home, Grandfather, Grandmother, and all the others were waiting outside to see Raja riding an elephant.
Kittu had told Raja that Lakshmi liked ripe bananas better than sugar cane. Raja waited for an opportunity to give her some. As soon as Grandfather was out, Raja quietly went to the cellar and took half of a huge bunch of ripe bananas. He took the bananas to Lakshmi. She ate them with great relish.
Later, Grandfather noticed that some of the bananas were missing. He asked everyone about it and found out that Raja had taken the bananas. Grandfather did not like anybody taking anything without his permission. He took a long cane and called Raja.
Raja knew Grandfather wanted to beat him. He ran. And Grandfather ran after him.
Lakshmi was not chained to the tree at that time. She saw Raja running and Grandfather chasing him. She immediately came to Raja's help. She rushed towards Grandfather with a wild cry.
Grandfather was very frightened. He turned back, ran into the house, and bolted the door. Raja went to Lakshmi and patted her.
After a while Grandfather came out, holding in his hand the other half of the banana bunch. He asked Raja to take it and give it to the elephant. Raja did so, and both Grandfather and Lakshmi were happy. So was Raja.
Everybody called him "Raja." It was not his real name but he liked being called "Raja." He lived with his Grandfather and Grandmother. They were his guardians. Raja's mother died when he was young. His father left Raja with his grandparents, who brought him up.
Grandfather was a tall, strong man. He always spoke in a loud voice. He knew everyone in the village. People respected him. They came to him for advice and help.
Grandmother was kind and gentle. She took good care of Raja. She would follow him like a shadow, saying, "Drink this milk" or "Eat your food" or "Have your bath" or "Go to bed." Raja did not like this, but still he loved his grandmother very much.
At home Raja did not have any friend to play with. Grandfather did not like Raja going out to play with other children. He believed that Raja would be spoiled if he did so. Other children did not like to come to the house because they were afraid of Grandfather.
Yet life with Grandfather was not dull. Raja liked his home and the very large garden all round it. There were many trees in the garden: coconut trees, mango trees, and other kinds of trees. There were birds, butterflies, and honeybees. There were many tanks, with plenty of fish in them. Kingfishers, storks, and other water birds came to the tanks to catch the fish.
In a corner of the compound was a grove, where trees, shrubs, and creepers grew wild. Jackals, mongooses, wildcats, and owls lived in the grove.
Raja's grandfather owned many cows, bulls, and bullocks. Little calves played and ran about in the garden.
Raja liked to play with the calves. He liked to watch the birds in the garden. He looked for jackals coming out of the grove. He ran after mongooses. He caught butterflies and reptiles.
Once Raja's grandparents had a big guest at home. It was Lakshmi, a young cow elephant. She belonged to a rich relative. The relative wanted Raja's grandparents to keep the elephant for some days. Grandfather did not like the idea very much. It was costly to feed an elephant, even a young elephant. But Grandfather could not refuse the request of a relative.
Raja was excited when he heard Lakshmi was coming. Raja asked people how he should welcome the elephant. Grandmother told him that elephants loved sugar cane and that he should keep some for Lakshmi.
One evening Lakshmi arrived with her mahout, Kittu. Everybody in the house came out to welcome her. She was a beautiful young elephant.
Kittu said, "She is young. She is hardly eight years old. She is intelligent and learns things quickly. She is very loving and likes to play with people."
Kittu said so many good things about Lakshmi that Raja thought Lakshmi could have been Kittu's own daughter.
Raja had a piece of sugar cane with him and he wanted to give it to Lakshmi. But he was afraid to go near her. Kittu saw Raja holding the sugar cane and took him near Lakshmi, saying, "She loves children." Raja offered the sugar cane to Lakshmi and she took it and ate it.
At night Lakshmi was chained to a tree in the courtyard. Raja sat there for a long time watching her. He would have remained there longer but Grandmother came out and said, "Now, Raja, you go to bed. You can watch the elephant in the morning."
Raja woke up early next morning and went out. Lakshmi saw him and she waved her trunk as if welcoming him. He was still afraid to go near the elephant. Lakshmi tried to come to Raja but she could not as she was chained to the tree.
Kittu came in the morning. He took Lakshmi out for a bath. Raja had never seen an elephant bathing. So he followed them to the tank. Lakshmi first went into the water alone. She played in the water. She took water in her trunk and poured it over her body several times.
Then Kittu went in and asked her to sit down. She filled her trunk again with water and looked at Kittu. Kittu said, "Don't, don't do it." But Lakshmi would not listen. She spouted all the water on Kittu.
Kittu did not get angry. He again asked Lakshmi to sit. But Lakshmi again filled her trunk with water. Now Kittu showed her his stick and warned her not to repeat
the mischief. This time Lakshmi did not pour water on him but threw it backward with force. Raja was standing just behind and the water fell all over him. It was great fun. Lakshmi was only playing.
Kittu pulled Lakshmi by the ear and ordered her to sit. She obeyed. He then scrubbed her with a piece of stone and cleaned her all over.
On the way back Kittu gave Raja a ride on Lakshmi. Raja was thrilled. When they reached home, Grandfather, Grandmother, and all the others were waiting outside to see Raja riding an elephant.
Kittu had told Raja that Lakshmi liked ripe bananas better than sugar cane. Raja waited for an opportunity to give her some. As soon as Grandfather was out, Raja quietly went to the cellar and took half of a huge bunch of ripe bananas. He took the bananas to Lakshmi. She ate them with great relish.
Later, Grandfather noticed that some of the bananas were missing. He asked everyone about it and found out that Raja had taken the bananas. Grandfather did not like anybody taking anything without his permission. He took a long cane and called Raja.
Raja knew Grandfather wanted to beat him. He ran. And Grandfather ran after him.
Lakshmi was not chained to the tree at that time. She saw Raja running and Grandfather chasing him. She immediately came to Raja's help. She rushed towards Grandfather with a wild cry.
Grandfather was very frightened. He turned back, ran into the house, and bolted the door. Raja went to Lakshmi and patted her.
After a while Grandfather came out, holding in his hand the other half of the banana bunch. He asked Raja to take it and give it to the elephant. Raja did so, and both Grandfather and Lakshmi were happy. So was Raja.
A r c h i
03-08-2008, 12:39
Far out in the deep Pacific Ocean lie the beautiful islands of Polynesia where people today still tell stories about Maui. They say he was part man and part god, born long ago with eight heads, and tossed into the sea by his mother who thought he was dead. They say the sea god saved Maui, who later lost seven of his heads. The head that remained was so full of tricks and magic that sometimes Maui angered the gods, and made people wonder what he would do next.
Before he brought the gift of fire to warm the people and to cook their food, they say he set the world on fire. They say he pushed up the sky so that people could stand instead of crawl. They say he lassoed the sun god and beat him with a club, forcing him to move more slowly across the sky so that people could have more time to plant and harvest.
They say he caught a giant fish at the bottom of the ocean, changed it into the islands of Tonga, Rakahanga, Hawaii, and the North Island of New Zealand, and placed them where they are today.
They say Maui did these things and a thousand more when he was fully grown, yet even as a boy, he played a magical trick that people still tell about.
On the island where Maui came to live with his mother and four older brothers, people could hear chirps and whistles. They could also hear the flutter of wings. But, they never saw any birds. Indeed, they did not even know such creatures lived.
Once, Maui's brothers asked, "Mother, who whistles and chirps as the sun comes up? Who fans the air and touches our cheeks so softly when we play in the forest?"
Their mother answered, "Perhaps the gods are pleased with my children, so they make pleasant sounds and caress you."
Maui grinned at his mother's answer, but said nothing. Of all the people on the island, Maui was the only one who could see and hear the birds. They were his only real friends, and for him they sang their sweetest songs.
One stormy day at sea, the winds swept ashore an outrigger canoe. It came from a faraway land. Aboard was a man who looked down his nose at the people, their clothes, and their houses. He even turned up his nose at their food.
"How unfortunate I was to be forced ashore on this miserable island," he complained. "In my country, the earth is greener. The sky is bluer. The people are better looking, and they are richer. We have fine houses and better food. How can you people live in such a dreadful place?"
He talked on and on about all the wonders to be found in his country. He made the people feel ashamed. They had nothing grand to show their guest; nothing that would please him or make them proud of their land.
Maui listened to the man until he could stand it no longer. He sped into the forest and called to the birds.
"My friends," he said, "I need your help to make the people as happy as they were before the stranger arrived on this island." "We will do whatever you wish," said the birds.
"Then follow me," said Maui. "When I clap my hands, sing as you have never sung before.
The birds lifted their wings with a great flutter and, flying overhead, followed Maui to the place where the people sat listening with lowered heads to the stranger.
Maui clapped his hands, making a sound as loud as thunder. At once, the birds began to sing in a chorus of thousands. The music was so unexpected, so thrilling, and so beautiful that the stranger stopped talking for the first time since his arrival. Even the people were surprised. Never before had they heard such melodies. They raised their heads and began to smile.
When the birds became silent, the stranger said, "I can see nothing around here that could possibly make such sounds. I have traveled in many lands but never have I heard anything to compare with what I've just heard. How proud I would be if I could say that such sounds could be heard in my country. Where did that wonderful music come from?"
Before anyone could answer, Maui leaped to the center of the gathering. He was determined that never again would the people be ashamed of their land. He raised his arms toward the sky and in a loud, clear voice that echoed for miles, he began to chant a magic command that only the birds understood.
Suddenly, all around them, the people saw feathered creatures flying and twirling, spinning and soaring, looping and dipping. They saw the creatures perched on every branch of every tree and on the thatched roof of every house—birds of colors as brilliant as the golden sun and the jeweled sea. Never had the people seen such color—red birds and yellow birds, blue birds and green birds, pink birds and purple birds. Everybody saw every bird there was to see on the island. Each bird warbled or whistled, chirped or chittered, singing as it flew, filling the air with music and color.
The people looked in awe at the birds, and then they looked in awe at Maui. Now they knew that he was more than a boy who liked to play tricks. He was surely part god. They whispered, "What a wonderful thing it is that Maui is one of us. If he can make such magic now, what will he do when he's fully grown?"
In the years that followed, Maui's many magical deeds gave them their answer.
Before he brought the gift of fire to warm the people and to cook their food, they say he set the world on fire. They say he pushed up the sky so that people could stand instead of crawl. They say he lassoed the sun god and beat him with a club, forcing him to move more slowly across the sky so that people could have more time to plant and harvest.
They say he caught a giant fish at the bottom of the ocean, changed it into the islands of Tonga, Rakahanga, Hawaii, and the North Island of New Zealand, and placed them where they are today.
They say Maui did these things and a thousand more when he was fully grown, yet even as a boy, he played a magical trick that people still tell about.
On the island where Maui came to live with his mother and four older brothers, people could hear chirps and whistles. They could also hear the flutter of wings. But, they never saw any birds. Indeed, they did not even know such creatures lived.
Once, Maui's brothers asked, "Mother, who whistles and chirps as the sun comes up? Who fans the air and touches our cheeks so softly when we play in the forest?"
Their mother answered, "Perhaps the gods are pleased with my children, so they make pleasant sounds and caress you."
Maui grinned at his mother's answer, but said nothing. Of all the people on the island, Maui was the only one who could see and hear the birds. They were his only real friends, and for him they sang their sweetest songs.
One stormy day at sea, the winds swept ashore an outrigger canoe. It came from a faraway land. Aboard was a man who looked down his nose at the people, their clothes, and their houses. He even turned up his nose at their food.
"How unfortunate I was to be forced ashore on this miserable island," he complained. "In my country, the earth is greener. The sky is bluer. The people are better looking, and they are richer. We have fine houses and better food. How can you people live in such a dreadful place?"
He talked on and on about all the wonders to be found in his country. He made the people feel ashamed. They had nothing grand to show their guest; nothing that would please him or make them proud of their land.
Maui listened to the man until he could stand it no longer. He sped into the forest and called to the birds.
"My friends," he said, "I need your help to make the people as happy as they were before the stranger arrived on this island." "We will do whatever you wish," said the birds.
"Then follow me," said Maui. "When I clap my hands, sing as you have never sung before.
The birds lifted their wings with a great flutter and, flying overhead, followed Maui to the place where the people sat listening with lowered heads to the stranger.
Maui clapped his hands, making a sound as loud as thunder. At once, the birds began to sing in a chorus of thousands. The music was so unexpected, so thrilling, and so beautiful that the stranger stopped talking for the first time since his arrival. Even the people were surprised. Never before had they heard such melodies. They raised their heads and began to smile.
When the birds became silent, the stranger said, "I can see nothing around here that could possibly make such sounds. I have traveled in many lands but never have I heard anything to compare with what I've just heard. How proud I would be if I could say that such sounds could be heard in my country. Where did that wonderful music come from?"
Before anyone could answer, Maui leaped to the center of the gathering. He was determined that never again would the people be ashamed of their land. He raised his arms toward the sky and in a loud, clear voice that echoed for miles, he began to chant a magic command that only the birds understood.
Suddenly, all around them, the people saw feathered creatures flying and twirling, spinning and soaring, looping and dipping. They saw the creatures perched on every branch of every tree and on the thatched roof of every house—birds of colors as brilliant as the golden sun and the jeweled sea. Never had the people seen such color—red birds and yellow birds, blue birds and green birds, pink birds and purple birds. Everybody saw every bird there was to see on the island. Each bird warbled or whistled, chirped or chittered, singing as it flew, filling the air with music and color.
The people looked in awe at the birds, and then they looked in awe at Maui. Now they knew that he was more than a boy who liked to play tricks. He was surely part god. They whispered, "What a wonderful thing it is that Maui is one of us. If he can make such magic now, what will he do when he's fully grown?"
In the years that followed, Maui's many magical deeds gave them their answer.
utopia1986
22-08-2008, 11:50
Little Brother™
By Bruce Holland Rogers
30 October 2000
Peter had wanted a Little Brother™ for three Christmases in a row. His favorite TV commercials were the ones that showed just how much fun he would have teaching Little Brother™ to do all the things that he could already do himself. But every year, Mommy had said that Peter wasn't ready for a Little Brother™. Until this year.
This year when Peter ran into the living room, there sat Little Brother™ among all the wrapped presents, babbling baby talk, smiling his happy smile, and patting one of the packages with his fat little hand. Peter was so excited that he ran up and gave Little Brother™ a big hug around the neck. That was how he found out about the button. Peter's hand pushed against something cold on Little Brother™'s neck, and suddenly Little Brother™ wasn't babbling any more, or even sitting up. Suddenly, Little Brother™ was limp on the floor, as lifeless as any ordinary doll.
"Peter!" Mommy said.
"I didn't mean to!"
Mommy picked up Little Brother™, sat him in her lap, and pressed the black button at the back of his neck. Little Brother™'s face came alive, and it wrinkled up as if he were about to cry, but Mommy bounced him on her knee and told him what a good boy he was. He didn't cry after all.
"Little Brother™ isn't like your other toys, Peter," Mommy said. "You have to be extra careful with him, as if he were a real baby." She put Little Brother™ down on the floor, and he took tottering baby steps toward Peter. "Why don't you let him help open your other presents?"
So that's what Peter did. He showed Little Brother™ how to tear the paper and open the boxes. The other toys were a fire engine, some talking books, a wagon, and lots and lots of wooden blocks. The fire engine was the second-best present. It had lights, a siren, and hoses that blew green gas just like the real thing. There weren't as many presents as last year, Mommy explained, because Little Brother™ was expensive. That was okay. Little Brother™ was the best present ever!
Well, that's what Peter thought at first. At first, everything that Little Brother™ did was funny and wonderful. Peter put all the torn wrapping paper in the wagon, and Little Brother™ took it out again and threw it on the floor. Peter started to read a talking book, and Little Brother™ came and turned the pages too fast for the book to keep up.
But then, while Mommy went to the kitchen to cook breakfast, Peter tried to show Little Brother™ how to build a very tall tower out of blocks. Little Brother™ wasn't interested in seeing a really tall tower. Every time Peter had a few blocks stacked up, Little Brother™ swatted the tower with his hand and laughed. Peter laughed, too, for the first time, and the second. But then he said, "Now watch this time. I'm going to make it really big."
But Little Brother™ didn't watch. The tower was only a few blocks tall when he knocked it down.
"No!" Peter said. He grabbed hold of Little Brother™'s arm. "Don't!"
Little Brother™'s face wrinkled. He was getting ready to cry.
Peter looked toward the kitchen and let go. "Don't cry," he said. "Look, I'm building another one! Watch me build it!"
Little Brother™ watched. Then he knocked the tower down.
Peter had an idea.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Mommy came into the living room again, Peter had built a tower that was taller than he was, the best tower he had ever made. "Look!" he said.
But Mommy didn't even look at the tower. "Peter!" She picked up Little Brother™, put him on her lap, and pressed the button to turn him back on. As soon as he was on, Little Brother™ started to scream. His face turned red.
"I didn't mean to!"
"Peter, I told you! He's not like your other toys. When you turn him off, he can't move but he can still see and hear. He can still feel. And it scares him."
"He was knocking down my blocks."
"Babies do things like that," Mommy said. "That's what it's like to have a baby brother."
Little Brother™ howled.
"He's mine," Peter said too quietly for Mommy to hear. But when Little Brother™ had calmed down, Mommy put him back on the floor and Peter let him toddle over and knock down the tower.
Mommy told Peter to clean up the wrapping paper, and she went back into the kitchen. Peter had already picked up the wrapping paper once, and she hadn't said thank you. She hadn't even noticed.
Peter wadded the paper into angry balls and threw them one at a time into the wagon until it was almost full. That's when Little Brother™ broke the fire engine. Peter turned just in time to see him lift the engine up over his head and let it drop.
"No!" Peter shouted. The windshield cracked and popped out as the fire engine hit the floor. Broken. Peter hadn't even played with it once, and his best Christmas present was broken.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later, when Mommy came into the living room, she didn't thank Peter for picking up all the wrapping paper. Instead, she scooped up Little Brother™ and turned him on again. He trembled and screeched louder than ever.
"My God! How long has he been off?" Mommy demanded.
"I don't like him!"
"Peter, it scares him! Listen to him!"
"I hate him! Take him back!"
"You are not to turn him off again. Ever!"
"He's mine!" Peter shouted. "He's mine and I can do what I want with him! He broke my fire engine!"
"He's a baby!"
"He's stupid! I hate him! Take him back!"
"You are going to learn to be nice with him."
"I'll turn him off if you don't take him back. I'll turn him off and hide him someplace where you can't find him!"
"Peter!" Mommy said, and she was angry. She was angrier than he'd ever seen her before. She put Little Brother™ down and took a step toward Peter. She would punish him. Peter didn't care. He was angry, too.
"I'll do it!" he yelled. "I'll turn him off and hide him someplace dark!"
"You'll do no such thing!" Mommy said. She grabbed his arm and spun him around. The spanking would come next.
But it didn't. Instead he felt her fingers searching for something at the back of his neck.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bruce Holland Rogers lives in Eugene, Oregon, and writes genre fiction and literary fiction. His stories have won two Nebula Awards, a Bram Stoker Award, and a Pushcart Prize. Rogers recently edited an anthology, Bedtime Stories to Darken Your Dreams (IFD Publishing). He has two short story collections due out this year: Wind Over Heaven (Wildside Press) and Flaming Arrows (IFD Publishing). Bruce's previous appearance in Strange Horizons was "Estranged." For more about him, see his Web site; for more about his work, see the Panisphere site.
Stan has traveled 29.3 kilometers from his home in Toronto to the home of his friend in a Mississauga high-rise. Before he gets out of his car, Stan puts on a surgical mask, leather gloves, and sunglasses.
Stan wears the mask because he is worried about Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, a disease which has a global case fatality rate of between seven and fifteen percent -- estimates vary. He is also worried about Ebola haemorrhagic fever, which has a global case fatality rate of about 90%. Two nearly-recovered patients with SARS are presently 47.2 kilometers away from Stan in Toronto General Hospital. The nearest Ebola patients are in Africa, 12,580 kilometers from Stan.
Stan is not worried about Mrs. Imelda Foster, who is cleaning a penthouse apartment. If Stan even knew about Mrs. Foster, he would appreciate her enthusiasm for bleach as a disinfectant. Mrs. Foster's eyesight is not what it used to be, and she compensates by going over the same surface repeatedly.
Stan wears gloves because he is worried about spider bites. The only venomous spider in Ontario is the northern widow, Latrodectus various, which produces venom fifteen times as toxic as the venom of a prairie rattlesnake. Although the spider injects much less venom than a snake with each bite, nearly one-percent of L. various bites are fatal. Fatalities are concentrated in the very young and the very sick. Stan is thirty-seven years old and in good physical condition. Still, he does not put his hand where he cannot see, and he wears gloves just in case.
Stan is not worried about Tanya Scott, the four-year-old girl who lives in the penthouse apartment where Mrs. Imelda Foster is cleaning. If Stan knew of little Tanya's existence, he would appreciate Mrs. Foster's diligence with the vacuum cleaner everywhere in the apartment, even on the balcony. There are zero spider webs in the penthouse apartment.
Stan wears sunglasses. The sun is expected to radiate peacefully for another 5 billion years, but in the course of that time its luminosity will double to a brilliance that Stan finds alarming.
Stan does not worry about a glass swan figurine weighing 457 grams. Yesterday Tanya Scott moved the swan from its place on the coffee table to the balcony railing where she could see it in the sunlight. Tanya left the swan on the railing. Mrs. Foster does not see the swan when she brings the vacuum cleaner out to tidy up the balcony. She knocks the swan from the railing with the vacuum cleaner wand.
At the moment that the swan begins its descent, Stan is 38 meters from a point directly below the falling swan. He is proceeding toward that point in a straight line and at a steady pace of 3.2 kilometers per hour. A falling object accelerates at the rate of approximately 10 meters/second/second. The railing is 112 meters above the sidewalk.
Question: Is Stan worrying about the right things?
About the author:
Stories by Bruce Holland Rogers have won two Nebula Awards, the Bram Stoker Award, and a Pushcart Prize. Some of his work has been published in over a dozen languages. His short-short stories are available by email subscription at [ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ] ([ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]). Rogers lives in Eugene, Oregon.
In the middle of the day, the frogs held a council. “It’s unbearable,” said one. “The herons hunt us by day, and the raccoons prey on us at night.”
“Yes,” said another. “Either one is bad enough, but both herons and raccoons together mean that we never have a moment’s peace.”
“We should demand that the herons leave the pond. Banish them!”
“Yes!” all the frogs agreed. “Banish the herons! Banish the herons!”
All this noise drew the attention of a heron who was fishing nearby. “What was that?” she said, approaching. “Banish who?”
The frogs looked at her beak, which was like a sword for stabbing frogs.
“The raccoons!” chorused the frogs. “Banish the raccoons!”
“That’s what I thought you said,” said the heron. She went back to fishing.
“The raccoons!” the frogs sang. “Banish the raccoons!”
With the policy decided, there arose the matter of who would inform the raccoons of their exile. One frog after another was nominated for the post of sheriff, and one after another declined it. Then the bullfrog was nominated. “Of course! He’s the biggest! He’s the very one for the job!”
“I don’t know,” said the bullfrog, who had been silent all through the deliberations. “I am big, but raccoons are bigger. I am one, but they are many.”
“Well, then,” volunteered another frog. “We’ll come along with you!”
“Yes, we’ll come along!” agreed the frogs. “We’ll all come along!”
“And you’ll stay with me, no matter what?” said the bullfrog.
“We’ll stick to you like your shadow,” said one frog.
The other frogs agreed. “Like your shadow.”
The bullfrog was still reluctant. The others had to pledge their faithfulness all afternoon. Finally, they had repeated so many times that they would stick to him like his shadow that the bullfrog agreed to lead the delegation.
The sun set. The herons flew to their roosts above the pond. In the twilight, the bullfrog said, “The raccoons will be coming soon. But you’re all going to stand by me like my very shadow, right?”
“Like your shadow! Like your shadow!” chorused the frogs.
The sky turned purple. “Even if five or six raccoons appear together?”
“Like your shadow! Like your shadow!”
Stars shone in a moonless sky. It was very dark. There was just enough starlight to see the raccoons when at last they emerged from the undergrowth. There were five of them, a mother and her grown kits.
The bullfrog hopped onto the shore. “Villains!” he cried. “Be gone! Raccoons are outlawed at this pond! Away with you! You are banished!”
“Indeed?” said the mother raccoon. Her kits sniffed the bullfrog, who trembled but held his ground. “On whose authority are we banished?”
“On all of ours!” the bullfrog said. He expected a chorus to back him up. There was only silence. He turned and saw, just before he was eaten, that he was the only frog ashore.
The help of most allies falls short of the mark,
For even your shadow slips off in the dark
By Bruce Holland Rogers
30 October 2000
Peter had wanted a Little Brother™ for three Christmases in a row. His favorite TV commercials were the ones that showed just how much fun he would have teaching Little Brother™ to do all the things that he could already do himself. But every year, Mommy had said that Peter wasn't ready for a Little Brother™. Until this year.
This year when Peter ran into the living room, there sat Little Brother™ among all the wrapped presents, babbling baby talk, smiling his happy smile, and patting one of the packages with his fat little hand. Peter was so excited that he ran up and gave Little Brother™ a big hug around the neck. That was how he found out about the button. Peter's hand pushed against something cold on Little Brother™'s neck, and suddenly Little Brother™ wasn't babbling any more, or even sitting up. Suddenly, Little Brother™ was limp on the floor, as lifeless as any ordinary doll.
"Peter!" Mommy said.
"I didn't mean to!"
Mommy picked up Little Brother™, sat him in her lap, and pressed the black button at the back of his neck. Little Brother™'s face came alive, and it wrinkled up as if he were about to cry, but Mommy bounced him on her knee and told him what a good boy he was. He didn't cry after all.
"Little Brother™ isn't like your other toys, Peter," Mommy said. "You have to be extra careful with him, as if he were a real baby." She put Little Brother™ down on the floor, and he took tottering baby steps toward Peter. "Why don't you let him help open your other presents?"
So that's what Peter did. He showed Little Brother™ how to tear the paper and open the boxes. The other toys were a fire engine, some talking books, a wagon, and lots and lots of wooden blocks. The fire engine was the second-best present. It had lights, a siren, and hoses that blew green gas just like the real thing. There weren't as many presents as last year, Mommy explained, because Little Brother™ was expensive. That was okay. Little Brother™ was the best present ever!
Well, that's what Peter thought at first. At first, everything that Little Brother™ did was funny and wonderful. Peter put all the torn wrapping paper in the wagon, and Little Brother™ took it out again and threw it on the floor. Peter started to read a talking book, and Little Brother™ came and turned the pages too fast for the book to keep up.
But then, while Mommy went to the kitchen to cook breakfast, Peter tried to show Little Brother™ how to build a very tall tower out of blocks. Little Brother™ wasn't interested in seeing a really tall tower. Every time Peter had a few blocks stacked up, Little Brother™ swatted the tower with his hand and laughed. Peter laughed, too, for the first time, and the second. But then he said, "Now watch this time. I'm going to make it really big."
But Little Brother™ didn't watch. The tower was only a few blocks tall when he knocked it down.
"No!" Peter said. He grabbed hold of Little Brother™'s arm. "Don't!"
Little Brother™'s face wrinkled. He was getting ready to cry.
Peter looked toward the kitchen and let go. "Don't cry," he said. "Look, I'm building another one! Watch me build it!"
Little Brother™ watched. Then he knocked the tower down.
Peter had an idea.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Mommy came into the living room again, Peter had built a tower that was taller than he was, the best tower he had ever made. "Look!" he said.
But Mommy didn't even look at the tower. "Peter!" She picked up Little Brother™, put him on her lap, and pressed the button to turn him back on. As soon as he was on, Little Brother™ started to scream. His face turned red.
"I didn't mean to!"
"Peter, I told you! He's not like your other toys. When you turn him off, he can't move but he can still see and hear. He can still feel. And it scares him."
"He was knocking down my blocks."
"Babies do things like that," Mommy said. "That's what it's like to have a baby brother."
Little Brother™ howled.
"He's mine," Peter said too quietly for Mommy to hear. But when Little Brother™ had calmed down, Mommy put him back on the floor and Peter let him toddle over and knock down the tower.
Mommy told Peter to clean up the wrapping paper, and she went back into the kitchen. Peter had already picked up the wrapping paper once, and she hadn't said thank you. She hadn't even noticed.
Peter wadded the paper into angry balls and threw them one at a time into the wagon until it was almost full. That's when Little Brother™ broke the fire engine. Peter turned just in time to see him lift the engine up over his head and let it drop.
"No!" Peter shouted. The windshield cracked and popped out as the fire engine hit the floor. Broken. Peter hadn't even played with it once, and his best Christmas present was broken.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later, when Mommy came into the living room, she didn't thank Peter for picking up all the wrapping paper. Instead, she scooped up Little Brother™ and turned him on again. He trembled and screeched louder than ever.
"My God! How long has he been off?" Mommy demanded.
"I don't like him!"
"Peter, it scares him! Listen to him!"
"I hate him! Take him back!"
"You are not to turn him off again. Ever!"
"He's mine!" Peter shouted. "He's mine and I can do what I want with him! He broke my fire engine!"
"He's a baby!"
"He's stupid! I hate him! Take him back!"
"You are going to learn to be nice with him."
"I'll turn him off if you don't take him back. I'll turn him off and hide him someplace where you can't find him!"
"Peter!" Mommy said, and she was angry. She was angrier than he'd ever seen her before. She put Little Brother™ down and took a step toward Peter. She would punish him. Peter didn't care. He was angry, too.
"I'll do it!" he yelled. "I'll turn him off and hide him someplace dark!"
"You'll do no such thing!" Mommy said. She grabbed his arm and spun him around. The spanking would come next.
But it didn't. Instead he felt her fingers searching for something at the back of his neck.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bruce Holland Rogers lives in Eugene, Oregon, and writes genre fiction and literary fiction. His stories have won two Nebula Awards, a Bram Stoker Award, and a Pushcart Prize. Rogers recently edited an anthology, Bedtime Stories to Darken Your Dreams (IFD Publishing). He has two short story collections due out this year: Wind Over Heaven (Wildside Press) and Flaming Arrows (IFD Publishing). Bruce's previous appearance in Strange Horizons was "Estranged." For more about him, see his Web site; for more about his work, see the Panisphere site.
Stan has traveled 29.3 kilometers from his home in Toronto to the home of his friend in a Mississauga high-rise. Before he gets out of his car, Stan puts on a surgical mask, leather gloves, and sunglasses.
Stan wears the mask because he is worried about Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, a disease which has a global case fatality rate of between seven and fifteen percent -- estimates vary. He is also worried about Ebola haemorrhagic fever, which has a global case fatality rate of about 90%. Two nearly-recovered patients with SARS are presently 47.2 kilometers away from Stan in Toronto General Hospital. The nearest Ebola patients are in Africa, 12,580 kilometers from Stan.
Stan is not worried about Mrs. Imelda Foster, who is cleaning a penthouse apartment. If Stan even knew about Mrs. Foster, he would appreciate her enthusiasm for bleach as a disinfectant. Mrs. Foster's eyesight is not what it used to be, and she compensates by going over the same surface repeatedly.
Stan wears gloves because he is worried about spider bites. The only venomous spider in Ontario is the northern widow, Latrodectus various, which produces venom fifteen times as toxic as the venom of a prairie rattlesnake. Although the spider injects much less venom than a snake with each bite, nearly one-percent of L. various bites are fatal. Fatalities are concentrated in the very young and the very sick. Stan is thirty-seven years old and in good physical condition. Still, he does not put his hand where he cannot see, and he wears gloves just in case.
Stan is not worried about Tanya Scott, the four-year-old girl who lives in the penthouse apartment where Mrs. Imelda Foster is cleaning. If Stan knew of little Tanya's existence, he would appreciate Mrs. Foster's diligence with the vacuum cleaner everywhere in the apartment, even on the balcony. There are zero spider webs in the penthouse apartment.
Stan wears sunglasses. The sun is expected to radiate peacefully for another 5 billion years, but in the course of that time its luminosity will double to a brilliance that Stan finds alarming.
Stan does not worry about a glass swan figurine weighing 457 grams. Yesterday Tanya Scott moved the swan from its place on the coffee table to the balcony railing where she could see it in the sunlight. Tanya left the swan on the railing. Mrs. Foster does not see the swan when she brings the vacuum cleaner out to tidy up the balcony. She knocks the swan from the railing with the vacuum cleaner wand.
At the moment that the swan begins its descent, Stan is 38 meters from a point directly below the falling swan. He is proceeding toward that point in a straight line and at a steady pace of 3.2 kilometers per hour. A falling object accelerates at the rate of approximately 10 meters/second/second. The railing is 112 meters above the sidewalk.
Question: Is Stan worrying about the right things?
About the author:
Stories by Bruce Holland Rogers have won two Nebula Awards, the Bram Stoker Award, and a Pushcart Prize. Some of his work has been published in over a dozen languages. His short-short stories are available by email subscription at [ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ] ([ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]). Rogers lives in Eugene, Oregon.
In the middle of the day, the frogs held a council. “It’s unbearable,” said one. “The herons hunt us by day, and the raccoons prey on us at night.”
“Yes,” said another. “Either one is bad enough, but both herons and raccoons together mean that we never have a moment’s peace.”
“We should demand that the herons leave the pond. Banish them!”
“Yes!” all the frogs agreed. “Banish the herons! Banish the herons!”
All this noise drew the attention of a heron who was fishing nearby. “What was that?” she said, approaching. “Banish who?”
The frogs looked at her beak, which was like a sword for stabbing frogs.
“The raccoons!” chorused the frogs. “Banish the raccoons!”
“That’s what I thought you said,” said the heron. She went back to fishing.
“The raccoons!” the frogs sang. “Banish the raccoons!”
With the policy decided, there arose the matter of who would inform the raccoons of their exile. One frog after another was nominated for the post of sheriff, and one after another declined it. Then the bullfrog was nominated. “Of course! He’s the biggest! He’s the very one for the job!”
“I don’t know,” said the bullfrog, who had been silent all through the deliberations. “I am big, but raccoons are bigger. I am one, but they are many.”
“Well, then,” volunteered another frog. “We’ll come along with you!”
“Yes, we’ll come along!” agreed the frogs. “We’ll all come along!”
“And you’ll stay with me, no matter what?” said the bullfrog.
“We’ll stick to you like your shadow,” said one frog.
The other frogs agreed. “Like your shadow.”
The bullfrog was still reluctant. The others had to pledge their faithfulness all afternoon. Finally, they had repeated so many times that they would stick to him like his shadow that the bullfrog agreed to lead the delegation.
The sun set. The herons flew to their roosts above the pond. In the twilight, the bullfrog said, “The raccoons will be coming soon. But you’re all going to stand by me like my very shadow, right?”
“Like your shadow! Like your shadow!” chorused the frogs.
The sky turned purple. “Even if five or six raccoons appear together?”
“Like your shadow! Like your shadow!”
Stars shone in a moonless sky. It was very dark. There was just enough starlight to see the raccoons when at last they emerged from the undergrowth. There were five of them, a mother and her grown kits.
The bullfrog hopped onto the shore. “Villains!” he cried. “Be gone! Raccoons are outlawed at this pond! Away with you! You are banished!”
“Indeed?” said the mother raccoon. Her kits sniffed the bullfrog, who trembled but held his ground. “On whose authority are we banished?”
“On all of ours!” the bullfrog said. He expected a chorus to back him up. There was only silence. He turned and saw, just before he was eaten, that he was the only frog ashore.
The help of most allies falls short of the mark,
For even your shadow slips off in the dark
AAKOJ
11-11-2008, 00:19
The Black Cat
Edgar Allan Poe
For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not - and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified - have tortured - have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror - to many they will seem less terrible than barroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place - some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.
From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat.
This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon this point - and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just now, to be remembered.
Pluto - this was the cat's name - was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the streets.
Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general temperament and character - through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance - had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my disease grew upon me - for what disease is like Alcohol! - and at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish - even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.
One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it, grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity.
When reason returned with the morning - when I had slept off the fumes of the night's debauch - I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.
In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart - one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself - to offer violence to its own nature - to do wrong for the wrong's sake only - that urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; - hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; - hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; - hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin - a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it - if such a thing wore possible - even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.
On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair.
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts - and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action of the fire - a fact which I attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words "strange!" "singular!" and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in bas relief upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly marvellous. There was a rope about the animal's neck.
When I first beheld this apparition - for I could scarcely regard it as less - my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately filled by the crowd - by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown, through an open window, into my chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.
Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fail to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its place.
One night as I sat, half stupified, in a den of more than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat - a very large one - fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast. Upon my touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was the very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim to it - knew nothing of it - had never seen it before.
I continued my caresses, and, when I prepared to go home, the animal evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great favorite with my wife.
For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but - I know not how or why it was - its evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing me from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually - very gradually - I came to look upon it with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence.
What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on the morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.
With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly - let me confess it at once - by absolute dread of the beast.
This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil - and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own - yes, even in this felon's cell, I am almost ashamed to own - that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired me, had been heightened by one of the merest chimaeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which constituted the sole visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees - degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time my Reason struggled to reject as fanciful - it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation of an object that I shudder to name - and for this, above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself of the monster had I dared - it was now, I say, the image of a hideous - of a ghastly thing - of the GALLOWS! - oh, mournful and terrible engine of Horror and of Crime - of Agony and of Death!
And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere Humanity. And a brute beast - whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed - a brute beast to work out for me - for me a man, fashioned in the image of the High God - so much of insufferable wo! Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of Rest any more! During the former the creature left me no moment alone; and, in the latter, I started, hourly, from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast weight - an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no power to shake off - incumbent eternally upon my heart!
Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble remnant of the good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates - the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while, from the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas! was the most usual and the most patient of sufferers.
One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the cellar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting, in my wrath, the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at the animal which, of course, would have proved instantly fatal had it descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan.
This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove it from the house, either by day or by night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in the well in the yard - about packing it in a box, as if merchandize, with the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar - as the monks of the middle ages are recorded to have walled up their victims.
For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a false chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to resemble the red of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as before, so that no eye could detect any thing suspicious. And in this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the body against the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not be distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully went over the new brickwork. When I had finished, I felt satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly, and said to myself - "Here at least, then, my labor has not been in vain."
My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so much wretchedness; for I had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment, there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of my previous anger, and forebore to present itself in my present mood. It is impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the night - and thus for one night at least, since its introduction into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of murder upon my soul!
The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a freeman. The monster, in terror, had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few inquiries had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been instituted - but of course nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as secured.
Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth time, they descended into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word, by way of triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness.
"Gentlemen," I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, "I delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health, and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this - this is a very well constructed house." [In the rabid desire to say something easily, I scarcely knew what I uttered at all.] - "I may say an excellently well constructed house. These walls are you going, gentlemen? - these walls are solidly put together;" and here, through the mere phrenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with a cane which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the brick-work behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.
But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend! No sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into silence, than I was answered by a voice from within the tomb! - by a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman - a howl - a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the dammed in their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.
Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the stairs remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In the next, a dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb!
Edgar Allan Poe
For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not - and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified - have tortured - have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror - to many they will seem less terrible than barroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place - some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.
From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat.
This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon this point - and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just now, to be remembered.
Pluto - this was the cat's name - was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the streets.
Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general temperament and character - through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance - had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my disease grew upon me - for what disease is like Alcohol! - and at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish - even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.
One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it, grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity.
When reason returned with the morning - when I had slept off the fumes of the night's debauch - I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.
In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart - one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself - to offer violence to its own nature - to do wrong for the wrong's sake only - that urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; - hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; - hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; - hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin - a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it - if such a thing wore possible - even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.
On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair.
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts - and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action of the fire - a fact which I attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words "strange!" "singular!" and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in bas relief upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly marvellous. There was a rope about the animal's neck.
When I first beheld this apparition - for I could scarcely regard it as less - my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately filled by the crowd - by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown, through an open window, into my chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.
Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fail to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its place.
One night as I sat, half stupified, in a den of more than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat - a very large one - fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast. Upon my touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was the very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim to it - knew nothing of it - had never seen it before.
I continued my caresses, and, when I prepared to go home, the animal evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great favorite with my wife.
For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but - I know not how or why it was - its evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing me from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually - very gradually - I came to look upon it with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence.
What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on the morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.
With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly - let me confess it at once - by absolute dread of the beast.
This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil - and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own - yes, even in this felon's cell, I am almost ashamed to own - that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired me, had been heightened by one of the merest chimaeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which constituted the sole visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees - degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time my Reason struggled to reject as fanciful - it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation of an object that I shudder to name - and for this, above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself of the monster had I dared - it was now, I say, the image of a hideous - of a ghastly thing - of the GALLOWS! - oh, mournful and terrible engine of Horror and of Crime - of Agony and of Death!
And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere Humanity. And a brute beast - whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed - a brute beast to work out for me - for me a man, fashioned in the image of the High God - so much of insufferable wo! Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of Rest any more! During the former the creature left me no moment alone; and, in the latter, I started, hourly, from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast weight - an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no power to shake off - incumbent eternally upon my heart!
Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble remnant of the good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates - the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while, from the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas! was the most usual and the most patient of sufferers.
One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the cellar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting, in my wrath, the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at the animal which, of course, would have proved instantly fatal had it descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan.
This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove it from the house, either by day or by night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in the well in the yard - about packing it in a box, as if merchandize, with the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar - as the monks of the middle ages are recorded to have walled up their victims.
For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a false chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to resemble the red of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as before, so that no eye could detect any thing suspicious. And in this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the body against the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not be distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully went over the new brickwork. When I had finished, I felt satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly, and said to myself - "Here at least, then, my labor has not been in vain."
My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so much wretchedness; for I had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment, there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of my previous anger, and forebore to present itself in my present mood. It is impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the night - and thus for one night at least, since its introduction into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of murder upon my soul!
The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a freeman. The monster, in terror, had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few inquiries had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been instituted - but of course nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as secured.
Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth time, they descended into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word, by way of triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness.
"Gentlemen," I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, "I delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health, and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this - this is a very well constructed house." [In the rabid desire to say something easily, I scarcely knew what I uttered at all.] - "I may say an excellently well constructed house. These walls are you going, gentlemen? - these walls are solidly put together;" and here, through the mere phrenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with a cane which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the brick-work behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.
But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend! No sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into silence, than I was answered by a voice from within the tomb! - by a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman - a howl - a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the dammed in their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.
Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the stairs remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In the next, a dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb!
AAKOJ
17-11-2008, 00:34
One may hope, in spite of the metaphorists, to avoid the breath of the deadly upas tree; one may, by great good fortune, succeed in blacking the eye of the basilisk; one might even dodge the attentions of Cerberus and Argus, but no man, alive or dead, can escape the gaze of the Rubberer.
New York is the Caoutchouc City. There are many, of course, who go their ways, making money, without turning to the right or the left, but there is a tribe abroad wonderfully composed, like the Martians, solely of eyes and means of locomotion.
These devotees of curiosity swarm, like flies, in a moment in a struggling, breathless circle about the scene of an unusual occurrence. If a workman opens a manhole, if a street car runs over a man from North Tarrytown, if a little boy drops an egg on his way home from the grocery, if a casual house or two drops into the subway, if a lady loses a nickel through a hole in the lisle thread, if the police drag a telephone and a racing chart forth from an Ibsen Society reading-room, if Senator Depew or Mr. Chuck Connors walks out to take the air -- if any of these incidents or accidents takes place, you will see the mad, irresistible rush of the "rubber" tribe to the spot.
The importance of the event does not count. They gaze with equal interest and absorption at a chorus girl or at a man painting a liver pill sign. They will form as deep a cordon around a man with a club-foot as they will around a balked automobile. They have the furor rubberendi. They are optical gluttons, feasting and fattening on the misfortunes of their fellow beings. They gloat and pore and glare and squint and stare with their fishy eyes like goggle-eyed perch at the book baited with calamity.
It would seem that Cupid would find these ocular vampires too cold game for his calorific shafts, but have we not yet to discover an immune even among the Protozoa? Yes, beautiful Romance descended upon two of this tribe, and love came into their hearts as they crowded about the prostrate form of a man who had been run over by a brewery wagon.
William Pry was the first on the spot. He was an expert at such gatherings. With an expression of intense happiness on his features, he stood over the victim of the accident, listening to his groans as if to the sweetest music. When the crowd of spectators had swelled to a closely packed circle William saw a violent commotion in the crowd opposite him. Men were hurled aside like ninepins by the impact of some moving body that clove them like the rush of a tornado. With elbows, umbrella, hat-pin, tongue, and fingernails doing their duty, Violet Seymour forced her way through the mob of onlookers to the first row. Strong men who even had been able to secure a seat on the 5:30 Harlem express staggered back like children as she bucked centre. Two large lady spectators who had seen the Duke of Roxburgh married and had often blocked traffic on Twenty-third Street fell back into the second row with ripped shirtwaists when Violet had finished with them. William Pry loved her at first sight.
The ambulance removed the unconscious agent of Cupid. William and Violet remained after the crowd had dispersed. They were true Rubberers. People who leave the scene of an accident with the ambulance have not genuine caoutchouc in the cosmogony of their necks. The delicate, fine flavour of the affair is to be had only in the after-taste -- in gloating over the spot, in gazing fixedly at the houses opposite, in hovering there in a dream more exquisite than the opium-eater's ecstasy. William Pry and Violet Seymour were connoisseurs in casualties. They knew how to extract full enjoyment from every incident.
Presently they looked at each other. Violet had a brown birthmark on her neck as large as a silver half-dollar. William fixed his eyes upon it. William Pry had inordinately bowed legs. Violet allowed her gaze to linger unswervingly upon them. Face to face they stood thus for moments, each staring at the other. Etiquette would not allow them to speak; but in the Caoutchouc City it is permitted to gaze without stint at the trees in the parks and at the physical blemishes of a fellow creature.
At length with a sigh they parted. But Cupid had been the driver of the brewery wagon, and the wheel that broke a leg united two fond hearts.
The next meeting of the hero and heroine was in front of a board fence near Broadway. The day had been a disappointing one. There had been no fights on the street, children had kept from under the wheels of the street cars, cripples and fat men in negligée shirts were scarce; nobody seemed to be inclined to slip on banana peels or fall down with heart disease. Even the sport from Kokomo, Ind., who claims to be a cousin of ex-Mayor Low and scatters nickels from a cab window, had not put in his appearance. There was nothing to stare at, and William Pry had premonitions of ennui.
But he saw a large crowd scrambling and pushing excitedly in front of a billboard. Sprinting for it, he knocked down an old woman and a child carrying a bottle of milk, and fought his way like a demon into the mass of spectators. Already in the inner line stood Violet Seymour with one sleeve and two gold fillings gone, a corset steel puncture and a sprained wrist, but happy. She was looking at what there was to see. A man was painting upon the fence: "Eat Bricklets -- They Fill Your Face."
Violet blushed when she saw William Pry. William jabbed a lady in a black silk raglan in the ribs, kicked a boy in the shin, bit an old gentleman on the left ear and managed to crowd nearer to Violet. They stood for an hour looking at the man paint the letters. Then William's love could be repressed no longer. He touched her on the arm.
"Come with me," he said. "I know where there is a bootblack without an Adam's apple."
She looked up at him shyly, yet with unmistakable love transfiguring her countenance.
"And you have saved it for me?" she asked, trembling with the first dim ecstasy of a woman beloved.
Together they hurried to the bootblack's stand. An hour they spent there gazing at the malformed youth.
A window-cleaner fell from the fifth story to the sidewalk beside them. As the ambulance came clanging up William pressed her hand joyously. "Four ribs at least and a compound fracture," he whispered, swiftly. "You are not sorry that you met me, are you, dearest?"
"Me?" said Violet, returning the pressure. "Sure not. I could stand all day rubbering with you."
The climax of the romance occurred a few days later. Perhaps the reader will remember the intense excitement into which the city was thrown when Eliza Jane, a colored woman, was served with a subpœna. The Rubber Tribe encamped on the spot. With his own hands William Pry placed a board upon two beer kegs in the street opposite Eliza Jane's residence. He and Violet sat there for three days and nights. Then it occurred to a detective to open the door and serve the subpœna. He sent for a kinetoscope and did so.
Two souls with such congenial tastes could not long remain apart. As a policeman drove them away with his night stick that evening they plighted their troth. The seeds of love had been well sown, and had grown up, hardy and vigorous, into a -- let us call it a rubber plant.
The wedding of William Pry and Violet Seymour was set for June 10. The Big Church in the Middle of the Block was banked high with flowers. The populous tribe of Rubberers the world over is rampant over weddings. They are the pessimists of the pews. They are the guyers of the groom and the banterers of the bride. They come to laugh at your marriage, and should you escape from Hymen's tower on the back of death's pale steed they will come to the funeral and sit in the same pew and cry over your luck. Rubber will stretch.
The church was lighted. A grosgrain carpet lay over the asphalt to the edge of the sidewalk. Bridesmaids were patting one another's sashes awry and speaking of the Bride's freckles. Coachmen tied white ribbons on their whips and bewailed the space of time between drinks. The minister was musing over his possible fee, essaying conjecture whether it would suffice to purchase a new broadcloth suit for himself and a photograph of Laura Jane Libbey for his wife. Yea, Cupid was in the air.
And outside the church, oh, my brothers, surged and heaved the rank and file of the tribe of Rubberers. In two bodies they were, with the grosgrain carpet and cops with clubs between. They crowded like cattle, they fought, they pressed and surged and swayed and trampled one another to see a bit of a girl in a white veil acquire license to go through a man's pockets while he sleeps.
But the hour for the wedding came and went, and the bride and bridegroom came not. And impatience gave way to alarm and alarm brought about search, and they were not found. And then two big policemen took a hand and dragged out of the furious mob of onlookers a crushed and trampled thing, with a wedding ring in its vest pocket and a shredded and hysterical woman beating her way to the carpet's edge, ragged, bruised and obstreperous.
William Pry and Violet Seymour, creatures of habit, had joined in the seething game of the spectators, unable to resist the overwhelming desire to gaze upon themselves entering, as bride and bridegroom, the rose-decked church.
Rubber will out.
New York is the Caoutchouc City. There are many, of course, who go their ways, making money, without turning to the right or the left, but there is a tribe abroad wonderfully composed, like the Martians, solely of eyes and means of locomotion.
These devotees of curiosity swarm, like flies, in a moment in a struggling, breathless circle about the scene of an unusual occurrence. If a workman opens a manhole, if a street car runs over a man from North Tarrytown, if a little boy drops an egg on his way home from the grocery, if a casual house or two drops into the subway, if a lady loses a nickel through a hole in the lisle thread, if the police drag a telephone and a racing chart forth from an Ibsen Society reading-room, if Senator Depew or Mr. Chuck Connors walks out to take the air -- if any of these incidents or accidents takes place, you will see the mad, irresistible rush of the "rubber" tribe to the spot.
The importance of the event does not count. They gaze with equal interest and absorption at a chorus girl or at a man painting a liver pill sign. They will form as deep a cordon around a man with a club-foot as they will around a balked automobile. They have the furor rubberendi. They are optical gluttons, feasting and fattening on the misfortunes of their fellow beings. They gloat and pore and glare and squint and stare with their fishy eyes like goggle-eyed perch at the book baited with calamity.
It would seem that Cupid would find these ocular vampires too cold game for his calorific shafts, but have we not yet to discover an immune even among the Protozoa? Yes, beautiful Romance descended upon two of this tribe, and love came into their hearts as they crowded about the prostrate form of a man who had been run over by a brewery wagon.
William Pry was the first on the spot. He was an expert at such gatherings. With an expression of intense happiness on his features, he stood over the victim of the accident, listening to his groans as if to the sweetest music. When the crowd of spectators had swelled to a closely packed circle William saw a violent commotion in the crowd opposite him. Men were hurled aside like ninepins by the impact of some moving body that clove them like the rush of a tornado. With elbows, umbrella, hat-pin, tongue, and fingernails doing their duty, Violet Seymour forced her way through the mob of onlookers to the first row. Strong men who even had been able to secure a seat on the 5:30 Harlem express staggered back like children as she bucked centre. Two large lady spectators who had seen the Duke of Roxburgh married and had often blocked traffic on Twenty-third Street fell back into the second row with ripped shirtwaists when Violet had finished with them. William Pry loved her at first sight.
The ambulance removed the unconscious agent of Cupid. William and Violet remained after the crowd had dispersed. They were true Rubberers. People who leave the scene of an accident with the ambulance have not genuine caoutchouc in the cosmogony of their necks. The delicate, fine flavour of the affair is to be had only in the after-taste -- in gloating over the spot, in gazing fixedly at the houses opposite, in hovering there in a dream more exquisite than the opium-eater's ecstasy. William Pry and Violet Seymour were connoisseurs in casualties. They knew how to extract full enjoyment from every incident.
Presently they looked at each other. Violet had a brown birthmark on her neck as large as a silver half-dollar. William fixed his eyes upon it. William Pry had inordinately bowed legs. Violet allowed her gaze to linger unswervingly upon them. Face to face they stood thus for moments, each staring at the other. Etiquette would not allow them to speak; but in the Caoutchouc City it is permitted to gaze without stint at the trees in the parks and at the physical blemishes of a fellow creature.
At length with a sigh they parted. But Cupid had been the driver of the brewery wagon, and the wheel that broke a leg united two fond hearts.
The next meeting of the hero and heroine was in front of a board fence near Broadway. The day had been a disappointing one. There had been no fights on the street, children had kept from under the wheels of the street cars, cripples and fat men in negligée shirts were scarce; nobody seemed to be inclined to slip on banana peels or fall down with heart disease. Even the sport from Kokomo, Ind., who claims to be a cousin of ex-Mayor Low and scatters nickels from a cab window, had not put in his appearance. There was nothing to stare at, and William Pry had premonitions of ennui.
But he saw a large crowd scrambling and pushing excitedly in front of a billboard. Sprinting for it, he knocked down an old woman and a child carrying a bottle of milk, and fought his way like a demon into the mass of spectators. Already in the inner line stood Violet Seymour with one sleeve and two gold fillings gone, a corset steel puncture and a sprained wrist, but happy. She was looking at what there was to see. A man was painting upon the fence: "Eat Bricklets -- They Fill Your Face."
Violet blushed when she saw William Pry. William jabbed a lady in a black silk raglan in the ribs, kicked a boy in the shin, bit an old gentleman on the left ear and managed to crowd nearer to Violet. They stood for an hour looking at the man paint the letters. Then William's love could be repressed no longer. He touched her on the arm.
"Come with me," he said. "I know where there is a bootblack without an Adam's apple."
She looked up at him shyly, yet with unmistakable love transfiguring her countenance.
"And you have saved it for me?" she asked, trembling with the first dim ecstasy of a woman beloved.
Together they hurried to the bootblack's stand. An hour they spent there gazing at the malformed youth.
A window-cleaner fell from the fifth story to the sidewalk beside them. As the ambulance came clanging up William pressed her hand joyously. "Four ribs at least and a compound fracture," he whispered, swiftly. "You are not sorry that you met me, are you, dearest?"
"Me?" said Violet, returning the pressure. "Sure not. I could stand all day rubbering with you."
The climax of the romance occurred a few days later. Perhaps the reader will remember the intense excitement into which the city was thrown when Eliza Jane, a colored woman, was served with a subpœna. The Rubber Tribe encamped on the spot. With his own hands William Pry placed a board upon two beer kegs in the street opposite Eliza Jane's residence. He and Violet sat there for three days and nights. Then it occurred to a detective to open the door and serve the subpœna. He sent for a kinetoscope and did so.
Two souls with such congenial tastes could not long remain apart. As a policeman drove them away with his night stick that evening they plighted their troth. The seeds of love had been well sown, and had grown up, hardy and vigorous, into a -- let us call it a rubber plant.
The wedding of William Pry and Violet Seymour was set for June 10. The Big Church in the Middle of the Block was banked high with flowers. The populous tribe of Rubberers the world over is rampant over weddings. They are the pessimists of the pews. They are the guyers of the groom and the banterers of the bride. They come to laugh at your marriage, and should you escape from Hymen's tower on the back of death's pale steed they will come to the funeral and sit in the same pew and cry over your luck. Rubber will stretch.
The church was lighted. A grosgrain carpet lay over the asphalt to the edge of the sidewalk. Bridesmaids were patting one another's sashes awry and speaking of the Bride's freckles. Coachmen tied white ribbons on their whips and bewailed the space of time between drinks. The minister was musing over his possible fee, essaying conjecture whether it would suffice to purchase a new broadcloth suit for himself and a photograph of Laura Jane Libbey for his wife. Yea, Cupid was in the air.
And outside the church, oh, my brothers, surged and heaved the rank and file of the tribe of Rubberers. In two bodies they were, with the grosgrain carpet and cops with clubs between. They crowded like cattle, they fought, they pressed and surged and swayed and trampled one another to see a bit of a girl in a white veil acquire license to go through a man's pockets while he sleeps.
But the hour for the wedding came and went, and the bride and bridegroom came not. And impatience gave way to alarm and alarm brought about search, and they were not found. And then two big policemen took a hand and dragged out of the furious mob of onlookers a crushed and trampled thing, with a wedding ring in its vest pocket and a shredded and hysterical woman beating her way to the carpet's edge, ragged, bruised and obstreperous.
William Pry and Violet Seymour, creatures of habit, had joined in the seething game of the spectators, unable to resist the overwhelming desire to gaze upon themselves entering, as bride and bridegroom, the rose-decked church.
Rubber will out.
AAKOJ
17-11-2008, 00:35
Madame Nelson, the beautiful American, had come to us from Paris, equipped with a phenomenal voice and solid Italian technique. She had immediately sung her way into the hearts of Berlin music-lovers, provided that you care to call a mixture of snobbishness, sophisticated impressionableness and goose-like imitativeness--heart. She had, therefore, been acquired by one of our most distinguished opera houses at a large salary and with long leaves of absence. I use the plural of opera house in order that no one may try to scent out the facts.
Now we had her, more especially our world of Lotharios had her. Not the younger sons of high finance, who make the boudoirs unsafe with their tall collars and short breeches; nor the bearers of ancient names who, having hung up their uniforms in the evening, assume monocle and bracelet and drag these through second and third-class drawing-rooms. No, she belonged to those worthy men of middle age, who have their palaces in the west end, whose wives one treats with infinite respect, and to whose evenings one gives a final touch of elegance by singing two or three songs for nothing.
Then she committed her first folly. She went travelling with an Italian tenor. "For purposes of art," was the official version. But the time for the trip--the end of August--had been unfortunately chosen. And, as she returned ornamented with scratches administered by the tenor's pursuing wife--no one believed her.
Next winter she ruined a counsellor of a legation and magnate's son so thoroughly that he decamped to an unfrequented equatorial region, leaving behind him numerous promissory notes of questionable value.
This poor fellow was revenged the following winter by a dark-haired Roumanian fiddler, who beat her and forced her to carry her jewels to a pawnshop, where they were redeemed at half price by their original donor and used to adorn the plump, firm body of a stupid little ballet dancer.
Of course her social position was now forfeited. But then Berlin forgets so rapidly. She became proper again and returned to her earlier inclinations for gentlemen of middle life with extensive palaces and extensive wives. So there were quite a few houses--none of the strictest tone, of course--that were very glad to welcome the radiant blonde with her famous name and fragrant and modest gowns--from Paquin at ten thousand francs a piece.
At the same time she developed a remarkable business instinct. Her connections with the stock exchange permitted her to speculate without the slightest risk. For what gallant broker would let a lovely woman lose? Thus she laid the foundation of a goodly fortune, which was made to assume stately proportions by a tour through the United States, and was given a last touch of solidity by a successful speculation in Dresden real estate.
Furthermore, it would be unjust to conceal the fact that her most recent admirer, the wool manufacturer Wormser, had a considerable share in this hurtling rise of her fortunes.
Wormser guarded his good repute carefully. He insisted that his illegitimate inclinations never lack the stamp of highest elegance. He desired that they be given the greatest possible publicity at race-meets and first nights. He didn't care if people spoke with a degree of rancour, if only he was connected with the temporary lady of his heart.
Now, to be sure, there was a Mrs. Wormser. She came of a good Frankfort family. Dowry: a million and a half. She was modern to the very tips of her nervous, restless fingers.
This lady was inspired by such lofty social ideals that she would have considered an inelegant liaison on her husband's part, an insult not only offered to good taste in general, but to her own in particular. Such an one she would, never have forgiven. On the other hand, she approved of Madame Nelson thoroughly. She considered her the most costly and striking addition to her household. Quite figuratively, of course. Everything was arranged with the utmost propriety. At great charity festivals the two ladies exchanged a friendly glance, and they saw to it that their gowns were never made after the same model.
Then it happened that the house of Wormser was shaken. It wasn't a serious breakdown, but among the good things that had to be thrown overboard belonged--at the demand of the helping Frankforters--Madame Nelson.
And so she waited, like a virgin, for love, like a man in the weather bureau, for a given star. She felt that her star was yet to rise.
This was the situation when, one day, Herr von Karlstadt had himself presented to her. He was a captain of industry; international reputation; ennobled; the not undistinguished son of a great father. He had not hitherto been found in the market of love, but it was said of him that notable women had committed follies for his sake. All in all, he was a man who commanded the general interest in quite a different measure from Wormser.
But artistic successes had raised Madame Nelson's name once more, too, and when news of the accomplished fact circulated, society found it hard to decide as to which of the two lent the other a more brilliant light, or which was the more to be envied.
However that was, history was richer by a famous pair of lovers.
But, just as there had been a Mrs. Wormser, so there was a Mrs. von Karlstadt.
And it is this lady of whom I wish to speak.
Mentally as well as physically Mara von Karlstadt did not belong to that class of persons which imperatively commands the attention of the public. She was sensitive to the point of madness, a little sensuous, something of an enthusiast, coquettish only in so far as good taste demanded it, and hopelessly in love with her husband. She was in love with him to the extent that she regarded the conquests which occasionally came to him, spoiled as he was, as the inevitable consequences of her fortunate choice. They inspired her with a certain woeful anger and also with a degree of pride.
The daughter of a great land owner in South Germany, she had been brought up in seclusion, and had learned only very gradually how to glide unconcernedly through the drawing-rooms. A tense smile upon her lips, which many took for irony, was only a remnant of her old diffidence. Delicate, dark in colouring, with a fine cameo-like profile, smooth hair and a tawny look in her near-sighted eyes--thus she glided about in society, and few but friends of the house took any notice of her.
And this woman who found her most genuine satisfaction in the peacefulness of life, who was satisfied if she could slip into her carriage at midnight without the annoyance of one searching glance, of one inquiring word, saw herself suddenly and without suspecting the reason, become the centre of a secret and almost insulting curiosity. She felt a whispering behind her in society; she saw from her box the lenses of many opera glasses pointing her way.
The conversation of her friends began to teem with hints, and into the tone of the men whom she knew there crept a kind of tender compassion which pained her even though she knew not how to interpret it.
For the present no change was to be noted in the demeanour of her husband. His club and his business had always kept him away from home a good deal, and if a few extra hours of absence were now added, it was easy to account for these in harmless ways, or rather, not to account for them at all, since no one made any inquiry.
Then, however, anonymous letters began to come--thick, fragrant ones with stamped coronets, and thin ones on ruled paper with the smudges of soiled fingers.
She burned the first batch; the second she handed to her husband.
The latter, who was not far from forty, and who had trained himself to an attitude of imperious brusqueness, straightened up, knotted his bushy Bismarck moustache, and said:
"Well, suppose it is true. What have you to lose?"
She did not burst into tears of despair; she did not indulge in fits of rage; she didn't even leave the room with quiet dignity; her soul seemed neither wounded nor broken. She was not even affrighted. She only thought: "I have forgiven him so much; why not forgive him this, too?"
And as she had shared him before without feeling herself degraded, so she would try to share him again.
But she soon observed that this logic of the heart would prove wanting in this instance.
In former cases she had concealed his weakness under a veil of care and considerateness. The fear of discovery had made a conscious but silent accessory of her. When it was all over she breathed deep relief at the thought; "I am the only one who even suspected."
This time all the world seemed invited to witness the spectacle.
For now she understood all that, in recent days had tortured her like an unexplained blot, an alien daub in the face which every one sees but he whom it disfigures. Now she knew what the smiling hints of her friends and the consoling desires of men had meant. Now she recognised the reason why she was wounded by the attention of all.
She was "the wife of the man whom Madame Nelson ..."
And so torturing a shame came upon her as though she herself were the cause of the disgrace with which the world seemed to overwhelm her.
This feeling had not come upon her suddenly. At first a stabbing curiosity had awakened in her a self-torturing expectation, not without its element of morbid attraction. Daily she asked herself: "What will develope to-day?"
With quivering nerves and cramped heart, she entered evening after evening, for the season was at its height, the halls of strangers on her husband's arm.
And it was always the same thing. The same glances that passed from her to him and from him to her, the same compassionate sarcasm upon averted faces, the same hypocritical delicacy in conversation, the same sudden silence as soon as she turned to any group of people to listen--the same cruel pillory for her evening after evening, night after night.
And if all this had not been, she would have felt it just the same.
And in these drawing-rooms there were so many women whose husbands' affairs were the talk of the town. Even her predecessor, Mrs. Wormser, had passed over the expensive immorality of her husband with a self-sufficing smile and a condescending jest, and the world had bowed down to her respectfully, as it always does when scenting a temperament that it is powerless to wound.
Why had this martyrdom come to her, of all people?
Thus, half against her own will, she began to hide, to refuse this or that invitation, and to spend the free evenings in the nursery, watching over the sleep of her boys and weaving dreams of a new happiness. The illness of her older child gave her an excuse for withdrawing from society altogether and her husband did not restrain her.
It had never come to an explanation between them, and as he was always considerate, even tender, and as sharp speeches were not native to her temper, the peace of the home was not disturbed.
Soon it seemed to her, too, as though the rude inquisitiveness of the world were slowly passing away. Either one had abandoned the critical condition of her wedded happiness for more vivid topics, or else she had become accustomed to the state of affairs.
She took up a more social life, and the shame which she had felt in appearing publicly with her husband gradually died out.
What did not die out, however, was a keen desire to know the nature and appearance of the woman in whose hands lay her own destiny. How did she administer the dear possession that fate had put in her power? And when and how would she give it back?
She threw aside the last remnant of reserve and questioned friends. Then, when she was met by a smile of compassionate ignorance, she asked women. These were more ready to report. But she would not and could not believe what she was told. He had surely not degraded himself into being one of a succession of moneyed rakes. It was clear to her that, in order to soothe her grief, people slandered the woman and him with her.
In order to watch her secretly, she veiled heavily and drove to the theatre where Madame Nelson was singing. Shadowlike she cowered in the depths of a box which she had rented under an assumed name and followed with a kind of pained voluptuousness the ecstasies of love which the other woman, fully conscious of the victorious loveliness of her body, unfolded for the benefit of the breathless crowd.
With such an abandoned raising of her radiant arms, she threw herself upon his breast; with that curve of her modelled limbs, she lay before his knees.
And in her awakened a reverent, renouncing envy of a being who had so much to give, beside whom she was but a dim and poor shadow, weary with motherhood, corroded with grief.
At the same time there appeared a California mine owner, a multi-millionaire, with whom her husband had manifold business dealings. He introduced his daughters into society and himself gave a number of luxurious dinners at which he tried to assemble guests of the most exclusive character.
Just as they were about to enter a carriage to drive to the "Bristol," to one of these dinners, a message came which forced Herr von Karlstadt to take an immediate trip to his factories. He begged his wife to go instead, and she did not refuse.
The company was almost complete and the daughter of the mine owner was doing the honours of the occasion with appropriate grace when the doors of the reception room opened for the last time and through the open doorway floated rather than walked--Madame Nelson.
The petrified little group turned its glance of inquisitive horror upon Mrs. von Karlstadt, while the mine owner's daughter adjusted the necessary introductions with a grand air.
Should she go or not? No one was to be found who would offer her his arm. Her feet were paralysed. And she remained.
The company sat down at table. And since fate, in such cases, never does its work by halves, it came to pass that Madame Nelson was assigned to a seat immediately opposite her.
The people present seemed grateful to her that they had not been forced to witness a scene, and overwhelmed her with delicate signs of this gratitude. Slowly her self-control returned to her. She dared to look about her observantly, and, behold, Madame Nelson appealed to her.
Her French was faultless, her manners equally so, and when the Californian drew her into the conversation, she practised the delicate art of modest considerateness to the extent of talking past Mrs. von Karlstadt in such a way that those who did not know were not enlightened and those who knew felt their anxiety depart.
In order to thank her for this alleviation of a fatally painful situation, Mrs. von Karlstadt occasionally turned perceptibly toward the singer. For this Madame Nelson was grateful in her turn. Thus their glances began to meet in friendly fashion, their voices to cross, the atmosphere became less constrained from minute to minute, and when the meal was over the astonished assembly had come to the conclusion that Mrs. von Karlstadt was ignorant of the true state of affairs.
The news of this peculiar meeting spread like a conflagration. Her women friends hastened to congratulate her on her strength of mind; her male friends praised her loftiness of spirit. She went through the degradation which she had suffered as though it were a triumph. Only her husband went about for a time with an evil conscience and a frowning forehead.
Months went by. The quietness of summer intervened, but the memory of that evening rankled in her and blinded her soul. Slowly the thought arose in her which was really grounded in vanity, but looked, in its execution, like suffering love--the thought that she would legitimise her husband's irregularity in the face of society.
Hence when the season began again she wrote a letter to Madame Nelson in which she invited her, in a most cordial way, to sing at an approaching function in her home. She proffered this request, not only in admiration of the singer's gifts, but also, as she put it, "to render nugatory a persistent and disagreeable rumour."
Madame Nelson, to whom this chance of repairing her fair fame was very welcome, had the indiscretion to assent, and even to accept the condition of entire secrecy in regard to the affair.
The chronicler may pass over the painful evening in question with suitable delicacy of touch. Nothing obvious or crass took place. Madame Nelson sang three enchanting songs, accompanied by a first-rate pianist. A friend of the house of whom the hostess had requested this favour took Madame Nelson to the buffet. A number of guileless individuals surrounded that lady with hopeful adoration. An ecstatic mood prevailed. The one regrettable feature of the occasion was that the host had to withdraw--as quietly as possible, of course--on account of a splitting head-ache.
Berlin society, which felt wounded in the innermost depth of its ethics, never forgave the Karlstadts for this evening. I believe that in certain circles the event is still remembered, although years have passed.
Its immediate result, however, was a breach between man and wife. Mara went to the Riviera, where she remained until spring.
An apparent reconciliation was then patched up, but its validity was purely external.
Socially, too, things readjusted themselves, although people continued to speak of the Karlstadt house with a smile that asked for indulgence.
Mara felt this acutely, and while her husband appeared oftener and more openly with his mistress, she withdrew into the silence of her inner chambers.
* * * * *
Then she took a lover.
Or, rather, she was taken by him.
A lonely evening ... A fire in the chimney ... A friend who came in by accident ... The same friend who had taken care of Madame Nelson for her on that memorable evening ... The fall of snow without ... A burst of confidence ... A sob ... A nestling against the caressing hand ... It was done ...
Months passed. She experienced not one hour of intoxication, not one of that inner absolution which love brings. It was moral slackness and weariness that made her yield again....
Then the consequences appeared.
Of course, the child could not, must not, be born. And it was not born. One can imagine the horror of that tragic time: the criminal flame of sleepless nights, the blood-charged atmosphere of guilty despair, the moans of agony that had to be throttled behind closed doors.
What remained to her was lasting invalidism.
The way from her bed to an invalid's chair was long and hard.
Time passed. Improvements came and gave place to lapses in her condition. Trips to watering-places alternated with visits to sanatoriums.
In those places sat the pallid, anaemic women who had been tortured and ruined by their own or alien guilt. There they sat and engaged in wretched flirtations with flighty neurasthenics.
And gradually things went from bad to worse. The physicians shrugged their friendly shoulders.
And then it happened that Madame Nelson felt the inner necessity of running away with a handsome young tutor. She did this less out of passion than to convince the world--after having thoroughly fleeced it--of the unselfishness of her feelings. For it was her ambition to be counted among the great lovers of all time.
* * * * *
One evening von Karlstadt entered the sick chamber of his wife, sat down beside her bed and silently took her hand. She was aware of everything, and asked with a gentle smile upon her white lips:
"Be frank with me: did you love her, at least?"
He laughed shrilly. "What should have made me love this--business lady?"
They looked at each other long. Upon her face death had set its seal. His hair was gray, his self-respect broken, his human worth squandered....
And then, suddenly, they clung to each other, and leaned their foreheads against each other, and wept.
Now we had her, more especially our world of Lotharios had her. Not the younger sons of high finance, who make the boudoirs unsafe with their tall collars and short breeches; nor the bearers of ancient names who, having hung up their uniforms in the evening, assume monocle and bracelet and drag these through second and third-class drawing-rooms. No, she belonged to those worthy men of middle age, who have their palaces in the west end, whose wives one treats with infinite respect, and to whose evenings one gives a final touch of elegance by singing two or three songs for nothing.
Then she committed her first folly. She went travelling with an Italian tenor. "For purposes of art," was the official version. But the time for the trip--the end of August--had been unfortunately chosen. And, as she returned ornamented with scratches administered by the tenor's pursuing wife--no one believed her.
Next winter she ruined a counsellor of a legation and magnate's son so thoroughly that he decamped to an unfrequented equatorial region, leaving behind him numerous promissory notes of questionable value.
This poor fellow was revenged the following winter by a dark-haired Roumanian fiddler, who beat her and forced her to carry her jewels to a pawnshop, where they were redeemed at half price by their original donor and used to adorn the plump, firm body of a stupid little ballet dancer.
Of course her social position was now forfeited. But then Berlin forgets so rapidly. She became proper again and returned to her earlier inclinations for gentlemen of middle life with extensive palaces and extensive wives. So there were quite a few houses--none of the strictest tone, of course--that were very glad to welcome the radiant blonde with her famous name and fragrant and modest gowns--from Paquin at ten thousand francs a piece.
At the same time she developed a remarkable business instinct. Her connections with the stock exchange permitted her to speculate without the slightest risk. For what gallant broker would let a lovely woman lose? Thus she laid the foundation of a goodly fortune, which was made to assume stately proportions by a tour through the United States, and was given a last touch of solidity by a successful speculation in Dresden real estate.
Furthermore, it would be unjust to conceal the fact that her most recent admirer, the wool manufacturer Wormser, had a considerable share in this hurtling rise of her fortunes.
Wormser guarded his good repute carefully. He insisted that his illegitimate inclinations never lack the stamp of highest elegance. He desired that they be given the greatest possible publicity at race-meets and first nights. He didn't care if people spoke with a degree of rancour, if only he was connected with the temporary lady of his heart.
Now, to be sure, there was a Mrs. Wormser. She came of a good Frankfort family. Dowry: a million and a half. She was modern to the very tips of her nervous, restless fingers.
This lady was inspired by such lofty social ideals that she would have considered an inelegant liaison on her husband's part, an insult not only offered to good taste in general, but to her own in particular. Such an one she would, never have forgiven. On the other hand, she approved of Madame Nelson thoroughly. She considered her the most costly and striking addition to her household. Quite figuratively, of course. Everything was arranged with the utmost propriety. At great charity festivals the two ladies exchanged a friendly glance, and they saw to it that their gowns were never made after the same model.
Then it happened that the house of Wormser was shaken. It wasn't a serious breakdown, but among the good things that had to be thrown overboard belonged--at the demand of the helping Frankforters--Madame Nelson.
And so she waited, like a virgin, for love, like a man in the weather bureau, for a given star. She felt that her star was yet to rise.
This was the situation when, one day, Herr von Karlstadt had himself presented to her. He was a captain of industry; international reputation; ennobled; the not undistinguished son of a great father. He had not hitherto been found in the market of love, but it was said of him that notable women had committed follies for his sake. All in all, he was a man who commanded the general interest in quite a different measure from Wormser.
But artistic successes had raised Madame Nelson's name once more, too, and when news of the accomplished fact circulated, society found it hard to decide as to which of the two lent the other a more brilliant light, or which was the more to be envied.
However that was, history was richer by a famous pair of lovers.
But, just as there had been a Mrs. Wormser, so there was a Mrs. von Karlstadt.
And it is this lady of whom I wish to speak.
Mentally as well as physically Mara von Karlstadt did not belong to that class of persons which imperatively commands the attention of the public. She was sensitive to the point of madness, a little sensuous, something of an enthusiast, coquettish only in so far as good taste demanded it, and hopelessly in love with her husband. She was in love with him to the extent that she regarded the conquests which occasionally came to him, spoiled as he was, as the inevitable consequences of her fortunate choice. They inspired her with a certain woeful anger and also with a degree of pride.
The daughter of a great land owner in South Germany, she had been brought up in seclusion, and had learned only very gradually how to glide unconcernedly through the drawing-rooms. A tense smile upon her lips, which many took for irony, was only a remnant of her old diffidence. Delicate, dark in colouring, with a fine cameo-like profile, smooth hair and a tawny look in her near-sighted eyes--thus she glided about in society, and few but friends of the house took any notice of her.
And this woman who found her most genuine satisfaction in the peacefulness of life, who was satisfied if she could slip into her carriage at midnight without the annoyance of one searching glance, of one inquiring word, saw herself suddenly and without suspecting the reason, become the centre of a secret and almost insulting curiosity. She felt a whispering behind her in society; she saw from her box the lenses of many opera glasses pointing her way.
The conversation of her friends began to teem with hints, and into the tone of the men whom she knew there crept a kind of tender compassion which pained her even though she knew not how to interpret it.
For the present no change was to be noted in the demeanour of her husband. His club and his business had always kept him away from home a good deal, and if a few extra hours of absence were now added, it was easy to account for these in harmless ways, or rather, not to account for them at all, since no one made any inquiry.
Then, however, anonymous letters began to come--thick, fragrant ones with stamped coronets, and thin ones on ruled paper with the smudges of soiled fingers.
She burned the first batch; the second she handed to her husband.
The latter, who was not far from forty, and who had trained himself to an attitude of imperious brusqueness, straightened up, knotted his bushy Bismarck moustache, and said:
"Well, suppose it is true. What have you to lose?"
She did not burst into tears of despair; she did not indulge in fits of rage; she didn't even leave the room with quiet dignity; her soul seemed neither wounded nor broken. She was not even affrighted. She only thought: "I have forgiven him so much; why not forgive him this, too?"
And as she had shared him before without feeling herself degraded, so she would try to share him again.
But she soon observed that this logic of the heart would prove wanting in this instance.
In former cases she had concealed his weakness under a veil of care and considerateness. The fear of discovery had made a conscious but silent accessory of her. When it was all over she breathed deep relief at the thought; "I am the only one who even suspected."
This time all the world seemed invited to witness the spectacle.
For now she understood all that, in recent days had tortured her like an unexplained blot, an alien daub in the face which every one sees but he whom it disfigures. Now she knew what the smiling hints of her friends and the consoling desires of men had meant. Now she recognised the reason why she was wounded by the attention of all.
She was "the wife of the man whom Madame Nelson ..."
And so torturing a shame came upon her as though she herself were the cause of the disgrace with which the world seemed to overwhelm her.
This feeling had not come upon her suddenly. At first a stabbing curiosity had awakened in her a self-torturing expectation, not without its element of morbid attraction. Daily she asked herself: "What will develope to-day?"
With quivering nerves and cramped heart, she entered evening after evening, for the season was at its height, the halls of strangers on her husband's arm.
And it was always the same thing. The same glances that passed from her to him and from him to her, the same compassionate sarcasm upon averted faces, the same hypocritical delicacy in conversation, the same sudden silence as soon as she turned to any group of people to listen--the same cruel pillory for her evening after evening, night after night.
And if all this had not been, she would have felt it just the same.
And in these drawing-rooms there were so many women whose husbands' affairs were the talk of the town. Even her predecessor, Mrs. Wormser, had passed over the expensive immorality of her husband with a self-sufficing smile and a condescending jest, and the world had bowed down to her respectfully, as it always does when scenting a temperament that it is powerless to wound.
Why had this martyrdom come to her, of all people?
Thus, half against her own will, she began to hide, to refuse this or that invitation, and to spend the free evenings in the nursery, watching over the sleep of her boys and weaving dreams of a new happiness. The illness of her older child gave her an excuse for withdrawing from society altogether and her husband did not restrain her.
It had never come to an explanation between them, and as he was always considerate, even tender, and as sharp speeches were not native to her temper, the peace of the home was not disturbed.
Soon it seemed to her, too, as though the rude inquisitiveness of the world were slowly passing away. Either one had abandoned the critical condition of her wedded happiness for more vivid topics, or else she had become accustomed to the state of affairs.
She took up a more social life, and the shame which she had felt in appearing publicly with her husband gradually died out.
What did not die out, however, was a keen desire to know the nature and appearance of the woman in whose hands lay her own destiny. How did she administer the dear possession that fate had put in her power? And when and how would she give it back?
She threw aside the last remnant of reserve and questioned friends. Then, when she was met by a smile of compassionate ignorance, she asked women. These were more ready to report. But she would not and could not believe what she was told. He had surely not degraded himself into being one of a succession of moneyed rakes. It was clear to her that, in order to soothe her grief, people slandered the woman and him with her.
In order to watch her secretly, she veiled heavily and drove to the theatre where Madame Nelson was singing. Shadowlike she cowered in the depths of a box which she had rented under an assumed name and followed with a kind of pained voluptuousness the ecstasies of love which the other woman, fully conscious of the victorious loveliness of her body, unfolded for the benefit of the breathless crowd.
With such an abandoned raising of her radiant arms, she threw herself upon his breast; with that curve of her modelled limbs, she lay before his knees.
And in her awakened a reverent, renouncing envy of a being who had so much to give, beside whom she was but a dim and poor shadow, weary with motherhood, corroded with grief.
At the same time there appeared a California mine owner, a multi-millionaire, with whom her husband had manifold business dealings. He introduced his daughters into society and himself gave a number of luxurious dinners at which he tried to assemble guests of the most exclusive character.
Just as they were about to enter a carriage to drive to the "Bristol," to one of these dinners, a message came which forced Herr von Karlstadt to take an immediate trip to his factories. He begged his wife to go instead, and she did not refuse.
The company was almost complete and the daughter of the mine owner was doing the honours of the occasion with appropriate grace when the doors of the reception room opened for the last time and through the open doorway floated rather than walked--Madame Nelson.
The petrified little group turned its glance of inquisitive horror upon Mrs. von Karlstadt, while the mine owner's daughter adjusted the necessary introductions with a grand air.
Should she go or not? No one was to be found who would offer her his arm. Her feet were paralysed. And she remained.
The company sat down at table. And since fate, in such cases, never does its work by halves, it came to pass that Madame Nelson was assigned to a seat immediately opposite her.
The people present seemed grateful to her that they had not been forced to witness a scene, and overwhelmed her with delicate signs of this gratitude. Slowly her self-control returned to her. She dared to look about her observantly, and, behold, Madame Nelson appealed to her.
Her French was faultless, her manners equally so, and when the Californian drew her into the conversation, she practised the delicate art of modest considerateness to the extent of talking past Mrs. von Karlstadt in such a way that those who did not know were not enlightened and those who knew felt their anxiety depart.
In order to thank her for this alleviation of a fatally painful situation, Mrs. von Karlstadt occasionally turned perceptibly toward the singer. For this Madame Nelson was grateful in her turn. Thus their glances began to meet in friendly fashion, their voices to cross, the atmosphere became less constrained from minute to minute, and when the meal was over the astonished assembly had come to the conclusion that Mrs. von Karlstadt was ignorant of the true state of affairs.
The news of this peculiar meeting spread like a conflagration. Her women friends hastened to congratulate her on her strength of mind; her male friends praised her loftiness of spirit. She went through the degradation which she had suffered as though it were a triumph. Only her husband went about for a time with an evil conscience and a frowning forehead.
Months went by. The quietness of summer intervened, but the memory of that evening rankled in her and blinded her soul. Slowly the thought arose in her which was really grounded in vanity, but looked, in its execution, like suffering love--the thought that she would legitimise her husband's irregularity in the face of society.
Hence when the season began again she wrote a letter to Madame Nelson in which she invited her, in a most cordial way, to sing at an approaching function in her home. She proffered this request, not only in admiration of the singer's gifts, but also, as she put it, "to render nugatory a persistent and disagreeable rumour."
Madame Nelson, to whom this chance of repairing her fair fame was very welcome, had the indiscretion to assent, and even to accept the condition of entire secrecy in regard to the affair.
The chronicler may pass over the painful evening in question with suitable delicacy of touch. Nothing obvious or crass took place. Madame Nelson sang three enchanting songs, accompanied by a first-rate pianist. A friend of the house of whom the hostess had requested this favour took Madame Nelson to the buffet. A number of guileless individuals surrounded that lady with hopeful adoration. An ecstatic mood prevailed. The one regrettable feature of the occasion was that the host had to withdraw--as quietly as possible, of course--on account of a splitting head-ache.
Berlin society, which felt wounded in the innermost depth of its ethics, never forgave the Karlstadts for this evening. I believe that in certain circles the event is still remembered, although years have passed.
Its immediate result, however, was a breach between man and wife. Mara went to the Riviera, where she remained until spring.
An apparent reconciliation was then patched up, but its validity was purely external.
Socially, too, things readjusted themselves, although people continued to speak of the Karlstadt house with a smile that asked for indulgence.
Mara felt this acutely, and while her husband appeared oftener and more openly with his mistress, she withdrew into the silence of her inner chambers.
* * * * *
Then she took a lover.
Or, rather, she was taken by him.
A lonely evening ... A fire in the chimney ... A friend who came in by accident ... The same friend who had taken care of Madame Nelson for her on that memorable evening ... The fall of snow without ... A burst of confidence ... A sob ... A nestling against the caressing hand ... It was done ...
Months passed. She experienced not one hour of intoxication, not one of that inner absolution which love brings. It was moral slackness and weariness that made her yield again....
Then the consequences appeared.
Of course, the child could not, must not, be born. And it was not born. One can imagine the horror of that tragic time: the criminal flame of sleepless nights, the blood-charged atmosphere of guilty despair, the moans of agony that had to be throttled behind closed doors.
What remained to her was lasting invalidism.
The way from her bed to an invalid's chair was long and hard.
Time passed. Improvements came and gave place to lapses in her condition. Trips to watering-places alternated with visits to sanatoriums.
In those places sat the pallid, anaemic women who had been tortured and ruined by their own or alien guilt. There they sat and engaged in wretched flirtations with flighty neurasthenics.
And gradually things went from bad to worse. The physicians shrugged their friendly shoulders.
And then it happened that Madame Nelson felt the inner necessity of running away with a handsome young tutor. She did this less out of passion than to convince the world--after having thoroughly fleeced it--of the unselfishness of her feelings. For it was her ambition to be counted among the great lovers of all time.
* * * * *
One evening von Karlstadt entered the sick chamber of his wife, sat down beside her bed and silently took her hand. She was aware of everything, and asked with a gentle smile upon her white lips:
"Be frank with me: did you love her, at least?"
He laughed shrilly. "What should have made me love this--business lady?"
They looked at each other long. Upon her face death had set its seal. His hair was gray, his self-respect broken, his human worth squandered....
And then, suddenly, they clung to each other, and leaned their foreheads against each other, and wept.
AAKOJ
17-11-2008, 00:36
Once upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess; but she would have to be a real princess. He travelled all over the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted. There were princesses enough, but it was difficult to find out whether they were real ones. There was always something about them that was not as it should be. So he came home again and was sad, for he would have liked very much to have a real princess.
One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.
It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But, good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look. The water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into the toes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that she was a real princess.
Well, we'll soon find that out, thought the old queen. But she said nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the bedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom; then she took twenty mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then twenty eider-down beds on top of the mattresses.
On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she was asked how she had slept.
"Oh, very badly!" said she. "I have scarcely closed my eyes all night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It's horrible!"
Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt the pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty eider-down beds.
Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.
So the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a real princess; and the pea was put in the museum, where it may still be seen, if no one has stolen it.
There, that is a true story.
One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.
It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But, good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look. The water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into the toes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that she was a real princess.
Well, we'll soon find that out, thought the old queen. But she said nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the bedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom; then she took twenty mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then twenty eider-down beds on top of the mattresses.
On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she was asked how she had slept.
"Oh, very badly!" said she. "I have scarcely closed my eyes all night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It's horrible!"
Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt the pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty eider-down beds.
Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.
So the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a real princess; and the pea was put in the museum, where it may still be seen, if no one has stolen it.
There, that is a true story.
AAKOJ
17-11-2008, 00:37
It's a hot day and I hate my wife.
We're playing Scrabble. That's how bad it is. I'm 42 years old, it's a blistering hot Sunday afternoon and all I can think of to do with my life is to play Scrabble.
I should be out, doing exercise, spending money, meeting people. I don't think I've spoken to anyone except my wife since Thursday morning. On Thursday morning I spoke to the milkman.
My letters are crap.
I play, appropriately, BEGIN. With the N on the little pink star. Twenty-two points.
I watch my wife's smug expression as she rearranges her letters. Clack, clack, clack. I hate her. If she wasn't around, I'd be doing something interesting right now. I'd be climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. I'd be starring in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. I'd be sailing the Vendee Globe on a 60-foot clipper called the New Horizons - I don't know, but I'd be doing something.
She plays JINXED, with the J on a double-letter score. 30 points. She's beating me already. Maybe I should kill her.
If only I had a D, then I could play MURDER. That would be a sign. That would be permission.
I start chewing on my U. It's a bad habit, I know. All the letters are frayed. I play WARMER for 22 points, mainly so I can keep chewing on my U.
As I'm picking new letters from the bag, I find myself thinking - the letters will tell me what to do. If they spell out KILL, or STAB, or her name, or anything, I'll do it right now. I'll finish her off.
My rack spells MIHZPA. Plus the U in my mouth. Damn.
The heat of the sun is pushing at me through the window. I can hear buzzing insects outside. I hope they're not bees. My cousin Harold swallowed a bee when he was nine, his throat swelled up and he died. I hope that if they are bees, they fly into my wife's throat.
She plays SWEATIER, using all her letters. 24 points plus a 50 point bonus. If it wasn't too hot to move I would strangle her right now.
I am getting sweatier. It needs to rain, to clear the air. As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I find a good word. HUMID on a double-word score, using the D of JINXED. The U makes a little splash of saliva when I put it down. Another 22 points. I hope she has lousy letters.
< 2 >
She tells me she has lousy letters. For some reason, I hate her more.
She plays FAN, with the F on a double-letter, and gets up to fill the kettle and turn on the air conditioning.
It's the hottest day for ten years and my wife is turning on the kettle. This is why I hate my wife. I play ZAPS, with the Z doubled, and she gets a static shock off the air conditioning unit. I find this remarkably satisfying.
She sits back down with a heavy sigh and starts fiddling with her letters again. Clack clack. Clack clack. I feel a terrible rage build up inside me. Some inner poison slowly spreading through my limbs, and when it gets to my fingertips I am going to jump out of my chair, spilling the Scrabble tiles over the floor, and I am going to start hitting her again and again and again.
The rage gets to my fingertips and passes. My heart is beating. I'm sweating. I think my face actually twitches. Then I sigh, deeply, and sit back into my chair. The kettle starts whistling. As the whistle builds it makes me feel hotter.
She plays READY on a double-word for 18 points, then goes to pour herself a cup of tea. No I do not want one.
I steal a blank tile from the letter bag when she's not looking, and throw back a V from my rack. She gives me a suspicious look. She sits back down with her cup of tea, making a cup-ring on the table, as I play an 8-letter word: CHEATING, using the A of READY. 64 points, including the 50-point bonus, which means I'm beating her now.
She asks me if I cheated.
I really, really hate her.
She plays IGNORE on the triple-word for 21 points. The score is 153 to her, 155 to me.
The steam rising from her cup of tea makes me feel hotter. I try to make murderous words with the letters on my rack, but the best I can do is SLEEP.
My wife sleeps all the time. She slept through an argument our next-door neighbours had that resulted in a broken door, a smashed TV and a Teletubby Lala doll with all the stuffing coming out. And then she bitched at me for being moody the next day from lack of sleep.
< 3 >
If only there was some way for me to get rid of her.
I spot a chance to use all my letters. EXPLODES, using the X of JINXED. 72 points. That'll show her.
As I put the last letter down, there is a deafening bang and the air conditioning unit fails.
My heart is racing, but not from the shock of the bang. I don't believe it - but it can't be a coincidence. The letters made it happen. I played the word EXPLODES, and it happened - the air conditioning unit exploded. And before, I played the word CHEATING when I cheated. And ZAP when my wife got the electric shock. The words are coming true. The letters are choosing their future. The whole game is - JINXED.
My wife plays SIGN, with the N on a triple-letter, for 10 points.
I have to test this.
I have to play something and see if it happens. Something unlikely, to prove that the letters are making it happen. My rack is ABQYFWE. That doesn't leave me with a lot of options. I start frantically chewing on the B.
I play FLY, using the L of EXPLODES. I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, waiting for the sensation of rising up from my chair. Waiting to fly.
Stupid. I open my eyes, and there's a fly. An insect, buzzing around above the Scrabble board, surfing the thermals from the tepid cup of tea. That proves nothing. The fly could have been there anyway.
I need to play something unambiguous. Something that cannot be misinterpreted. Something absolute and final. Something terminal. Something murderous.
My wife plays CAUTION, using a blank tile for the N. 18 points.
My rack is AQWEUK, plus the B in my mouth. I am awed by the power of the letters, and frustrated that I cannot wield it. Maybe I should cheat again, and pick out the letters I need to spell SLASH or SLAY.
Then it hits me. The perfect word. A powerful, dangerous, terrible word.
I play QUAKE for 19 points.
I wonder if the strength of the quake will be proportionate to how many points it scored. I can feel the trembling energy of potential in my veins. I am commanding fate. I am manipulating destiny.
My wife plays DEATH for 34 points, just as the room starts to shake.
I gasp with surprise and vindication - and the B that I was chewing on gets lodged in my throat. I try to cough. My face goes red, then blue. My throat swells. I draw blood clawing at my neck. The earthquake builds to a climax.
I fall to the floor. My wife just sits there, watching
We're playing Scrabble. That's how bad it is. I'm 42 years old, it's a blistering hot Sunday afternoon and all I can think of to do with my life is to play Scrabble.
I should be out, doing exercise, spending money, meeting people. I don't think I've spoken to anyone except my wife since Thursday morning. On Thursday morning I spoke to the milkman.
My letters are crap.
I play, appropriately, BEGIN. With the N on the little pink star. Twenty-two points.
I watch my wife's smug expression as she rearranges her letters. Clack, clack, clack. I hate her. If she wasn't around, I'd be doing something interesting right now. I'd be climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. I'd be starring in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. I'd be sailing the Vendee Globe on a 60-foot clipper called the New Horizons - I don't know, but I'd be doing something.
She plays JINXED, with the J on a double-letter score. 30 points. She's beating me already. Maybe I should kill her.
If only I had a D, then I could play MURDER. That would be a sign. That would be permission.
I start chewing on my U. It's a bad habit, I know. All the letters are frayed. I play WARMER for 22 points, mainly so I can keep chewing on my U.
As I'm picking new letters from the bag, I find myself thinking - the letters will tell me what to do. If they spell out KILL, or STAB, or her name, or anything, I'll do it right now. I'll finish her off.
My rack spells MIHZPA. Plus the U in my mouth. Damn.
The heat of the sun is pushing at me through the window. I can hear buzzing insects outside. I hope they're not bees. My cousin Harold swallowed a bee when he was nine, his throat swelled up and he died. I hope that if they are bees, they fly into my wife's throat.
She plays SWEATIER, using all her letters. 24 points plus a 50 point bonus. If it wasn't too hot to move I would strangle her right now.
I am getting sweatier. It needs to rain, to clear the air. As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I find a good word. HUMID on a double-word score, using the D of JINXED. The U makes a little splash of saliva when I put it down. Another 22 points. I hope she has lousy letters.
< 2 >
She tells me she has lousy letters. For some reason, I hate her more.
She plays FAN, with the F on a double-letter, and gets up to fill the kettle and turn on the air conditioning.
It's the hottest day for ten years and my wife is turning on the kettle. This is why I hate my wife. I play ZAPS, with the Z doubled, and she gets a static shock off the air conditioning unit. I find this remarkably satisfying.
She sits back down with a heavy sigh and starts fiddling with her letters again. Clack clack. Clack clack. I feel a terrible rage build up inside me. Some inner poison slowly spreading through my limbs, and when it gets to my fingertips I am going to jump out of my chair, spilling the Scrabble tiles over the floor, and I am going to start hitting her again and again and again.
The rage gets to my fingertips and passes. My heart is beating. I'm sweating. I think my face actually twitches. Then I sigh, deeply, and sit back into my chair. The kettle starts whistling. As the whistle builds it makes me feel hotter.
She plays READY on a double-word for 18 points, then goes to pour herself a cup of tea. No I do not want one.
I steal a blank tile from the letter bag when she's not looking, and throw back a V from my rack. She gives me a suspicious look. She sits back down with her cup of tea, making a cup-ring on the table, as I play an 8-letter word: CHEATING, using the A of READY. 64 points, including the 50-point bonus, which means I'm beating her now.
She asks me if I cheated.
I really, really hate her.
She plays IGNORE on the triple-word for 21 points. The score is 153 to her, 155 to me.
The steam rising from her cup of tea makes me feel hotter. I try to make murderous words with the letters on my rack, but the best I can do is SLEEP.
My wife sleeps all the time. She slept through an argument our next-door neighbours had that resulted in a broken door, a smashed TV and a Teletubby Lala doll with all the stuffing coming out. And then she bitched at me for being moody the next day from lack of sleep.
< 3 >
If only there was some way for me to get rid of her.
I spot a chance to use all my letters. EXPLODES, using the X of JINXED. 72 points. That'll show her.
As I put the last letter down, there is a deafening bang and the air conditioning unit fails.
My heart is racing, but not from the shock of the bang. I don't believe it - but it can't be a coincidence. The letters made it happen. I played the word EXPLODES, and it happened - the air conditioning unit exploded. And before, I played the word CHEATING when I cheated. And ZAP when my wife got the electric shock. The words are coming true. The letters are choosing their future. The whole game is - JINXED.
My wife plays SIGN, with the N on a triple-letter, for 10 points.
I have to test this.
I have to play something and see if it happens. Something unlikely, to prove that the letters are making it happen. My rack is ABQYFWE. That doesn't leave me with a lot of options. I start frantically chewing on the B.
I play FLY, using the L of EXPLODES. I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, waiting for the sensation of rising up from my chair. Waiting to fly.
Stupid. I open my eyes, and there's a fly. An insect, buzzing around above the Scrabble board, surfing the thermals from the tepid cup of tea. That proves nothing. The fly could have been there anyway.
I need to play something unambiguous. Something that cannot be misinterpreted. Something absolute and final. Something terminal. Something murderous.
My wife plays CAUTION, using a blank tile for the N. 18 points.
My rack is AQWEUK, plus the B in my mouth. I am awed by the power of the letters, and frustrated that I cannot wield it. Maybe I should cheat again, and pick out the letters I need to spell SLASH or SLAY.
Then it hits me. The perfect word. A powerful, dangerous, terrible word.
I play QUAKE for 19 points.
I wonder if the strength of the quake will be proportionate to how many points it scored. I can feel the trembling energy of potential in my veins. I am commanding fate. I am manipulating destiny.
My wife plays DEATH for 34 points, just as the room starts to shake.
I gasp with surprise and vindication - and the B that I was chewing on gets lodged in my throat. I try to cough. My face goes red, then blue. My throat swells. I draw blood clawing at my neck. The earthquake builds to a climax.
I fall to the floor. My wife just sits there, watching
olinda
17-11-2008, 16:00
Apples
> A Teacher teaching Maths to a seven year-old Arnav asked him, “If I give
> you one apple and one apple and one more apple, how many apples will you
> have?”
>
>
> Within a few seconds Arnav replied confidently, “Four!”
>
>
> The dismayed teacher was expecting an effortless correct answer (three).
> She was disappointed. “Maybe the child did not listen properly”, she
> thought. She repeated, “Arnav, listen carefully. It is very simple. You
> will be able to do it right if you listen carefully. If I give you one
> apple and one apple and one more apple, how many apples will you have?”
>
>
> Arnav had seen the disappointment on his teacher’s face. He calculated
> again on his fingers. But within him he was also searching for the answer
> that will make the teacher happy. His search for the answer was not for the
> correct one, but the one that will make his teacher happy. This time
> hesitatingly he replied. “Four…..”
>
>
> The disappointed stayed on the teacher’s face. She remembered Arnav loves
> Strawberries. She thought maybe he doesn’t like apples and that is making
> him lose focus. This time with exaggerated excitement and twinkling eyes
> she asked, “If I give you one strawberry and one strawberry and one more
> strawberry, they how many will Arnav have?”
>
>
> Seeing the teacher happy, young Arnav calculated on his fingers again.
> There was no pressure on him, but a little on the teacher. She wanted her
> new approach to succeed. With a hesitating smile young Arnav enquired,
> “Three”?
>
>
> The teacher now had victorious smile. Her approach had succeeded. She
> wanted to congratulate herself. But one last thing remained. Once again she
> asked him, “Now if I give you one apple and one apple and one more apple,
> how many will you have?”
>
>
> Promptly Arnav answered, “Four!”
>
>
> The teacher was aghast. ”How Arnav, How?” she demanded in a little stern
> and irritated voice.
>
>
> In a voice that was law and hesitating young Arnav replied, “Because I
> already have on apple in my bag”
>
>
> Morale of the Story: When someone gives us an answer that is different from
> what we are expecting, not necessarily they are wrong. There maybe an angle
> that we have not understood at all __________________
> A Teacher teaching Maths to a seven year-old Arnav asked him, “If I give
> you one apple and one apple and one more apple, how many apples will you
> have?”
>
>
> Within a few seconds Arnav replied confidently, “Four!”
>
>
> The dismayed teacher was expecting an effortless correct answer (three).
> She was disappointed. “Maybe the child did not listen properly”, she
> thought. She repeated, “Arnav, listen carefully. It is very simple. You
> will be able to do it right if you listen carefully. If I give you one
> apple and one apple and one more apple, how many apples will you have?”
>
>
> Arnav had seen the disappointment on his teacher’s face. He calculated
> again on his fingers. But within him he was also searching for the answer
> that will make the teacher happy. His search for the answer was not for the
> correct one, but the one that will make his teacher happy. This time
> hesitatingly he replied. “Four…..”
>
>
> The disappointed stayed on the teacher’s face. She remembered Arnav loves
> Strawberries. She thought maybe he doesn’t like apples and that is making
> him lose focus. This time with exaggerated excitement and twinkling eyes
> she asked, “If I give you one strawberry and one strawberry and one more
> strawberry, they how many will Arnav have?”
>
>
> Seeing the teacher happy, young Arnav calculated on his fingers again.
> There was no pressure on him, but a little on the teacher. She wanted her
> new approach to succeed. With a hesitating smile young Arnav enquired,
> “Three”?
>
>
> The teacher now had victorious smile. Her approach had succeeded. She
> wanted to congratulate herself. But one last thing remained. Once again she
> asked him, “Now if I give you one apple and one apple and one more apple,
> how many will you have?”
>
>
> Promptly Arnav answered, “Four!”
>
>
> The teacher was aghast. ”How Arnav, How?” she demanded in a little stern
> and irritated voice.
>
>
> In a voice that was law and hesitating young Arnav replied, “Because I
> already have on apple in my bag”
>
>
> Morale of the Story: When someone gives us an answer that is different from
> what we are expecting, not necessarily they are wrong. There maybe an angle
> that we have not understood at all __________________
AAKOJ
21-11-2008, 00:36
An elderly carpenter was ready to retire. He told his employer-contractor of his plans to leave the house-building business to live a more leisurely life with his wife and enjoy his extended family. He would miss the paycheck each week, but he wanted to retire. They could get by.
The contractor was sorry to see his good worker go & asked if he could build just one more house as a personal favor. The carpenter said yes, but over time it was easy to see that his heart was not in his work. He resorted to shoddy workmanship and used inferior materials. It was an unfortunate way to end a dedicated career.
When the carpenter finished his work, his employer came to inspect the house. Then he handed the front-door key to the carpenter and said, "This is your house... my gift to you."
The carpenter was shocked!
What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own house, he would have done it all so differently.
So it is with us. We build our lives, a day at a time, often putting less than our best into the building. Then, with a shock, we realize we have to live in the house we have built. If we could do it over, we would do it much differently.
But, you cannot go back. You are the carpenter, and every day you hammer a nail, place a board, or erect a wall. Someone once said, "Life is a do-it-yourself project." Your attitude, and the choices you make today, help build the "house" you will live in tomorrow. Therefore, Build wisely!
The contractor was sorry to see his good worker go & asked if he could build just one more house as a personal favor. The carpenter said yes, but over time it was easy to see that his heart was not in his work. He resorted to shoddy workmanship and used inferior materials. It was an unfortunate way to end a dedicated career.
When the carpenter finished his work, his employer came to inspect the house. Then he handed the front-door key to the carpenter and said, "This is your house... my gift to you."
The carpenter was shocked!
What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own house, he would have done it all so differently.
So it is with us. We build our lives, a day at a time, often putting less than our best into the building. Then, with a shock, we realize we have to live in the house we have built. If we could do it over, we would do it much differently.
But, you cannot go back. You are the carpenter, and every day you hammer a nail, place a board, or erect a wall. Someone once said, "Life is a do-it-yourself project." Your attitude, and the choices you make today, help build the "house" you will live in tomorrow. Therefore, Build wisely!
AAKOJ
21-11-2008, 00:37
A man stopped at a flower shop to order some flowers to be wired to his mother who lived two hundred miles away.
As he got out of his car he noticed a young girl sitting on the curb sobbing.
He asked her what was wrong and she replied, "I wanted to buy a red rose for my mother.
But I only have seventy-five cents, and a rose costs two dollars."
The man smiled and said, "Come on in with me. I'll buy you a rose."
He bought the little girl her rose and ordered his own mother's flowers.
As they were leaving he offered the girl a ride home.
She said, "Yes, please! You can take me to my mother."
She directed him to a cemetery, where she placed the rose on a freshly dug grave.
The man returned to the flower shop, canceled the wire order, picked up a bouquet and drove the two hundred miles to his mother's house.
As he got out of his car he noticed a young girl sitting on the curb sobbing.
He asked her what was wrong and she replied, "I wanted to buy a red rose for my mother.
But I only have seventy-five cents, and a rose costs two dollars."
The man smiled and said, "Come on in with me. I'll buy you a rose."
He bought the little girl her rose and ordered his own mother's flowers.
As they were leaving he offered the girl a ride home.
She said, "Yes, please! You can take me to my mother."
She directed him to a cemetery, where she placed the rose on a freshly dug grave.
The man returned to the flower shop, canceled the wire order, picked up a bouquet and drove the two hundred miles to his mother's house.
MaaRyaaMi
21-11-2008, 21:34
She could almost hear the prison door clanging shut.
Freedom would be gone forever, control of her destiny gone, never to return.
Wild thoughts of flight flashed through her mind. But she knew there was no escape.
She turned to the groom with a smile and repeated the words, "I do"
Freedom would be gone forever, control of her destiny gone, never to return.
Wild thoughts of flight flashed through her mind. But she knew there was no escape.
She turned to the groom with a smile and repeated the words, "I do"
MaaRyaaMi
21-11-2008, 21:50
A woman golfing with her husband and her mother was taken to the local hospital yesterday afternoon. The woman was struck by a golf cart driven by her mom.
Ginger Rogers, 55, was hit by the cart about 2 p.m. at Fairway Golf Course. She was examining her 50-foot putt on the par 5 tenth hole when she heard her mother scream. Ginger turned around just in time to see her mom driving straight toward her. The force of the collision knocked her over, and the cart then ran over her foot.
Her mom, 81 years old, said that a squirrel had jumped up into the cart looking for snacks. She tried to shoo the squirrel away. Instead, it rose up on its hind feet and made a hissing sound. Startled and frightened, the old lady hit the gas pedal.
The paramedics arrived about 15 minutes later and treated Ginger for a broken left ankle. They gave a mild sedative to her mother, who kept muttering, “Vicious, simply vicious.” Then they took Ginger to the hospital. Mr. Rogers promised his wife he would visit her after he finished his round.
John Dean, an attorney for the golf course, said the golf course was not responsible for the actions of its animals. He added, “If the ladies want to sue, they’ll have to sue the squirrel. We’re still assessing the damage to the cart and the green. It looks fairly light; I doubt that the driver will owe us more than $1,000.”
Ginger Rogers, 55, was hit by the cart about 2 p.m. at Fairway Golf Course. She was examining her 50-foot putt on the par 5 tenth hole when she heard her mother scream. Ginger turned around just in time to see her mom driving straight toward her. The force of the collision knocked her over, and the cart then ran over her foot.
Her mom, 81 years old, said that a squirrel had jumped up into the cart looking for snacks. She tried to shoo the squirrel away. Instead, it rose up on its hind feet and made a hissing sound. Startled and frightened, the old lady hit the gas pedal.
The paramedics arrived about 15 minutes later and treated Ginger for a broken left ankle. They gave a mild sedative to her mother, who kept muttering, “Vicious, simply vicious.” Then they took Ginger to the hospital. Mr. Rogers promised his wife he would visit her after he finished his round.
John Dean, an attorney for the golf course, said the golf course was not responsible for the actions of its animals. He added, “If the ladies want to sue, they’ll have to sue the squirrel. We’re still assessing the damage to the cart and the green. It looks fairly light; I doubt that the driver will owe us more than $1,000.”
jnicou
24-12-2008, 15:39
Two soldiers were in camp. The first one's name was George, and the second one's name was Bill. George said, 'Have you got a piece of paper and an envelope, Bill?'
Bill said, 'Yes, I have,' and he gave them to him.
Then George said, 'Now I haven't got a pen.' Bill gave him his, and George wrote his letter. Then he put it in the envelope and said, 'Have you got a stamp, Bill?' Bill gave him one.
Then Bill got up and went to the door, so George said to him, 'Are you going out?
Bill said, 'Yes, I am,' and he opened the door.
George said, 'Please put my letter in the box in the office, and ... ' He stopped.
'What do you want now?' Bill said to him.
George looked at the envelope of his letter and answered, 'What's your girl-friend's address?'
دو سرباز در يك پادگان بودند. نام اولي جرج بود، و نام دومي بيل بود. جرج گفت: بيل، يك تيكه كاغذ و يك پاكت نامه داري؟
بيل گفت: بله دارم. و آنها را به وي داد.
سپس جرج گفت: حالا من خودكار ندارم. بيل به وي خودكارش را داد، و جرج نامهاش را نوشت. سپس آن را در پاكت گذاشت و گفت: بيل، آيا تمبر داري؟. بيل يك تمبر به او داد.
در آن هنگام بيل بلند شد و به سمت در رفت، بنابراين جرج به او گفت: آيا بيرون ميروي؟.
بيل گفت: بله، ميروم. و در را باز كرد.
جرج گفت: لطفا نامهي مرا در صندوق پست بياندازيد، و ... . او مكث كرد.
بيل به وي گفت: ديگه چي ميخواهي؟
جرج به پاكت نامهاش نگاه كرد و گفت: آدرس دوست دخترت چيه؟.
Bill said, 'Yes, I have,' and he gave them to him.
Then George said, 'Now I haven't got a pen.' Bill gave him his, and George wrote his letter. Then he put it in the envelope and said, 'Have you got a stamp, Bill?' Bill gave him one.
Then Bill got up and went to the door, so George said to him, 'Are you going out?
Bill said, 'Yes, I am,' and he opened the door.
George said, 'Please put my letter in the box in the office, and ... ' He stopped.
'What do you want now?' Bill said to him.
George looked at the envelope of his letter and answered, 'What's your girl-friend's address?'
دو سرباز در يك پادگان بودند. نام اولي جرج بود، و نام دومي بيل بود. جرج گفت: بيل، يك تيكه كاغذ و يك پاكت نامه داري؟
بيل گفت: بله دارم. و آنها را به وي داد.
سپس جرج گفت: حالا من خودكار ندارم. بيل به وي خودكارش را داد، و جرج نامهاش را نوشت. سپس آن را در پاكت گذاشت و گفت: بيل، آيا تمبر داري؟. بيل يك تمبر به او داد.
در آن هنگام بيل بلند شد و به سمت در رفت، بنابراين جرج به او گفت: آيا بيرون ميروي؟.
بيل گفت: بله، ميروم. و در را باز كرد.
جرج گفت: لطفا نامهي مرا در صندوق پست بياندازيد، و ... . او مكث كرد.
بيل به وي گفت: ديگه چي ميخواهي؟
جرج به پاكت نامهاش نگاه كرد و گفت: آدرس دوست دخترت چيه؟.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 15:40
GIFTS FOR MOTHER
Four brothers left home for college, and they became successful doctors and lawyers and prospered. Some years later, they chatted after having dinner together. They discussed the gifts that they were able to give to their elderly mother, who lived far away in another city.
The first said, “I had a big house built for Mama. The second said, “I had a hundred thousand dollar theater built in the house. The third said, “I had my Mercedes dealer deliver her an SL600 with a chauffeur. The fourth said, “Listen to this. You know how Mama loved reading the Bible and you know she can’t read it anymore because she can’t see very well. I met this monk who told me about a parrot that can recite the entire Bible. It took 20 monks 12 years to teach him. I had to pledge them $100,000 a year for 20 years to the church, but it was worth it. Mama just has to name the chapter and verse and the parrot will recite it.” The other brothers were impressed.
After the holidays Mama sent out her Thank You notes. She wrote: Dear Milton, the house you built is so huge. I live in only one room, but I have to clean the whole house. Thanks anyway.
Dear Mike, you gave me an expensive theater with Dolby sound, it could hold 50 people, but all my friends are dead, I’ve lost my hearing and I’m nearly blind. I’ll never use it. But thank you for the gesture just the same.
Dear Marvin, I am too old to travel. I stay home, I have my groceries delivered, so I never use the Mercedes … and the driver you hired is a big jerk. But the thought was good. Thanks.
Dearest Melvin, you were the only son to have the good sense to give a little thought to your gift. The chicken was delicious. Thank you.”
چهار برادر ، خانه شان را به قصد تحصیل ترک کردند و دکتر،قاضی و آدمهای موفقی شدند. چند سال بعد،آنها بعد از شامی که باهم داشتند حرف زدند.اونا درمورد هدایایی که تونستن به مادر پیرشون که دور از اونها در شهر دیگه ای زندگی می کرد ،صحبت کردن.
اولی گفت: من خونه بزرگی برای مادرم ساختم . دومی گفت: من تماشاخانه(سالن تئاتر) یکصد هزار دلاری در خانه ساختم. سومی گفت : من ماشین مرسدسی با راننده کرایه کردم که مادرم به سفر بره.
چهارمی گفت: گوش کنید، همتون می دونید که مادر چقدر خوندن کتاب مقدس رو دوست داره، و میدونین که نمی تونه هیچ چیزی رو خوب بخونه چون جشماش نمیتونه خوب ببینه . شماها میدونید که مادر چقدر خوندن کتاب مقدس را دوست داشت و میدونین هیچ وقت نمی تونه بخونه ، چون چشماش خوب نمی بینه. من ، راهبی رو دیدم که به من گفت یه طوطی هست که میتونه تمام کتاب مقدس رو حفظ بخونه . این طوطی با کمک بیست راهب و در طول دوازده سال اینو یاد گرفت. من ناچارا تعهد کردم به مدت بیست سال و هر سال صد هزار دلار به کلیسا بپردازم. مادر فقط باید اسم فصل ها و آیه ها رو بگه و طوطی از حفظ براش می خونه. برادرای دیگه تحت تاثیر قرار گرفتن.
پس از ایام تعطیل، مادر یادداشت تشکری فرستاد. اون نوشت: میلتون عزیز، خونه ای که برام ساختی خیلی بزرگه .من فقط تو یک اتاق زندگی می کنم ولی مجبورم تمام خونه رو تمییز کنم.به هر حال ممنونم.
مایک عزیز،تو به من تماشاخانه ای گرونقیمت با صدای دالبی دادی.اون ،میتونه پنجاه نفرو جا بده ولی من همه دوستامو از دست دادم ، من شنوایییم رو از دست دادم و تقریبا ناشنوام .هیچ وقت از اون استفاده نمی کنم ولی از این کارت ممنونم.
ماروین عزیز، من خیلی پیرم که به سفر برم.من تو خونه می مونم ،مغازه بقالی ام رو دارم پس هیچ وقت از مرسدس استفاده نمی کنم. این ماشین خیلی تند تکون می خوره. اما فکرت خوب بود ممنونم
ملوین عزیز ترینم ،تو تنها پسری هستی که با فکر کوچیکت بعنوان هدیه ات منو خوشحال کردی. جوجه ، خیلی خوشمزه بود!! ممنونم
Four brothers left home for college, and they became successful doctors and lawyers and prospered. Some years later, they chatted after having dinner together. They discussed the gifts that they were able to give to their elderly mother, who lived far away in another city.
The first said, “I had a big house built for Mama. The second said, “I had a hundred thousand dollar theater built in the house. The third said, “I had my Mercedes dealer deliver her an SL600 with a chauffeur. The fourth said, “Listen to this. You know how Mama loved reading the Bible and you know she can’t read it anymore because she can’t see very well. I met this monk who told me about a parrot that can recite the entire Bible. It took 20 monks 12 years to teach him. I had to pledge them $100,000 a year for 20 years to the church, but it was worth it. Mama just has to name the chapter and verse and the parrot will recite it.” The other brothers were impressed.
After the holidays Mama sent out her Thank You notes. She wrote: Dear Milton, the house you built is so huge. I live in only one room, but I have to clean the whole house. Thanks anyway.
Dear Mike, you gave me an expensive theater with Dolby sound, it could hold 50 people, but all my friends are dead, I’ve lost my hearing and I’m nearly blind. I’ll never use it. But thank you for the gesture just the same.
Dear Marvin, I am too old to travel. I stay home, I have my groceries delivered, so I never use the Mercedes … and the driver you hired is a big jerk. But the thought was good. Thanks.
Dearest Melvin, you were the only son to have the good sense to give a little thought to your gift. The chicken was delicious. Thank you.”
چهار برادر ، خانه شان را به قصد تحصیل ترک کردند و دکتر،قاضی و آدمهای موفقی شدند. چند سال بعد،آنها بعد از شامی که باهم داشتند حرف زدند.اونا درمورد هدایایی که تونستن به مادر پیرشون که دور از اونها در شهر دیگه ای زندگی می کرد ،صحبت کردن.
اولی گفت: من خونه بزرگی برای مادرم ساختم . دومی گفت: من تماشاخانه(سالن تئاتر) یکصد هزار دلاری در خانه ساختم. سومی گفت : من ماشین مرسدسی با راننده کرایه کردم که مادرم به سفر بره.
چهارمی گفت: گوش کنید، همتون می دونید که مادر چقدر خوندن کتاب مقدس رو دوست داره، و میدونین که نمی تونه هیچ چیزی رو خوب بخونه چون جشماش نمیتونه خوب ببینه . شماها میدونید که مادر چقدر خوندن کتاب مقدس را دوست داشت و میدونین هیچ وقت نمی تونه بخونه ، چون چشماش خوب نمی بینه. من ، راهبی رو دیدم که به من گفت یه طوطی هست که میتونه تمام کتاب مقدس رو حفظ بخونه . این طوطی با کمک بیست راهب و در طول دوازده سال اینو یاد گرفت. من ناچارا تعهد کردم به مدت بیست سال و هر سال صد هزار دلار به کلیسا بپردازم. مادر فقط باید اسم فصل ها و آیه ها رو بگه و طوطی از حفظ براش می خونه. برادرای دیگه تحت تاثیر قرار گرفتن.
پس از ایام تعطیل، مادر یادداشت تشکری فرستاد. اون نوشت: میلتون عزیز، خونه ای که برام ساختی خیلی بزرگه .من فقط تو یک اتاق زندگی می کنم ولی مجبورم تمام خونه رو تمییز کنم.به هر حال ممنونم.
مایک عزیز،تو به من تماشاخانه ای گرونقیمت با صدای دالبی دادی.اون ،میتونه پنجاه نفرو جا بده ولی من همه دوستامو از دست دادم ، من شنوایییم رو از دست دادم و تقریبا ناشنوام .هیچ وقت از اون استفاده نمی کنم ولی از این کارت ممنونم.
ماروین عزیز، من خیلی پیرم که به سفر برم.من تو خونه می مونم ،مغازه بقالی ام رو دارم پس هیچ وقت از مرسدس استفاده نمی کنم. این ماشین خیلی تند تکون می خوره. اما فکرت خوب بود ممنونم
ملوین عزیز ترینم ،تو تنها پسری هستی که با فکر کوچیکت بعنوان هدیه ات منو خوشحال کردی. جوجه ، خیلی خوشمزه بود!! ممنونم
jnicou
24-12-2008, 15:41
John lived with his mother in a rather big house, and when she died, the house became too big for him so he bought a smaller one in the next street. There was a very nice old clock in his first house, and when the men came to take his furniture to the new house, John thought, I am not going to let them carry my beautiful old clock in their truck. Perhaps they’ll break it, and then mending it will be very expensive.' So he picked it up and began to carry it down the road in his arms.
It was heavy so he stopped two or three times to have a rest.
Then suddenly a small boy came along the road. He stopped and looked at John for a few seconds. Then he said to John, 'You're a stupid man, aren't you? Why don't you buy a watch like everybody else?
جان با مادرش در يك خانهي تقريبا بزرگي زندگي ميكرد، و هنگامي كه او (مادرش) مرد، آن خانه براي او خيلي بزرگ شد. بنابراين خانهي كوچكتري در خيابان بعدي خريد. در خانهي قبلي يك ساعت خيلي زيباي قديمي وجود داشت، و وقتي كارگرها براي جابهجايي اثاثيهي خانه به خانهي جديد، آْمدند. جان فكر كرد، من نخواهم گذاشت كه آنها ساعت قديمي و زيباي مرا با كاميونشان حمل كنند. شايد آن را بشكنند، و تعمير آن خيلي گران خواهد بود. بنابراين او آن در بين بازوانش گرفت و به سمت پايين جاد حمل كرد.
آن سنگين بود بنابراين دو يا سه بار براي استراحت توقف كرد.
در آن پسر بچهاي هنگام ناگهان در طول جاده آمد. ايستاد و براي چند لحظه به جان نگاه كرد. سپس به جان گفت: شما مرد احمقي هستيد، نيستيد؟ چرا شما يه ساعت مثل بقيهي مردم نميخريد؟
It was heavy so he stopped two or three times to have a rest.
Then suddenly a small boy came along the road. He stopped and looked at John for a few seconds. Then he said to John, 'You're a stupid man, aren't you? Why don't you buy a watch like everybody else?
جان با مادرش در يك خانهي تقريبا بزرگي زندگي ميكرد، و هنگامي كه او (مادرش) مرد، آن خانه براي او خيلي بزرگ شد. بنابراين خانهي كوچكتري در خيابان بعدي خريد. در خانهي قبلي يك ساعت خيلي زيباي قديمي وجود داشت، و وقتي كارگرها براي جابهجايي اثاثيهي خانه به خانهي جديد، آْمدند. جان فكر كرد، من نخواهم گذاشت كه آنها ساعت قديمي و زيباي مرا با كاميونشان حمل كنند. شايد آن را بشكنند، و تعمير آن خيلي گران خواهد بود. بنابراين او آن در بين بازوانش گرفت و به سمت پايين جاد حمل كرد.
آن سنگين بود بنابراين دو يا سه بار براي استراحت توقف كرد.
در آن پسر بچهاي هنگام ناگهان در طول جاده آمد. ايستاد و براي چند لحظه به جان نگاه كرد. سپس به جان گفت: شما مرد احمقي هستيد، نيستيد؟ چرا شما يه ساعت مثل بقيهي مردم نميخريد؟
jnicou
24-12-2008, 15:42
a talking frog!
An older gentleman was playing a round of golf. Suddenly his ball sliced and landed in a shallow pond. As he was attempting to retrieve the ball he discovered a frog that, to his great surprise, started to speak! "Kiss me, and I will change into a beautiful princess, and I will be yours for a week." He picked up the frog and placed it in his pocket.
As he continued to play golf, the frog repeated its message. "Kiss me, and I will change into a beautiful princess, and I will be yours for a whole month!" The man continued to play his golf game and once again the frog spoke out. "Kiss me, and I will change into a beautiful princess, and I will be yours for a whole year!" Finally, the old man turned to the frog and exclaimed, "At my age, I’d rather have a talking frog!"
پيرمردي، در حال بازي كردن گلف بود. ناگهان توپش به خارج از زمين و داخل بركهي كمآبي رفت. همانطور كه در حال براي پيدا كردن مجدد توپ تلاش ميكرد با نهايت تعجب متوجه شد كه يك قورباغه شروع به حرف زدن كرد: مرا ببوس، و من به شاهزادهي زيبا تبديل شوم، و براي يك هفته براي شما خواهم بود. او قورباغه را برداشت و در جيبش گذاشت.
همانطور كه داشت به بازي گلف ادامه ميداد، قورباغه همين پيغام را تكرار كرد «مرا ببوس، و من به شاهزادهي زيبا تبديل شوم، و براي يك ماه براي شما خواهم بود». آن مرد همچنان به بازي گلفش ادامه داد و يك بار ديگر قورباغه گفت: مرا ببوس، و من به شاهزادهي زيبا تبديل شوم، و براي يك سال براي شما خواهم بود. سرانجام، پيرمرد رو به قورباغه كرد و بانگ زد: با اين سن، ترجیح ميدم يه قورباغه سخنگو داشته باشم.
An older gentleman was playing a round of golf. Suddenly his ball sliced and landed in a shallow pond. As he was attempting to retrieve the ball he discovered a frog that, to his great surprise, started to speak! "Kiss me, and I will change into a beautiful princess, and I will be yours for a week." He picked up the frog and placed it in his pocket.
As he continued to play golf, the frog repeated its message. "Kiss me, and I will change into a beautiful princess, and I will be yours for a whole month!" The man continued to play his golf game and once again the frog spoke out. "Kiss me, and I will change into a beautiful princess, and I will be yours for a whole year!" Finally, the old man turned to the frog and exclaimed, "At my age, I’d rather have a talking frog!"
پيرمردي، در حال بازي كردن گلف بود. ناگهان توپش به خارج از زمين و داخل بركهي كمآبي رفت. همانطور كه در حال براي پيدا كردن مجدد توپ تلاش ميكرد با نهايت تعجب متوجه شد كه يك قورباغه شروع به حرف زدن كرد: مرا ببوس، و من به شاهزادهي زيبا تبديل شوم، و براي يك هفته براي شما خواهم بود. او قورباغه را برداشت و در جيبش گذاشت.
همانطور كه داشت به بازي گلف ادامه ميداد، قورباغه همين پيغام را تكرار كرد «مرا ببوس، و من به شاهزادهي زيبا تبديل شوم، و براي يك ماه براي شما خواهم بود». آن مرد همچنان به بازي گلفش ادامه داد و يك بار ديگر قورباغه گفت: مرا ببوس، و من به شاهزادهي زيبا تبديل شوم، و براي يك سال براي شما خواهم بود. سرانجام، پيرمرد رو به قورباغه كرد و بانگ زد: با اين سن، ترجیح ميدم يه قورباغه سخنگو داشته باشم.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 15:42
The Peacock and the Tortoise
The Peacock and the Tortoise ONCE upon a time a peacock and a tortoise became great friends. The peacock lived on a tree by the banks of the stream in which the tortoise had his home. Everyday, after he had a drink of water, the peacock will dance near the stream to the amusement of his tortoise friend.
One unfortunate day, a bird-catcher caught the peacock and was about to take him away to the market. The unhappy bird begged his captor to allow him to bid his friend, the tortoise good-bye.
The bird-catcher allowed him his request and took him to the tortoise. The tortoise was greatly disturbed to see his friend a captive.
The tortoise asked the bird-catcher to let the peacock go in return for an expensive present. The bird-catcher agreed. The tortoise then, dived into the water and in a few seconds came up with a handsome pearl, to the great astonishment of the bird-catcher. As this was beyond his exceptions, he let the peacock go immediately.
A short time after, the greedy man came back and told the tortoise that he had not paid enough for the release of his friend, and threatened to catch the peacock again unless an exact match of the pearl is given to him. The tortoise, who had already advised his friend, the peacock, to leave the place to a distant jungle upon being set free, was greatly enraged at the greed of this man.
“Well,” said the tortoise, “if you insist on having another pearl like it, give it to me and I will fish you out an exact match for it.” Due to his greed, the bird-catcher gave the pearl to the tortoise, who swam away with it saying, “I am no fool to take one and give two!” The tortoise then disappeared into the water, leaving the bird-catcher without a single pearl.
طاووس و لاک پشت
روزی روزگاری،طاووس و لاک پشتی بودن که دوستای خوبی برای هم بودن.طاووس نزدیک درخت کنار رودی که لاک پشت زندگی می کرد، خونه داشت.. هر روز پس از اینکه طاووس نزدیک رودخانه آبی می خورد ، برای سرگرم کردن دوستش می رقصید.
یک روز بدشانس، یک شکارچی پرنده، طاووس را به دام انداخت و خواست که اونو به بازار ببره. پرنده غمگین، از شکارچی اش خواهش کرد که بهش اجازه بده از لاک پشت خداحافظی کنه.
شکارچی خواهش طاووس رو قبول کرد و اونو پیش لاک پشت برد. لاک پشت از این که میدید دوستش اسیر شده خیلی ناراحت شد.اون از شکارچی خواهش کرد که طاووس رو در عوض دادن هدیه ای باارزش رها کنه. شکارچی قبول کرد.بعد، لاکپشت داخل آب شیرجه زد و بعد از لحظه ای با مرواریدی زیبا بیرون اومد. شکارچی که از دیدن این کار لاک پشت متحیر شده بود فوری اجازه داد که طاووس بره. مدت کوتاهی بعد از این ماجرا، مرد حریص برگشت و به لاک پشت گفت که برای آزادی پرنده ، چیز کمی گرفته و تهدید کرد که دوباره طاووس رو اسیر میکنه مگه اینکه مروارید دیگه ای شبیه مروارید قبلی بگیره. لاک پشت که قبلا به دوستش نصیحت کرده بود برای آزاد بودن ، به جنگل دوردستی بره ،خیلی از دست مرد حریص، عصبانی شد.
لاک پشت گفت:بسیار خوب، اگه اصرار داری مروارید دیگه ای شبیه قبلی داشته باشی، مروارید رو به من بده تا عین اونو برات پیدا کنم. شکارچی به خاطر طمعش ،مروارید رو به لاک پشت داد. لاک پشت درحالیکه با شنا کردن از مرد دور می شد گفت: من نادان نیستم که یکی بگیرم و دوتا بدم. بعد بدون اینکه حتی یه مروارید به شکارجی بده، در آب ناپدید شد.
The Peacock and the Tortoise ONCE upon a time a peacock and a tortoise became great friends. The peacock lived on a tree by the banks of the stream in which the tortoise had his home. Everyday, after he had a drink of water, the peacock will dance near the stream to the amusement of his tortoise friend.
One unfortunate day, a bird-catcher caught the peacock and was about to take him away to the market. The unhappy bird begged his captor to allow him to bid his friend, the tortoise good-bye.
The bird-catcher allowed him his request and took him to the tortoise. The tortoise was greatly disturbed to see his friend a captive.
The tortoise asked the bird-catcher to let the peacock go in return for an expensive present. The bird-catcher agreed. The tortoise then, dived into the water and in a few seconds came up with a handsome pearl, to the great astonishment of the bird-catcher. As this was beyond his exceptions, he let the peacock go immediately.
A short time after, the greedy man came back and told the tortoise that he had not paid enough for the release of his friend, and threatened to catch the peacock again unless an exact match of the pearl is given to him. The tortoise, who had already advised his friend, the peacock, to leave the place to a distant jungle upon being set free, was greatly enraged at the greed of this man.
“Well,” said the tortoise, “if you insist on having another pearl like it, give it to me and I will fish you out an exact match for it.” Due to his greed, the bird-catcher gave the pearl to the tortoise, who swam away with it saying, “I am no fool to take one and give two!” The tortoise then disappeared into the water, leaving the bird-catcher without a single pearl.
طاووس و لاک پشت
روزی روزگاری،طاووس و لاک پشتی بودن که دوستای خوبی برای هم بودن.طاووس نزدیک درخت کنار رودی که لاک پشت زندگی می کرد، خونه داشت.. هر روز پس از اینکه طاووس نزدیک رودخانه آبی می خورد ، برای سرگرم کردن دوستش می رقصید.
یک روز بدشانس، یک شکارچی پرنده، طاووس را به دام انداخت و خواست که اونو به بازار ببره. پرنده غمگین، از شکارچی اش خواهش کرد که بهش اجازه بده از لاک پشت خداحافظی کنه.
شکارچی خواهش طاووس رو قبول کرد و اونو پیش لاک پشت برد. لاک پشت از این که میدید دوستش اسیر شده خیلی ناراحت شد.اون از شکارچی خواهش کرد که طاووس رو در عوض دادن هدیه ای باارزش رها کنه. شکارچی قبول کرد.بعد، لاکپشت داخل آب شیرجه زد و بعد از لحظه ای با مرواریدی زیبا بیرون اومد. شکارچی که از دیدن این کار لاک پشت متحیر شده بود فوری اجازه داد که طاووس بره. مدت کوتاهی بعد از این ماجرا، مرد حریص برگشت و به لاک پشت گفت که برای آزادی پرنده ، چیز کمی گرفته و تهدید کرد که دوباره طاووس رو اسیر میکنه مگه اینکه مروارید دیگه ای شبیه مروارید قبلی بگیره. لاک پشت که قبلا به دوستش نصیحت کرده بود برای آزاد بودن ، به جنگل دوردستی بره ،خیلی از دست مرد حریص، عصبانی شد.
لاک پشت گفت:بسیار خوب، اگه اصرار داری مروارید دیگه ای شبیه قبلی داشته باشی، مروارید رو به من بده تا عین اونو برات پیدا کنم. شکارچی به خاطر طمعش ،مروارید رو به لاک پشت داد. لاک پشت درحالیکه با شنا کردن از مرد دور می شد گفت: من نادان نیستم که یکی بگیرم و دوتا بدم. بعد بدون اینکه حتی یه مروارید به شکارجی بده، در آب ناپدید شد.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 15:43
عاقبت ويسـكي خوري !
Harry did not stop his car at some traffic-lights when they were red, and he hit another car. Harry jumped out and went to it. There was an old man in the car. He was very frightened and said to Harry, 'What are you doing? You nearly killed me!'
'Yes,' Harry answered, 'I'm very sorry.' He took a bottle out of his car and said, 'Drink some of this. Then you’ll feel better.' He gave the man some whisky, and the man drank it, but then he shouted again,'You nearly killed me.'
Harry gave him the bottle again, and the old man drank a lot of the whisky. Then he smiled and said to Harry, 'Thank you. I feel much better now. But why aren't you drinking?'
'Oh, well,' Harry answered, 'I don't want any whisky now. I'm going to sit here and wait for the police.'
هري از چند چراغ راهنمايي وقتي كه قرمز بود عبور كرد و توقف نكرد، و به ماشين ديگهاي زد. هري (از ماشينش) خارج شد و به سمت آن ماشين رفت. در آن ماشين پيرمردي بود. خيلي ترسيده بود و به هري گفت: چي كار ميكني، كم مونده بود منو بكشي!
هري پاسخ داد: بله، خيلي متأسفم. يك بطري از ماشينش درآورد و گفت: مقداري از اين بنوشيد. پس از آن احساس بهتري خواهيد داشت. او به آن مرد مقداري ويسكي داد، و آن مرد آن را نوشيد، اما دوباره او فرياد زد: كم مونده بود منو بكشي.
هري دوباره بطري را به او داد، و پيرمرد مقداري ويسكي نوشيد. پس از آن خنديد و به هري گفت: متشكرم، حالا احساس ميكنم خيلي بهتر شدم. اما شما چرا نمينوشي؟
هري پاسخ داد: آه، بله، من الان ويسكي نميخواهم. ميخواهم اينجا منتظر پليس بنشينم.
Harry did not stop his car at some traffic-lights when they were red, and he hit another car. Harry jumped out and went to it. There was an old man in the car. He was very frightened and said to Harry, 'What are you doing? You nearly killed me!'
'Yes,' Harry answered, 'I'm very sorry.' He took a bottle out of his car and said, 'Drink some of this. Then you’ll feel better.' He gave the man some whisky, and the man drank it, but then he shouted again,'You nearly killed me.'
Harry gave him the bottle again, and the old man drank a lot of the whisky. Then he smiled and said to Harry, 'Thank you. I feel much better now. But why aren't you drinking?'
'Oh, well,' Harry answered, 'I don't want any whisky now. I'm going to sit here and wait for the police.'
هري از چند چراغ راهنمايي وقتي كه قرمز بود عبور كرد و توقف نكرد، و به ماشين ديگهاي زد. هري (از ماشينش) خارج شد و به سمت آن ماشين رفت. در آن ماشين پيرمردي بود. خيلي ترسيده بود و به هري گفت: چي كار ميكني، كم مونده بود منو بكشي!
هري پاسخ داد: بله، خيلي متأسفم. يك بطري از ماشينش درآورد و گفت: مقداري از اين بنوشيد. پس از آن احساس بهتري خواهيد داشت. او به آن مرد مقداري ويسكي داد، و آن مرد آن را نوشيد، اما دوباره او فرياد زد: كم مونده بود منو بكشي.
هري دوباره بطري را به او داد، و پيرمرد مقداري ويسكي نوشيد. پس از آن خنديد و به هري گفت: متشكرم، حالا احساس ميكنم خيلي بهتر شدم. اما شما چرا نمينوشي؟
هري پاسخ داد: آه، بله، من الان ويسكي نميخواهم. ميخواهم اينجا منتظر پليس بنشينم.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 15:44
A group of frogs were traveling through the woods, and two of them fell into a deep pit When the other frogs saw how deep the pit was, they told the two frogs that they were as good as dead The two frogs ignored the comments and tried to jump up out of the pit with all their migh The other frogs kept telling them to stop, that they were as good as dead Finally, one of the frogs took heed to what the other frogs were saying and gave up. He fell down and died The other frog continued to jump as hard as he could. Once again, the crowd of frogs yelled at him to stop the pain and just die He jumped even harder and finally made it out When he got out, the other frogs said, "Did you not hear us?" The frog explained to them that he was deaf. He thought they were encouraging him the entire time.
This story teaches two lessons
There is power of life and death in the tongue An encouraging word to someone who is down can lift them up and help them make it through the day
A destructive word to someone who is down can be what it takes to kill them
So, be careful of what you say
گروهی از قورباغه ها از بیشه ای عبور می کردند . دو قورباغه از بین آنها درون گودال عمیقی افتادند. وقتی دیگر قورباغه ها دیدند که گودال چقدر عمیق است ،به دو قورباغه گفتند آنها دیگر می میرند. دو قورباغه نصایح آنها را نادیده گرفتند و سعی کردند با تمام توانشان از گودال بیرون بپرند. سرانجام یکی از آنها به آنچه دیگر قورباغه ها می گفتند، اعتنا کرد و دست از تلاش برداشت. به زمین افتاد و مرد. قورباغه دیگر به تلاش ادامه داد تا جایی که توان داشت. بار دیگر قورباغه ها سرش فریاد کشیدند که دست از رنج کشیدن بردارد و بمیرد. او سخت تر شروع به پریدن کرد و سرانجام بیرون آمد. وقتی او از آنجا خارج شد. قورباغه های دیگر به او گفتند :آیا صدای ما را نشنیدی؟ قورباغه به آنها توضیح داد که او ناشنوا است.او فکر کرد که قورباغه ها، تمام مدت او را تشویق می کردند.
این داستان دو درس به ما می آموزد:
1- قدرت زندگی و مرگ در زبان است. یک واژه دلگرم کننده به کسی که غمگین است می تواند باعث پیشرفت او شود و کمک کند در طول روز سرزنده باشند.
2- یک واژه مخرب به کسی که غمگین است می تواند موجب مرگ او شود.
This story teaches two lessons
There is power of life and death in the tongue An encouraging word to someone who is down can lift them up and help them make it through the day
A destructive word to someone who is down can be what it takes to kill them
So, be careful of what you say
گروهی از قورباغه ها از بیشه ای عبور می کردند . دو قورباغه از بین آنها درون گودال عمیقی افتادند. وقتی دیگر قورباغه ها دیدند که گودال چقدر عمیق است ،به دو قورباغه گفتند آنها دیگر می میرند. دو قورباغه نصایح آنها را نادیده گرفتند و سعی کردند با تمام توانشان از گودال بیرون بپرند. سرانجام یکی از آنها به آنچه دیگر قورباغه ها می گفتند، اعتنا کرد و دست از تلاش برداشت. به زمین افتاد و مرد. قورباغه دیگر به تلاش ادامه داد تا جایی که توان داشت. بار دیگر قورباغه ها سرش فریاد کشیدند که دست از رنج کشیدن بردارد و بمیرد. او سخت تر شروع به پریدن کرد و سرانجام بیرون آمد. وقتی او از آنجا خارج شد. قورباغه های دیگر به او گفتند :آیا صدای ما را نشنیدی؟ قورباغه به آنها توضیح داد که او ناشنوا است.او فکر کرد که قورباغه ها، تمام مدت او را تشویق می کردند.
این داستان دو درس به ما می آموزد:
1- قدرت زندگی و مرگ در زبان است. یک واژه دلگرم کننده به کسی که غمگین است می تواند باعث پیشرفت او شود و کمک کند در طول روز سرزنده باشند.
2- یک واژه مخرب به کسی که غمگین است می تواند موجب مرگ او شود.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 15:44
Prescription
A woman accompanied her husband to the doctor's office. After the check-up, the doctor took the wife aside and said, "If you don't do the following, your husband will surely die."
"1-Each morning, makes him a healthy breakfast and sends him off to work in a good mood."
"2-At lunchtime, make him a warm, nutritious meal and put him in a good form of mind before he goes back to work."
"3-For dinner, make an especially nice meal and don't burden him with household chores."
At home, the husband asked his wife what the doctor had told her. "You're going to die." She replied.
نسخه
خانمی شوهرش را به مطب دکتر برد. بعد از معاینه؛ دکتر، خانم را به طرفی برد و گفت: اگر شما این کارها را انجام ندهید، به طور حتم شوهرتان خواهد مرد.
1- هر صبح، برایش یک صبحانه ی مقوی درست کنید و با روحیه ی خوب او را به سرکار بفرستید.
2- هنگام ناهار، غذای مغذی و گرم درست کنید و قبل از اینکه به سرکار برود او را در یک محیط خوب مورد توجه قرار بدهید.
3- برای شام، یک غذای خوب و مخصوص درست کنید و او در کارهای خانه كمك نکند.
در خانه، شوهر از همسرش پرسید دکتر به او چه گفت: او (خانم) گفت: شما خواهید مرد.
A woman accompanied her husband to the doctor's office. After the check-up, the doctor took the wife aside and said, "If you don't do the following, your husband will surely die."
"1-Each morning, makes him a healthy breakfast and sends him off to work in a good mood."
"2-At lunchtime, make him a warm, nutritious meal and put him in a good form of mind before he goes back to work."
"3-For dinner, make an especially nice meal and don't burden him with household chores."
At home, the husband asked his wife what the doctor had told her. "You're going to die." She replied.
نسخه
خانمی شوهرش را به مطب دکتر برد. بعد از معاینه؛ دکتر، خانم را به طرفی برد و گفت: اگر شما این کارها را انجام ندهید، به طور حتم شوهرتان خواهد مرد.
1- هر صبح، برایش یک صبحانه ی مقوی درست کنید و با روحیه ی خوب او را به سرکار بفرستید.
2- هنگام ناهار، غذای مغذی و گرم درست کنید و قبل از اینکه به سرکار برود او را در یک محیط خوب مورد توجه قرار بدهید.
3- برای شام، یک غذای خوب و مخصوص درست کنید و او در کارهای خانه كمك نکند.
در خانه، شوهر از همسرش پرسید دکتر به او چه گفت: او (خانم) گفت: شما خواهید مرد.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:14
Mr Robinson never went to a dentist, because he was afraid:'
but then his teeth began hurting a lot, and he went to a dentist. The dentist did a lot of work in his mouth for a long time. On the last day Mr Robinson said to him, 'How much is all this work going to cost?' The dentist said, 'Twenty-five pounds,' but he did not ask him for the money.
After a month Mr Robinson phoned the dentist and said, 'You haven't asked me for any money for your work last month.'
'Oh,' the dentist answered, 'I never ask a gentleman for money.'
'Then how do you live?' Mr Robinson asked.
'Most gentlemen pay me quickly,' the dentist said, 'but some don't. I wait for my money for two months, and then I say, "That man isn't a gentleman," and then I ask him for my money.
آقاي رابينسون هرگز به دندانپزشكي نرفته بود، براي اينكه ميترسيد.
اما بعد دندانش شروع به درد كرد، و به دندانپزشكي رفت. دندانپزشك بر روي دهان او وقت زيادي گذاشت و كلي كار كرد. در آخرين روز دكتر رابينسون به او گفت: هزينهي تمام اين كارها چقدر ميشود؟ دندانپزشك گفت: بيست و پنج پوند. اما از او درخواست پول نكرد.
بعد از يك ماه آقاي رابينسون به دندانپزشك زنگ زد و گفت: ماه گذشته شما از من تقاضاي هيچ پولي براي كارتان نكرديد.
دندانپزشك پاسخ داد: آه، من هرگز از انسانهاي نجيب تقاضاي پول نميكنم.
آقاي رابينسون پرسيد: پس چگونه زندگي ميكنيد.
دندانپزشك گفت: بيشتر انسانهاي شريف به سرعت پول مرا ميدهند، اما بعضيها نه. من براي پولم دو ماه صبر ميكنم، و بعد ميگويم «وي مرد شريفي نيست» و بعد از وي پولم را ميخواهم.
but then his teeth began hurting a lot, and he went to a dentist. The dentist did a lot of work in his mouth for a long time. On the last day Mr Robinson said to him, 'How much is all this work going to cost?' The dentist said, 'Twenty-five pounds,' but he did not ask him for the money.
After a month Mr Robinson phoned the dentist and said, 'You haven't asked me for any money for your work last month.'
'Oh,' the dentist answered, 'I never ask a gentleman for money.'
'Then how do you live?' Mr Robinson asked.
'Most gentlemen pay me quickly,' the dentist said, 'but some don't. I wait for my money for two months, and then I say, "That man isn't a gentleman," and then I ask him for my money.
آقاي رابينسون هرگز به دندانپزشكي نرفته بود، براي اينكه ميترسيد.
اما بعد دندانش شروع به درد كرد، و به دندانپزشكي رفت. دندانپزشك بر روي دهان او وقت زيادي گذاشت و كلي كار كرد. در آخرين روز دكتر رابينسون به او گفت: هزينهي تمام اين كارها چقدر ميشود؟ دندانپزشك گفت: بيست و پنج پوند. اما از او درخواست پول نكرد.
بعد از يك ماه آقاي رابينسون به دندانپزشك زنگ زد و گفت: ماه گذشته شما از من تقاضاي هيچ پولي براي كارتان نكرديد.
دندانپزشك پاسخ داد: آه، من هرگز از انسانهاي نجيب تقاضاي پول نميكنم.
آقاي رابينسون پرسيد: پس چگونه زندگي ميكنيد.
دندانپزشك گفت: بيشتر انسانهاي شريف به سرعت پول مرا ميدهند، اما بعضيها نه. من براي پولم دو ماه صبر ميكنم، و بعد ميگويم «وي مرد شريفي نيست» و بعد از وي پولم را ميخواهم.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:15
The two brothers
This is a story about two brothers named James and Henry. One was a very good boy. His name was James. He always made his mother very happy. His clothes were always clean. And he always washed his hands before he ate his dinner.
اين داستاني دربارهي دو برادر به نامهاي جيمز و هنري است. يكي از آنها پسر خيلي خوبي بود. نامش جيمز بود. او هميشه مادرش را خوشحال ميكرد. لباسهايش هميشه تميز بودند. و هميشه قبل از غذا دستهايش را ميشست.
The other boy was Henry. He was a naughty boy. He did not close the doors. He kicked the chairs in the house. When his mother asked him to help her, he did not want to. Sometimes he took cakes from the cupboard and ate them. He liked to play in the street. He always made his mother very angry.
پسر ديگر هنري بود. او پسر شيطوني بود. در رو نميبست. با لگد به صندليهاي خانه ميزد. وقتي مادرش از او تقاضاي كمك ميكرد، او انجام نميداد. بعضي وقتها از كابينت كيك برميداشت و ميخورد. بازي در خيابان را دوست داشت. هميشه مادرش را عصباني ميكرد.
One day the school was not open. The two boys went to the park to play. Their mother gave them some money and told them to buy their lunch with their money. They took a ball with them. Before going to the park they stopped to buy lunch. James bought a sandwich with is money but Henry bought a large packet of sweets and ate them all.
يك روز كه مدرسه بسته بود. دو پسر براي بازي به پارك رفتند. مادرشان به آنها مقداري پول داد و گفت كه ناهارشان را با پولشان بخرند. آنها يك توپ با خودشان برداشتند. قبل از رفتن به پارك براي خريد ناهار ايستادند. جيمز با پولش يك ساندويچ خريد اما هنري يك پاكت بزرگ از شيريني خريد و همه را خورد.
After lunch the two boys played in the park with their ball. Then Henry wanted to go home because he was feeling sick. He had eaten so many sweets. When they got home his mother put him in bed without any dinner and told him that it was wrong to eat sweets for lunch.
بعد از ناهار پسرها در پارك با توپشان بازي كردند. سپس هنري خواست به خونه بره براي اينكه احساس مريضي ميكرد. شيرينيهاي خيلي زيادي خورده بود. وقتي رفتند خونه مادرش بدون هيچ شامي به رختخواب فرستاد و به او گفت كه خوردن شيريني براي ناهار اشتباه بود.
This is a story about two brothers named James and Henry. One was a very good boy. His name was James. He always made his mother very happy. His clothes were always clean. And he always washed his hands before he ate his dinner.
اين داستاني دربارهي دو برادر به نامهاي جيمز و هنري است. يكي از آنها پسر خيلي خوبي بود. نامش جيمز بود. او هميشه مادرش را خوشحال ميكرد. لباسهايش هميشه تميز بودند. و هميشه قبل از غذا دستهايش را ميشست.
The other boy was Henry. He was a naughty boy. He did not close the doors. He kicked the chairs in the house. When his mother asked him to help her, he did not want to. Sometimes he took cakes from the cupboard and ate them. He liked to play in the street. He always made his mother very angry.
پسر ديگر هنري بود. او پسر شيطوني بود. در رو نميبست. با لگد به صندليهاي خانه ميزد. وقتي مادرش از او تقاضاي كمك ميكرد، او انجام نميداد. بعضي وقتها از كابينت كيك برميداشت و ميخورد. بازي در خيابان را دوست داشت. هميشه مادرش را عصباني ميكرد.
One day the school was not open. The two boys went to the park to play. Their mother gave them some money and told them to buy their lunch with their money. They took a ball with them. Before going to the park they stopped to buy lunch. James bought a sandwich with is money but Henry bought a large packet of sweets and ate them all.
يك روز كه مدرسه بسته بود. دو پسر براي بازي به پارك رفتند. مادرشان به آنها مقداري پول داد و گفت كه ناهارشان را با پولشان بخرند. آنها يك توپ با خودشان برداشتند. قبل از رفتن به پارك براي خريد ناهار ايستادند. جيمز با پولش يك ساندويچ خريد اما هنري يك پاكت بزرگ از شيريني خريد و همه را خورد.
After lunch the two boys played in the park with their ball. Then Henry wanted to go home because he was feeling sick. He had eaten so many sweets. When they got home his mother put him in bed without any dinner and told him that it was wrong to eat sweets for lunch.
بعد از ناهار پسرها در پارك با توپشان بازي كردند. سپس هنري خواست به خونه بره براي اينكه احساس مريضي ميكرد. شيرينيهاي خيلي زيادي خورده بود. وقتي رفتند خونه مادرش بدون هيچ شامي به رختخواب فرستاد و به او گفت كه خوردن شيريني براي ناهار اشتباه بود.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:15
Mr Edwards likes singing very much, but he is very bad at it. He went to dinner at a friend's house last week, and there were some other guests there too.
They had a good dinner, and then the hostess went to Mr Edwards and said 'You can sing, Peter. Please sing us something.'
Mr 'Edwards was very happy, and he began to sing an old song about the mountains of Spain. The guests listened to it for a few minutes and then one of the guests began to cry. She was a small woman and had dark hair and very dark eyes.
One of the other guests went to her, put his hand on her back and said, 'Please don't cry. Are you Spanish?'
Another young man asked, 'Do you love Spain?'
'No,' she answered, 'I'm not Spanish, and I've never been to Spain. I'm a singer, and I love music!'
آقاي ادوارد خوانندگي را خيلي دوست داشت، ولي در آن خيلي بد بود. هفتهي گذشته براي شام به خانهي دوستش رفت، در آنجا ميهمانان ديگري نيز بودند.
آنها شام خوبي داشتند، و پس از آن خانم ميزبان به سمت آقاي ادوارد رفت و گفت: پيتر، شما ميتوانيد بخوانيد. لطفا چيزي براي ما بخوانيد.
آقاي ادوارد خيلي خوشحال بود، و او شروع به خواندن يك آهنگ قديمي در مورد كوههاي اسپانيا كرد. ميهمانان براي چند دقيقه به آن گوش دادند سپس يكي از ميهمانان شروع به گريه كرد. او زن كوچكي بود كه موهاي مشكي و چشمهاي خيلي مشكي داشت.
يكي ديگر از ميهمانان به سوي او رفت، دست خود را بر پشت او گذاشت و گفت: لطفا گريه نكنيد. آيا شما اسپانيايي هستيد؟
مرد جوان ديگري پرسيد: آيا شما اسپانيا را دوست داريد؟
او (آن زن) پاسخ داد: من اسپانيايي نيستم، و هرگز در اسپانيا نبودهام. من يك خوانندهام، و موسيقي را دوست دارم!
They had a good dinner, and then the hostess went to Mr Edwards and said 'You can sing, Peter. Please sing us something.'
Mr 'Edwards was very happy, and he began to sing an old song about the mountains of Spain. The guests listened to it for a few minutes and then one of the guests began to cry. She was a small woman and had dark hair and very dark eyes.
One of the other guests went to her, put his hand on her back and said, 'Please don't cry. Are you Spanish?'
Another young man asked, 'Do you love Spain?'
'No,' she answered, 'I'm not Spanish, and I've never been to Spain. I'm a singer, and I love music!'
آقاي ادوارد خوانندگي را خيلي دوست داشت، ولي در آن خيلي بد بود. هفتهي گذشته براي شام به خانهي دوستش رفت، در آنجا ميهمانان ديگري نيز بودند.
آنها شام خوبي داشتند، و پس از آن خانم ميزبان به سمت آقاي ادوارد رفت و گفت: پيتر، شما ميتوانيد بخوانيد. لطفا چيزي براي ما بخوانيد.
آقاي ادوارد خيلي خوشحال بود، و او شروع به خواندن يك آهنگ قديمي در مورد كوههاي اسپانيا كرد. ميهمانان براي چند دقيقه به آن گوش دادند سپس يكي از ميهمانان شروع به گريه كرد. او زن كوچكي بود كه موهاي مشكي و چشمهاي خيلي مشكي داشت.
يكي ديگر از ميهمانان به سوي او رفت، دست خود را بر پشت او گذاشت و گفت: لطفا گريه نكنيد. آيا شما اسپانيايي هستيد؟
مرد جوان ديگري پرسيد: آيا شما اسپانيا را دوست داريد؟
او (آن زن) پاسخ داد: من اسپانيايي نيستم، و هرگز در اسپانيا نبودهام. من يك خوانندهام، و موسيقي را دوست دارم!
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:16
A cowboy rode into town and stopped at a saloon for a drink. Unfortunately, the locals always had a habit of picking on strangers. When he finished his drink, he found his horse had been stolen.
He went back into the bar, handily flipped his gun into the air, caught it above his head without even looking and fired a shot into the ceiling. "Which one of you sidewinders stole my horse?!?!? " he yelled with surprising forcefulness. No one answered. "Alright, I’m gonna have another beer, and if my horse ain’t back outside by the time I finish, I’m gonna do what I dun in Texas! And I don’t like to have to do what I dun in Texas! “. Some of the locals shifted restlessly. The man, true to his word, had another beer, walked outside, and his horse had been returned to the post. He saddled up and started to ride out of town. The bartender wandered out of the bar and asked, “Say partner, before you go... what happened in Texas?” The cowboy turned back and said, “I had to walk home.”
گاوچراني وارد شهر شد و براي نوشيدن چيزي، كنار يك مهمانخانه ايستاد. بدبختانه، كساني كه در آن شهر زندگي ميكردند عادت بدي داشتند كه سر به سر غريبهها ميگذاشتند. وقتي او (گاوچران) نوشيدنياش را تمام كرد، متوجه شد كه اسبش دزديده شده است.
او به كافه برگشت، و ماهرانه اسلحهاش را در آورد و سمت بالا گرفت و بالاي سرش گرفت بدون هيچ نگاهي به سقف يه گلوله شليك كرد. او با تعجب و خيلي مقتدرانه فرياد زد: «كدام يك از شما آدمهاي بد اسب منو دزديده؟!؟!» كسي پاسخي نداد. «بسيار خوب، من يك آب جو ديگه ميخورم، و تا وقتي آن را تمام ميكنم اسبم برنگردد، كاري را كه در تگزاس انجام دادم انجام ميدهم! و دوست ندارم آن كاري رو كه در تگزاس انجام دادم رو انجام بدم!» بعضي از افراد خودشون جمع و جور كردن. آن مرد، بر طبق حرفش، آب جو ديگري نوشيد، بيرون رفت، و اسبش به سرجايش برگشته بود. اسبش رو زين كرد و به سمت خارج از شهر رفت. كافه چي به آرامي از كافه بيرون آمد و پرسيد: هي رفيق قبل از اينكه بري بگو، در تگزاس چه اتفاقي افتاد؟ گاوچران برگشت و گفت: مجبور شدم پیاده برم خونه.
He went back into the bar, handily flipped his gun into the air, caught it above his head without even looking and fired a shot into the ceiling. "Which one of you sidewinders stole my horse?!?!? " he yelled with surprising forcefulness. No one answered. "Alright, I’m gonna have another beer, and if my horse ain’t back outside by the time I finish, I’m gonna do what I dun in Texas! And I don’t like to have to do what I dun in Texas! “. Some of the locals shifted restlessly. The man, true to his word, had another beer, walked outside, and his horse had been returned to the post. He saddled up and started to ride out of town. The bartender wandered out of the bar and asked, “Say partner, before you go... what happened in Texas?” The cowboy turned back and said, “I had to walk home.”
گاوچراني وارد شهر شد و براي نوشيدن چيزي، كنار يك مهمانخانه ايستاد. بدبختانه، كساني كه در آن شهر زندگي ميكردند عادت بدي داشتند كه سر به سر غريبهها ميگذاشتند. وقتي او (گاوچران) نوشيدنياش را تمام كرد، متوجه شد كه اسبش دزديده شده است.
او به كافه برگشت، و ماهرانه اسلحهاش را در آورد و سمت بالا گرفت و بالاي سرش گرفت بدون هيچ نگاهي به سقف يه گلوله شليك كرد. او با تعجب و خيلي مقتدرانه فرياد زد: «كدام يك از شما آدمهاي بد اسب منو دزديده؟!؟!» كسي پاسخي نداد. «بسيار خوب، من يك آب جو ديگه ميخورم، و تا وقتي آن را تمام ميكنم اسبم برنگردد، كاري را كه در تگزاس انجام دادم انجام ميدهم! و دوست ندارم آن كاري رو كه در تگزاس انجام دادم رو انجام بدم!» بعضي از افراد خودشون جمع و جور كردن. آن مرد، بر طبق حرفش، آب جو ديگري نوشيد، بيرون رفت، و اسبش به سرجايش برگشته بود. اسبش رو زين كرد و به سمت خارج از شهر رفت. كافه چي به آرامي از كافه بيرون آمد و پرسيد: هي رفيق قبل از اينكه بري بگو، در تگزاس چه اتفاقي افتاد؟ گاوچران برگشت و گفت: مجبور شدم پیاده برم خونه.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:17
Miss Green had a heavy cupboard in her bedroom. Last Sunday she said, 'I don't like this cupboard in my bedroom. The bedroom's very small, and the cupboard's very big. I'm going to put it in a bigger room.' But the cupboard was very heavy, and Miss Green was not very strong. She went to two of her neighbors and said, 'Please carry the cupboard for me.' Then she went and made some tea for them.
The two men carried the heavy cupboard out of Miss Green's bedroom and came to the stairs. One of them was in front of the cupboard, and the other was behind it. They pushed and pulled for a long time, and then they put the cupboard down.
'Well,' one of the men said to the other, 'we're never going to get this cupboard upstairs.'
'Upstairs?' the other man said. 'Aren't we taking it downstairs?'
خانم گرين كابينت سنگيني در اتاق خوابش داشت. يكشنبه گذشته گفت: من كابينت اتاق داخل اتاقخوابم را دوست ندارم. اتاق خوابم خيلي كوچك و كابينت خيلي بزرگ. ميخواهم اين (كابينت) را در اتاق بزرگتري قرار دهم. اما كابينت خيلي سنگين بود و خانم گرين خيلي قوي نبود. او پيش دو تا از همسايههايش رفت و گفت: لطفا كابينت را براي من حمل كنيد. بعد او رفت تا براي آنها چاي درست كند.
آن دو مرد آن كابينت سنگين را از اتاقخواب خانم گرين بيرون آورند و به سوي پلهها رفتند. يكي از آنها در جلوي كابينت بود، و ديگري در پيشت كابينت. آنها براي مدت طولاني (كابينت را) هل دادن و كشيدند، و سپس كابينت را زمين گذاشتند.
يكي از مردها به ديگري گفت: خوب، ما كه نميتوانيم كابينت را به بالاي پله ها ببريم.
مرد ديگر گفت: بالاي پلهها؟ مگر نميخواهيم آن را پايين ببريم.
The two men carried the heavy cupboard out of Miss Green's bedroom and came to the stairs. One of them was in front of the cupboard, and the other was behind it. They pushed and pulled for a long time, and then they put the cupboard down.
'Well,' one of the men said to the other, 'we're never going to get this cupboard upstairs.'
'Upstairs?' the other man said. 'Aren't we taking it downstairs?'
خانم گرين كابينت سنگيني در اتاق خوابش داشت. يكشنبه گذشته گفت: من كابينت اتاق داخل اتاقخوابم را دوست ندارم. اتاق خوابم خيلي كوچك و كابينت خيلي بزرگ. ميخواهم اين (كابينت) را در اتاق بزرگتري قرار دهم. اما كابينت خيلي سنگين بود و خانم گرين خيلي قوي نبود. او پيش دو تا از همسايههايش رفت و گفت: لطفا كابينت را براي من حمل كنيد. بعد او رفت تا براي آنها چاي درست كند.
آن دو مرد آن كابينت سنگين را از اتاقخواب خانم گرين بيرون آورند و به سوي پلهها رفتند. يكي از آنها در جلوي كابينت بود، و ديگري در پيشت كابينت. آنها براي مدت طولاني (كابينت را) هل دادن و كشيدند، و سپس كابينت را زمين گذاشتند.
يكي از مردها به ديگري گفت: خوب، ما كه نميتوانيم كابينت را به بالاي پله ها ببريم.
مرد ديگر گفت: بالاي پلهها؟ مگر نميخواهيم آن را پايين ببريم.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:18
George was sixty years old, and he was ill. He was always tired, and his face was always very red. He did not like doctors, but last month his wife said to him, 'don’t be stupid, George. Go and see Doctor Brown.
George said, 'No,' but last week he was worse, and he went to the doctor.
Dr Brown examined him and then said to him, 'You drink too much. Stop drinking whisky, and drink milk.'
George liked whisky, and he did not like milk. 'I'm not a baby!' he always said to his wife.
Now he looked at Dr Brown and said, 'But drinking milk is dangerous, doctor’.
The doctor laughed and said, 'Dangerous? How can drinking milk be dangerous?’
'Well, doctor,' George said, 'it killed one of my best friends last year.'
The doctor laughed again and said, 'How did it do that?'
'The cow fell on him,' George said.
جرج شصت ساله و مريض بود. او هميشه خسته بود، و صورت او هميشه قرمز بود. او از دكترها خوشش نميآمد، اما ماه گذشته همسرش به او گفت: احمق نشو، جرج. و برو پيش دكتر بروان.
جرج گفت: نه. اما هفتهي گذشته او بدتر شد و به دكتر رفت.
دكتر بروان او را معاينه كرد و به وي گفت: شما خيلي مينوشيد. ديگر ويسكي ننوشيد، و شير بنوشيد.
جرج ويسكي دوست داشت و شير دوست نداشت. او هميشه به همسرش ميگفت: من بچه نيستم!.
حالا به دكتر بروان نگاه كرد و گفت: اما دكتر، خوردن شير خطرناك است.
دكتر خنديد و گفت: خطرناك؟ خوردن شير چگونه ميتونه خطرناك باشه؟
جرج گفت: درسته، دكتر، سال گذشته يكي از بهترين دوستانِ منو كشت.
دكتر دوباره خنديد و گفت: چطوري؟ (چطوري اين كارو كرد)
جرج گفت: گاو افتاد روي اون.
George said, 'No,' but last week he was worse, and he went to the doctor.
Dr Brown examined him and then said to him, 'You drink too much. Stop drinking whisky, and drink milk.'
George liked whisky, and he did not like milk. 'I'm not a baby!' he always said to his wife.
Now he looked at Dr Brown and said, 'But drinking milk is dangerous, doctor’.
The doctor laughed and said, 'Dangerous? How can drinking milk be dangerous?’
'Well, doctor,' George said, 'it killed one of my best friends last year.'
The doctor laughed again and said, 'How did it do that?'
'The cow fell on him,' George said.
جرج شصت ساله و مريض بود. او هميشه خسته بود، و صورت او هميشه قرمز بود. او از دكترها خوشش نميآمد، اما ماه گذشته همسرش به او گفت: احمق نشو، جرج. و برو پيش دكتر بروان.
جرج گفت: نه. اما هفتهي گذشته او بدتر شد و به دكتر رفت.
دكتر بروان او را معاينه كرد و به وي گفت: شما خيلي مينوشيد. ديگر ويسكي ننوشيد، و شير بنوشيد.
جرج ويسكي دوست داشت و شير دوست نداشت. او هميشه به همسرش ميگفت: من بچه نيستم!.
حالا به دكتر بروان نگاه كرد و گفت: اما دكتر، خوردن شير خطرناك است.
دكتر خنديد و گفت: خطرناك؟ خوردن شير چگونه ميتونه خطرناك باشه؟
جرج گفت: درسته، دكتر، سال گذشته يكي از بهترين دوستانِ منو كشت.
دكتر دوباره خنديد و گفت: چطوري؟ (چطوري اين كارو كرد)
جرج گفت: گاو افتاد روي اون.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:19
Fred was a young soldier in a big camp. During the week they always worked very hard, but it was Saturday, and all the young soldiers were free, so their officer said to them, 'You can go into the town this afternoon, but first I'm going to inspect you.’
Fred came to the officer, and the officer said to him, 'Your hair's very long. Go to the barber and then come back to me again.
Fred ran to the barber's shop, but it was closed because it was Saturday. Fred was very sad for a few minutes, but then he smiled and went back to the officer.
'Are my boots clean now, sir?' he asked.
The officer did not look at Fred's hair. He looked at his boots and said, 'Yes, they're much better now. You can go out. And next week, first clean your boots, and then come to me!'
فرد سرباز جواني در يك پادگان بزرگ بود. آنها هميشه در طول هفته خيلي سخت كار ميكردند، اما آن روز شنبه بود، و همهي سربازان آزاد بودند، بنابراين افسرشان به آنها گفت: امروز بعدازظهر شما ميتوانيد به داخل شهر برويد، اما اول ميخواهم از شما بازديد كنم.
فرد به سوي افسر رفت، و افسر به او گفت: موهاي شما بسيار بلند است، به آرايشگاه برو و دوباره پيش من برگرد.
فرد به آرايشگاه رفت، ولي بسته بود چون آن روز شنبه بود. فرد براي چند دقيقه ناراحت شد، اما بعد خنديد، و به سوي افسر برگشت.
او (فرد) پرسيد: قربان، اكنون پوتينهايم تميز شدند.
افسر به موهاي فرد نگاه نكرد. او به پوتينهاي فرد نگاه كرد و گفت: بله، خيلي بهتر شدند. شما ميتواني بروي. و هفتهي بعد اول پوتينهاي خود را تميز كن و بعد از آن پيش من بيا!.
Fred came to the officer, and the officer said to him, 'Your hair's very long. Go to the barber and then come back to me again.
Fred ran to the barber's shop, but it was closed because it was Saturday. Fred was very sad for a few minutes, but then he smiled and went back to the officer.
'Are my boots clean now, sir?' he asked.
The officer did not look at Fred's hair. He looked at his boots and said, 'Yes, they're much better now. You can go out. And next week, first clean your boots, and then come to me!'
فرد سرباز جواني در يك پادگان بزرگ بود. آنها هميشه در طول هفته خيلي سخت كار ميكردند، اما آن روز شنبه بود، و همهي سربازان آزاد بودند، بنابراين افسرشان به آنها گفت: امروز بعدازظهر شما ميتوانيد به داخل شهر برويد، اما اول ميخواهم از شما بازديد كنم.
فرد به سوي افسر رفت، و افسر به او گفت: موهاي شما بسيار بلند است، به آرايشگاه برو و دوباره پيش من برگرد.
فرد به آرايشگاه رفت، ولي بسته بود چون آن روز شنبه بود. فرد براي چند دقيقه ناراحت شد، اما بعد خنديد، و به سوي افسر برگشت.
او (فرد) پرسيد: قربان، اكنون پوتينهايم تميز شدند.
افسر به موهاي فرد نگاه نكرد. او به پوتينهاي فرد نگاه كرد و گفت: بله، خيلي بهتر شدند. شما ميتواني بروي. و هفتهي بعد اول پوتينهاي خود را تميز كن و بعد از آن پيش من بيا!.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:19
Destiny
During a momentous battle, a Japanese general decided to attack even though his army was greatly outnumbered. He was confident they would win, but his men were filled with doubt.
On the way to the battle, they stopped at a religious shrine. After praying with the men, the general took out a coin and said, "I shall now toss this coin. If it is heads, we shall win. If it is tails we shall lose."
"Destiny will now reveal itself."
He threw the coin into the air and all watched intently as it landed. It was heads. The soldiers were so overjoyed and filled with confidence that they vigorously attacked the enemy and were victorious.
After the battle. a lieutenant remarked to the general, "No one can change destiny."
"Quite right," the general replied as he showed the lieutenant the coin, which had heads on both sides.
سرنوشت
در طول نبردی مهم و سرنوشت ساز ژنرالی ژاپنی تصمیم گرفت با وجود سربازان بسیار زیادش حمله کند. مطمئن بود که پیروز می شوند اما سربازانش تردید داشتندو دودل بودند.
در مسیر میدان نبرد در معبدی مقدس توقف کردند. بعد از فریضه دعا که همراه سربازانش انجام شد ژنرال سکه ای در آورد و گفت:" سکه را به هوا پرتاب خواهم کرد اگر رو آمد، می بریم اما اگر شیر بیاید شکست خواهیم خورد".
"سرنوشت خود مشخص خواهد کرد".
سکه را به هوا پرتاب کرد و همگی مشتاقانه تماشا کردند تا وقتی که بر روی زمین افتاد. رو بود. سربازان از فرط شادی از خود بی خود شدند و کاملا اطمینان پیدا کردند و با قدرت به دشمن حمله کردند و پیروز شدند.
بعد از جنگ ستوانی به ژنرال گفت: "سرنوشت را نتوان تغییر داد(انتخاب کرد با یک سکه)"
ژنرال در حالی که سکه ای که دو طرف آن رو بود را به ستوان نشان می داد جواب داد:" کاملا حق با شماست".
During a momentous battle, a Japanese general decided to attack even though his army was greatly outnumbered. He was confident they would win, but his men were filled with doubt.
On the way to the battle, they stopped at a religious shrine. After praying with the men, the general took out a coin and said, "I shall now toss this coin. If it is heads, we shall win. If it is tails we shall lose."
"Destiny will now reveal itself."
He threw the coin into the air and all watched intently as it landed. It was heads. The soldiers were so overjoyed and filled with confidence that they vigorously attacked the enemy and were victorious.
After the battle. a lieutenant remarked to the general, "No one can change destiny."
"Quite right," the general replied as he showed the lieutenant the coin, which had heads on both sides.
سرنوشت
در طول نبردی مهم و سرنوشت ساز ژنرالی ژاپنی تصمیم گرفت با وجود سربازان بسیار زیادش حمله کند. مطمئن بود که پیروز می شوند اما سربازانش تردید داشتندو دودل بودند.
در مسیر میدان نبرد در معبدی مقدس توقف کردند. بعد از فریضه دعا که همراه سربازانش انجام شد ژنرال سکه ای در آورد و گفت:" سکه را به هوا پرتاب خواهم کرد اگر رو آمد، می بریم اما اگر شیر بیاید شکست خواهیم خورد".
"سرنوشت خود مشخص خواهد کرد".
سکه را به هوا پرتاب کرد و همگی مشتاقانه تماشا کردند تا وقتی که بر روی زمین افتاد. رو بود. سربازان از فرط شادی از خود بی خود شدند و کاملا اطمینان پیدا کردند و با قدرت به دشمن حمله کردند و پیروز شدند.
بعد از جنگ ستوانی به ژنرال گفت: "سرنوشت را نتوان تغییر داد(انتخاب کرد با یک سکه)"
ژنرال در حالی که سکه ای که دو طرف آن رو بود را به ستوان نشان می داد جواب داد:" کاملا حق با شماست".
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:20
Success - Socrates
A young man asked Socrates the secret of success. Socrates told the young man to meet him near the river the next morning. They met. Socrates asked the young man to walk with him into the river. When the water got up to their neck, Socrates took the young man by surprise and swiftly ducked him into the water.
The boy struggled to get out but Socrates was strong and kept him there until the boy started turning blue. Socrates pulled the boy’s head out of the water and the first thing the young man did was to gasp and take a deep breath of air.
Socrates asked him, "what did you want the most when you were there?" The boy replied, "Air". Socrates said, "That is the secret of success! When you want success as badly as you wanted the air, then you will get it!" There is no other secret.
موفقیت و سقراط
مرد جوانی از سقراط رمز موفقیت را پرسید که چیست. سقراط به مرد جوان گفت که صبح روز بعد به نزدیکی رودخانه بیاید. هر دو حاضر شدند. سقراط از مرد جوان خواست که همراه او وارد رودخانه شود. وقتی وارد رودخانه شدند و آب به زیر گردنشان رسید سقراط با زیر آب بردن سر مرد جوان، او را شگفت زده کرد.
مرد تلاش می کرد تا خود را رها کند اما سقراط قوی تر بود و او را تا زمانی که رنگ صورتش کبود شد محکم نگاه داشت. سقراط سر مرد جوان را از آب خارج کرد و اولین کاری که مرد جوان انجام داد کشیدن یک نفس عمیق بود.
سقراط از او پرسید، " در آن وضعیت تنها چیزی که می خواستی چه بود؟" پسر جواب داد: "هوا"
سقراط گفت:" این راز موفقیت است! اگر همانطور که هوا را می خواستی در جستجوی موفقیت هم باشی بدستش خواهی آورد" رمز دیگری وجود ندارد.
A young man asked Socrates the secret of success. Socrates told the young man to meet him near the river the next morning. They met. Socrates asked the young man to walk with him into the river. When the water got up to their neck, Socrates took the young man by surprise and swiftly ducked him into the water.
The boy struggled to get out but Socrates was strong and kept him there until the boy started turning blue. Socrates pulled the boy’s head out of the water and the first thing the young man did was to gasp and take a deep breath of air.
Socrates asked him, "what did you want the most when you were there?" The boy replied, "Air". Socrates said, "That is the secret of success! When you want success as badly as you wanted the air, then you will get it!" There is no other secret.
موفقیت و سقراط
مرد جوانی از سقراط رمز موفقیت را پرسید که چیست. سقراط به مرد جوان گفت که صبح روز بعد به نزدیکی رودخانه بیاید. هر دو حاضر شدند. سقراط از مرد جوان خواست که همراه او وارد رودخانه شود. وقتی وارد رودخانه شدند و آب به زیر گردنشان رسید سقراط با زیر آب بردن سر مرد جوان، او را شگفت زده کرد.
مرد تلاش می کرد تا خود را رها کند اما سقراط قوی تر بود و او را تا زمانی که رنگ صورتش کبود شد محکم نگاه داشت. سقراط سر مرد جوان را از آب خارج کرد و اولین کاری که مرد جوان انجام داد کشیدن یک نفس عمیق بود.
سقراط از او پرسید، " در آن وضعیت تنها چیزی که می خواستی چه بود؟" پسر جواب داد: "هوا"
سقراط گفت:" این راز موفقیت است! اگر همانطور که هوا را می خواستی در جستجوی موفقیت هم باشی بدستش خواهی آورد" رمز دیگری وجود ندارد.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:20
Fred works in a factory. He does not have a wife, and he gets quite a lot of money every week. He loves cars, and has a new one every year. He likes driving very fast, and he always buys small, fast, red cars. He sometimes takes his mother out in them, and then she always says, 'But, Fred, why do you drive these cars? We're almost sitting on the road!'
فرد در يك كارخانه كار ميكند. او همسري ندارد، و هر هفته پول خوبي به دست ميآورد. او به ماشين ها علاقه مند است، و هر ساله يك ماشين جديد مي خرد. او رانندگي با سرعت بالا را دوست دارد، و هميشه ماشين هاي كوچك، سريع و قرمز را مي خرد. او بعضي از وقت ها مادر خود را با آن به بيرون مي برد، و او (مادرش) هميشه مي گويد، «اما، فرد، چرا تو با اين ماشين ها رانندگي مي كني؟ انگار كه ما رو جاده نشسته ايم!»
When Fred laughs and is happy. He likes being very near the road.
در آن هنگام فرد خوشحال بود و مي خنديد. او نزديك به جاده بودن را دوست داشت.
Fred is very tall and very fat.
فرد خيلي چاق و بلند قد است.
Last week he came out of a shop and went to his car. There was a small boy near it. He was looking at the beautiful red car. Then he looked up and saw Fred.
هفته ي گذشته او از يك فروشگاه بيرون آمد و به سمت ماشين خود رفت. نزديك آن يك پسر كوچك قرار داشت. او در حال نگاه كردن به ماشين قرمز كوچك بود. در آن هنگام سرش را بالا گرفت و به فرد نگريست.
'How do you get into that small car?' he asked him. Fred laughed and said, 'I don't get into it. I put it on.'
پسر از وي پرسيد: چگونه وارد آن ماشين كوچك مي شوي؟. فرد خنديد و گفت، من داخل آن نميشوم. روي آن سوار مي شوم.
فرد در يك كارخانه كار ميكند. او همسري ندارد، و هر هفته پول خوبي به دست ميآورد. او به ماشين ها علاقه مند است، و هر ساله يك ماشين جديد مي خرد. او رانندگي با سرعت بالا را دوست دارد، و هميشه ماشين هاي كوچك، سريع و قرمز را مي خرد. او بعضي از وقت ها مادر خود را با آن به بيرون مي برد، و او (مادرش) هميشه مي گويد، «اما، فرد، چرا تو با اين ماشين ها رانندگي مي كني؟ انگار كه ما رو جاده نشسته ايم!»
When Fred laughs and is happy. He likes being very near the road.
در آن هنگام فرد خوشحال بود و مي خنديد. او نزديك به جاده بودن را دوست داشت.
Fred is very tall and very fat.
فرد خيلي چاق و بلند قد است.
Last week he came out of a shop and went to his car. There was a small boy near it. He was looking at the beautiful red car. Then he looked up and saw Fred.
هفته ي گذشته او از يك فروشگاه بيرون آمد و به سمت ماشين خود رفت. نزديك آن يك پسر كوچك قرار داشت. او در حال نگاه كردن به ماشين قرمز كوچك بود. در آن هنگام سرش را بالا گرفت و به فرد نگريست.
'How do you get into that small car?' he asked him. Fred laughed and said, 'I don't get into it. I put it on.'
پسر از وي پرسيد: چگونه وارد آن ماشين كوچك مي شوي؟. فرد خنديد و گفت، من داخل آن نميشوم. روي آن سوار مي شوم.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:21
Joe Richards finished school when he was 18, and then his father said to him, 'You've passed your examinations now,Joe, and you got good marks in them. Now go and get some good work. They're looking for clever people at the bank in the town. The clerks there get quite a IN of money now.'
جو ريچارد وقتي كه 18 ساله بود مدرسه اش را به پايان رساند، و در آن وقت پدرش به او گفت، جو، حال كه امتحانات خود را پشت سر گذاشته اي، و نمرات خوبي گرفته اي. حالا برو و يك شغل مناسب به دست بياور. در شهر به دنبال افراد باهوش براي كار در بانك مي گردند. منشي ها در آن جا پول خوبي به دست مي آورند.
A few days later, Joe went to the bank and asked for work there. A man took him into a small room and gave him some questions on a piece of paper. Joe wrote his answers on the paper, and then he gave them to the man.
چند روز بعد، جو به بانك رفت و تقاضاي كار كرد. شخصي وي را به داخل اتاقي برد و كاغذي كه چند سوال بر روي آن نوشته بود به وي داد. جو جواب ها را بر روي كاغذ نوشت، و به آن مرد تحويل داد.
The man looked at them for a few minutes, and then he took a pen and said toJoe, 'Your birthday was on the 12th of June, Mr Richards?'
مرد براي چند دقيقه به كاغذها نگاه كرد، و يه قلم برداشت و از جو پرسيد، «آقاي ريچارد، تاريخ تولد شما در 12 ماه جون است؟»
'Yes, sir,' Joe said.
جو گفت: بله قربان
'What year?' the man asked. 'Oh, every year, sir,' Joe said.
مرد پرسيد: چه سالي؟ و جو گفت: آه، هر سال، قربان
جو ريچارد وقتي كه 18 ساله بود مدرسه اش را به پايان رساند، و در آن وقت پدرش به او گفت، جو، حال كه امتحانات خود را پشت سر گذاشته اي، و نمرات خوبي گرفته اي. حالا برو و يك شغل مناسب به دست بياور. در شهر به دنبال افراد باهوش براي كار در بانك مي گردند. منشي ها در آن جا پول خوبي به دست مي آورند.
A few days later, Joe went to the bank and asked for work there. A man took him into a small room and gave him some questions on a piece of paper. Joe wrote his answers on the paper, and then he gave them to the man.
چند روز بعد، جو به بانك رفت و تقاضاي كار كرد. شخصي وي را به داخل اتاقي برد و كاغذي كه چند سوال بر روي آن نوشته بود به وي داد. جو جواب ها را بر روي كاغذ نوشت، و به آن مرد تحويل داد.
The man looked at them for a few minutes, and then he took a pen and said toJoe, 'Your birthday was on the 12th of June, Mr Richards?'
مرد براي چند دقيقه به كاغذها نگاه كرد، و يه قلم برداشت و از جو پرسيد، «آقاي ريچارد، تاريخ تولد شما در 12 ماه جون است؟»
'Yes, sir,' Joe said.
جو گفت: بله قربان
'What year?' the man asked. 'Oh, every year, sir,' Joe said.
مرد پرسيد: چه سالي؟ و جو گفت: آه، هر سال، قربان
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:22
A little boy went into a drug store, reached for a soda carton and pulled it over to the telephone. He climbed onto the carton so that he could reach the buttons on the phone and proceeded to punch in seven digits.
The store-owner observed and listened to the conversation: The boy asked, "Lady, Can you give me the job of cutting your lawn? The woman replied, "I already have someone to cut my lawn."
"Lady, I will cut your lawn for half the price of the person who cuts your lawn now." replied boy. The woman responded that she was very satisfied with the person who was presently cutting her lawn.
The little boy found more perseverance and offered, "Lady, I'll even sweep your curb and your sidewalk, so on Sunday you will have the prettiest lawn in all of Palm beach, Florida." Again the woman answered in the negative.
With a smile on his face, the little boy replaced the receiver. The store-owner, who was listening to all, walked over to the boy and said,
"Son... I like your attitude; I like that positive spirit and would like to offer you a job."
The little boy replied, "No thanks, I was just checking my performance with the job I already have. I am the one who is working for that lady, I was talking to!"
پسر کوچکی وارد داروخانه شد، کارتن جوش شیرنی را به سمت تلفن هل داد. بر روی کارتن رفت تا دستش به دکمه های تلفن برسد و شروع کرد به گرفتن شماره ای هفت رقمی.
مسئول دارو خانه متوجه پسر بود و به مکالماتش گوش داد. پسرک پرسید،" خانم، می توانم خواهش کنم کوتاه کردن چمن ها را به من بسپارید؟" زن پاسخ داد، کسی هست که این کار را برایم انجام می دهد."
پسرک گفت:"خانم، من این کار را نصف قیمتی که او می گیرد انجام خواهم داد". زن در جوابش گفت که از کار این فرد کاملا راضی است.
پسرک بیشتر اصرار کرد و پیشنهاد داد،" خانم، من پیاده رو و جدول جلوی خانه را هم برایتان جارو می کنم، در این صورت شما در یکشنبه زیباترین چمن را در کل شهر خواهید داشت." مجددا زن پاسخش منفی بود".
پسرک در حالی که لبخندی بر لب داشت، گوشی را گذاشت. مسئول داروخانه که به صحبت های او گوش داده بود به سمتش رفت و گفت: "پسر...از رفتارت خوشم میاد؛ به خاطر اینکه روحیه خاص و خوبی داری دوست دارم کاری بهت بدم"
پسر جوان جواب داد،" نه ممنون، من فقط داشتم عملکردم رو می سنجیدم، من همون کسی هستم که برای این خانوم کار می کنه".
The store-owner observed and listened to the conversation: The boy asked, "Lady, Can you give me the job of cutting your lawn? The woman replied, "I already have someone to cut my lawn."
"Lady, I will cut your lawn for half the price of the person who cuts your lawn now." replied boy. The woman responded that she was very satisfied with the person who was presently cutting her lawn.
The little boy found more perseverance and offered, "Lady, I'll even sweep your curb and your sidewalk, so on Sunday you will have the prettiest lawn in all of Palm beach, Florida." Again the woman answered in the negative.
With a smile on his face, the little boy replaced the receiver. The store-owner, who was listening to all, walked over to the boy and said,
"Son... I like your attitude; I like that positive spirit and would like to offer you a job."
The little boy replied, "No thanks, I was just checking my performance with the job I already have. I am the one who is working for that lady, I was talking to!"
پسر کوچکی وارد داروخانه شد، کارتن جوش شیرنی را به سمت تلفن هل داد. بر روی کارتن رفت تا دستش به دکمه های تلفن برسد و شروع کرد به گرفتن شماره ای هفت رقمی.
مسئول دارو خانه متوجه پسر بود و به مکالماتش گوش داد. پسرک پرسید،" خانم، می توانم خواهش کنم کوتاه کردن چمن ها را به من بسپارید؟" زن پاسخ داد، کسی هست که این کار را برایم انجام می دهد."
پسرک گفت:"خانم، من این کار را نصف قیمتی که او می گیرد انجام خواهم داد". زن در جوابش گفت که از کار این فرد کاملا راضی است.
پسرک بیشتر اصرار کرد و پیشنهاد داد،" خانم، من پیاده رو و جدول جلوی خانه را هم برایتان جارو می کنم، در این صورت شما در یکشنبه زیباترین چمن را در کل شهر خواهید داشت." مجددا زن پاسخش منفی بود".
پسرک در حالی که لبخندی بر لب داشت، گوشی را گذاشت. مسئول داروخانه که به صحبت های او گوش داده بود به سمتش رفت و گفت: "پسر...از رفتارت خوشم میاد؛ به خاطر اینکه روحیه خاص و خوبی داری دوست دارم کاری بهت بدم"
پسر جوان جواب داد،" نه ممنون، من فقط داشتم عملکردم رو می سنجیدم، من همون کسی هستم که برای این خانوم کار می کنه".
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:22
The purpose of life
A long time ago, there was an Emperor who told his horseman that if he could ride on his horse and cover as much land area as he likes, then the Emperor would give him the area of land he has covered.
Sure enough, the horseman quickly jumped onto his horse and rode as fast as possible to cover as much land area as he could. He kept on riding and riding, whipping the horse to go as fast as possible. When he was hungry or tired, he did not stop because he wanted to cover as much area as possible.
Came to a point when he had covered a substantial area and he was exhausted and was dying. Then he asked himself, "Why did I push myself so hard to cover so much land area? Now I am dying and I only need a very small area to bury myself."
The above story is similar with the journey of our Life. We push very hard everyday to make more money, to gain power and recognition. We neglect our health , time with our family and to appreciate the surrounding beauty and the hobbies we love.
One day when we look back , we will realize that we don't really need that much, but then we cannot turn back time for what we have missed.
Life is not about making money, acquiring power or recognition . Life is definitely not about work! Work is only necessary to keep us living so as to enjoy the beauty and pleasures of life. Life is a balance of Work and Play, Family and Personal time. You have to decide how you want to balance your Life. Define your priorities, realize what you are able to compromise but always let some of your decisions be based on your instincts. Happiness is the meaning and the purpose of Life, the whole aim of human existence. But happiness has a lot of meaning. Which king of definition would you choose? Which kind of happiness would satisfy your high-flyer soul?
مقصد زندگی
سال ها پیش، حاکمی به یکی از سوارکارانش گفت: مقدار سرزمین هایی را که بتواند با اسبش طی کند را به او خواهد بخشید. همان طور که انتظار می رفت، اسب سوار به سرعت برای طی کردن هر چه بیشتر سرزمین ها سوار بر اسبش شد و با سرعت شروع کرد به تاختن. با شلاق زدن به اسبش با آخرین سرعت ممکن می تاخت و می تاخت. حتی وقتی گرسنه و خسته بود، متوقف نمی شد چون می خواست تا جایی که امکان داشت سرزمین های بیشتری را طی کند. وقتی مناطق قابل توجهی را طی کرده بود به نقطه ای رسید . خسته بود و داشت می مرد. از خودش پرسید: چرا خودم را مجبور کردم تا سخت تلاش کنم و این مقدرا زمین بدست بیاروم؟ در حالی که در حال مردن هستم و تنها به یک وجب خاک برای دفن کردنم نیاز دارم.
داستان بالا شبیه سفر زندگی خودمان است. برای بدست آوردن ثروت، قدرت و شهرت سخت تلاش می کنیم و از سلامتی و زمانی که باید برای خانواده صرف کرد، غفلت می کنیم تا با زیبایی ها و سرگرمی های اطرافمان که دوست داریم مشغول باشیم.
وقتی به گذشته نگاه می کنیم. متوجه خواهیم شد که هیچگاه به این مقدار احتیاج نداشتیم اما نمی توان آب رفته را به جوی بازگرداند.
زندگی تنها پول در آوردن و قدرتمند شدن و بدست آوردن شهرت نیست. زندگی قطعا فقط کار نیست ، بلکه کار تنها برای امرار معاش است تا بتوان از زیبایی ها و لذت های زندگی بهره مند شد و استفاده کرد. زندگی تعادلی است بین کار و تفریح، خانواده و اوقات شخصی. بایستی تصمیم بگیری که چه طور زندگیت را متعادل کنی. اولویت هایت را تعریف کن و بدان که چه طور می توانی با دیگران به توافق برسی اما همیشه اجازه بده که بعضی از تصمیماتت بر اساس غریزه درونیت باشد. شادی معنا و هدف زندگی است. هدف اصلی وجود انسان. اما شادی معنا های متعددی دارد. چه نوع شادی را شما انتخاب می کنید؟ چه نوع شادی روح بلند پروازتان را ارضا خواهد کرد؟
A long time ago, there was an Emperor who told his horseman that if he could ride on his horse and cover as much land area as he likes, then the Emperor would give him the area of land he has covered.
Sure enough, the horseman quickly jumped onto his horse and rode as fast as possible to cover as much land area as he could. He kept on riding and riding, whipping the horse to go as fast as possible. When he was hungry or tired, he did not stop because he wanted to cover as much area as possible.
Came to a point when he had covered a substantial area and he was exhausted and was dying. Then he asked himself, "Why did I push myself so hard to cover so much land area? Now I am dying and I only need a very small area to bury myself."
The above story is similar with the journey of our Life. We push very hard everyday to make more money, to gain power and recognition. We neglect our health , time with our family and to appreciate the surrounding beauty and the hobbies we love.
One day when we look back , we will realize that we don't really need that much, but then we cannot turn back time for what we have missed.
Life is not about making money, acquiring power or recognition . Life is definitely not about work! Work is only necessary to keep us living so as to enjoy the beauty and pleasures of life. Life is a balance of Work and Play, Family and Personal time. You have to decide how you want to balance your Life. Define your priorities, realize what you are able to compromise but always let some of your decisions be based on your instincts. Happiness is the meaning and the purpose of Life, the whole aim of human existence. But happiness has a lot of meaning. Which king of definition would you choose? Which kind of happiness would satisfy your high-flyer soul?
مقصد زندگی
سال ها پیش، حاکمی به یکی از سوارکارانش گفت: مقدار سرزمین هایی را که بتواند با اسبش طی کند را به او خواهد بخشید. همان طور که انتظار می رفت، اسب سوار به سرعت برای طی کردن هر چه بیشتر سرزمین ها سوار بر اسبش شد و با سرعت شروع کرد به تاختن. با شلاق زدن به اسبش با آخرین سرعت ممکن می تاخت و می تاخت. حتی وقتی گرسنه و خسته بود، متوقف نمی شد چون می خواست تا جایی که امکان داشت سرزمین های بیشتری را طی کند. وقتی مناطق قابل توجهی را طی کرده بود به نقطه ای رسید . خسته بود و داشت می مرد. از خودش پرسید: چرا خودم را مجبور کردم تا سخت تلاش کنم و این مقدرا زمین بدست بیاروم؟ در حالی که در حال مردن هستم و تنها به یک وجب خاک برای دفن کردنم نیاز دارم.
داستان بالا شبیه سفر زندگی خودمان است. برای بدست آوردن ثروت، قدرت و شهرت سخت تلاش می کنیم و از سلامتی و زمانی که باید برای خانواده صرف کرد، غفلت می کنیم تا با زیبایی ها و سرگرمی های اطرافمان که دوست داریم مشغول باشیم.
وقتی به گذشته نگاه می کنیم. متوجه خواهیم شد که هیچگاه به این مقدار احتیاج نداشتیم اما نمی توان آب رفته را به جوی بازگرداند.
زندگی تنها پول در آوردن و قدرتمند شدن و بدست آوردن شهرت نیست. زندگی قطعا فقط کار نیست ، بلکه کار تنها برای امرار معاش است تا بتوان از زیبایی ها و لذت های زندگی بهره مند شد و استفاده کرد. زندگی تعادلی است بین کار و تفریح، خانواده و اوقات شخصی. بایستی تصمیم بگیری که چه طور زندگیت را متعادل کنی. اولویت هایت را تعریف کن و بدان که چه طور می توانی با دیگران به توافق برسی اما همیشه اجازه بده که بعضی از تصمیماتت بر اساس غریزه درونیت باشد. شادی معنا و هدف زندگی است. هدف اصلی وجود انسان. اما شادی معنا های متعددی دارد. چه نوع شادی را شما انتخاب می کنید؟ چه نوع شادی روح بلند پروازتان را ارضا خواهد کرد؟
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:23
([ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ])
One day a student was taking a very difficult essay exam. At the end of the test, the prof asked all the students to put their pencils down and immediately hand in their tests. The young man kept writing furiously, although he was warned that if he did not stop immediately he would be disqualified. He ignored the warning, finished the test. Minutes later, and went to hand the test to his instructor. The instructor told him he would not take the test.
The student asked, "Do you know who I am?"
The prof said, "No and I don't care."
The student asked again, "Are you sure you don't know who I am?"
The prof again said no. Therefore, the student walked over to the pile of tests, placed his in the middle, then threw the papers in the air "Good" the student said, and walked out. He passed.
روزي يك دانشآموز يك آزمون خيلي سخت داشت. در آخر امتحان، استاد از همهي دانشآموزان خواست كه قلمهايشان را پايين بگذارند و بلافاصله دست خود را در روي برگه خود بگذارند. مرد جوان با خشم به نوشتن ادامه داد، گو اينكه او مطلع بود كه اگر او بلافاصله دست نگه ندارد او محروم خواهد شد. او اخطار را ناديده گرفت و امتحان را تمام كرد. دقايقي بعد، با برگهي آزمون به سوي آموزگار خود رفت. آموزگار به او گفت كه برگه امتحاني او را نخواهد گرفت.
دانش آموز پرسيد: «مي داني من چه كسي هستم»
استاد گفت: «نه و اهميتي نمي دم»
دانش آموز دوباره پرسيد: «مطمئني كه مرا نمي شناسي؟»
استاد دوباره گفت نه. بنابراین دانش آموز رفت سمت برگهها و برگه خودشو وسط اونا جا داد (جوری که استاد نمیتونست بفهمه که کدوم برگه اونه!) اونوقت [با خوشحالی] کاغذهایی که تو دستش بود رو به هوا پرت کرد و گفت: ایول (یا همان خوب!) و رفت سمت بیرون.
One day a student was taking a very difficult essay exam. At the end of the test, the prof asked all the students to put their pencils down and immediately hand in their tests. The young man kept writing furiously, although he was warned that if he did not stop immediately he would be disqualified. He ignored the warning, finished the test. Minutes later, and went to hand the test to his instructor. The instructor told him he would not take the test.
The student asked, "Do you know who I am?"
The prof said, "No and I don't care."
The student asked again, "Are you sure you don't know who I am?"
The prof again said no. Therefore, the student walked over to the pile of tests, placed his in the middle, then threw the papers in the air "Good" the student said, and walked out. He passed.
روزي يك دانشآموز يك آزمون خيلي سخت داشت. در آخر امتحان، استاد از همهي دانشآموزان خواست كه قلمهايشان را پايين بگذارند و بلافاصله دست خود را در روي برگه خود بگذارند. مرد جوان با خشم به نوشتن ادامه داد، گو اينكه او مطلع بود كه اگر او بلافاصله دست نگه ندارد او محروم خواهد شد. او اخطار را ناديده گرفت و امتحان را تمام كرد. دقايقي بعد، با برگهي آزمون به سوي آموزگار خود رفت. آموزگار به او گفت كه برگه امتحاني او را نخواهد گرفت.
دانش آموز پرسيد: «مي داني من چه كسي هستم»
استاد گفت: «نه و اهميتي نمي دم»
دانش آموز دوباره پرسيد: «مطمئني كه مرا نمي شناسي؟»
استاد دوباره گفت نه. بنابراین دانش آموز رفت سمت برگهها و برگه خودشو وسط اونا جا داد (جوری که استاد نمیتونست بفهمه که کدوم برگه اونه!) اونوقت [با خوشحالی] کاغذهایی که تو دستش بود رو به هوا پرت کرد و گفت: ایول (یا همان خوب!) و رفت سمت بیرون.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:24
A small crack appeared on a cocoon. A man sat for hours and watched carefully the struggle of the butterfly to get out of that small crack of cocoon.
Then the butterfly stopped striving. It seemed that she was exhausted and couldn’t go on trying. The man decided to help the poor creature. He widened the crack by scissors. The butterfly came out of cocoon easily, but her body was tiny and her wings were wrinkled.
The ma continued watching the butterfly. He expected to see her wings become expanded to protect her body. But it didn’t happen! As a matter of fact, the butterfly had to crawl on the ground for the rest of her life, for she could never fly.
The kind man didn’t realize that God had arranged the limitation of cocoon and also the struggle for butterfly to get out of it, so that a certain fluid could be discharged from her body to enable her to fly afterward.
Sometimes struggling is the only thing we need to do. If God had provided us with an easy to live without any difficulties then we become paralyzed, couldn’t become strong and could not fly.
شکاف کوچکی بر روی پیله کرم ابریشمی ظلاهر شد. مردی ساعت ها با دقت به تلاش پروانه برای خارج شدن از پیله نگاه کرد. پروانه دست از تلاش برداشت. به نظر می رسید خسته شده و نمی تواند به تلاش هایش ادامه دهد. او تصمیم گرفت به این مخلوق کوچک کمک کند. با استفاده از قیچی شکاف را پهن تر کرد. پروانه به راحتی از پیله خارج شد ، اما بدنش کوچک و بال هایش چروکیده بود.مرد به پروانه همچنان زل زده بود . انتظار داشت پروانه برای محافظت از بدنش بال هایش را باز کند. اما این طور نشد. در حقیقت پروانه مجبور بود باقی عمرش را روی زمین بخزد، و نمی توانست پرواز کند.
مرد مهربان پی نبرد که خدا محدودیت را برای پیله و تلاش برای خروج را برای پروانه بوجود آورده. به این صورت که مایع خاصی از بدنش ترشح می شود که او را قادر به پرواز می کند.
بعضی اوقات تلاش و کوشش تنها چیزی است که باید انجام دهیم. اگر خدا آسودگی بدون هیچگونه سختی را برای ما مهیا کرده بود در این صورت فلج می شدیم و نمی توانستیم نیرومند شویم و پرواز کنیم.
Then the butterfly stopped striving. It seemed that she was exhausted and couldn’t go on trying. The man decided to help the poor creature. He widened the crack by scissors. The butterfly came out of cocoon easily, but her body was tiny and her wings were wrinkled.
The ma continued watching the butterfly. He expected to see her wings become expanded to protect her body. But it didn’t happen! As a matter of fact, the butterfly had to crawl on the ground for the rest of her life, for she could never fly.
The kind man didn’t realize that God had arranged the limitation of cocoon and also the struggle for butterfly to get out of it, so that a certain fluid could be discharged from her body to enable her to fly afterward.
Sometimes struggling is the only thing we need to do. If God had provided us with an easy to live without any difficulties then we become paralyzed, couldn’t become strong and could not fly.
شکاف کوچکی بر روی پیله کرم ابریشمی ظلاهر شد. مردی ساعت ها با دقت به تلاش پروانه برای خارج شدن از پیله نگاه کرد. پروانه دست از تلاش برداشت. به نظر می رسید خسته شده و نمی تواند به تلاش هایش ادامه دهد. او تصمیم گرفت به این مخلوق کوچک کمک کند. با استفاده از قیچی شکاف را پهن تر کرد. پروانه به راحتی از پیله خارج شد ، اما بدنش کوچک و بال هایش چروکیده بود.مرد به پروانه همچنان زل زده بود . انتظار داشت پروانه برای محافظت از بدنش بال هایش را باز کند. اما این طور نشد. در حقیقت پروانه مجبور بود باقی عمرش را روی زمین بخزد، و نمی توانست پرواز کند.
مرد مهربان پی نبرد که خدا محدودیت را برای پیله و تلاش برای خروج را برای پروانه بوجود آورده. به این صورت که مایع خاصی از بدنش ترشح می شود که او را قادر به پرواز می کند.
بعضی اوقات تلاش و کوشش تنها چیزی است که باید انجام دهیم. اگر خدا آسودگی بدون هیچگونه سختی را برای ما مهیا کرده بود در این صورت فلج می شدیم و نمی توانستیم نیرومند شویم و پرواز کنیم.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:24
Harry did not stop his car at some traffic-lights when they were red, and he hit another car. Harry jumped out and went to it. There was an old man in the car. He was very frightened and said to Harry, "what are you doing? You nearly killed me.!"
"yes" Harry answered, "I'm very sorry." He took a bottle out of his car and said ,"Drink some of this. then you'll feel better." He gave the man some whisky, and the man drank it ,but then he shouted again, "you nearly killed me!"
Harry gave him the bottle again, and the old man drank a lot of the whisky. Then he smiled and said to Harry ,"Thank you .I feel much better now .but why aren't you drinking?"
"oh, well" Harry answered ,"I don’t want any whisky now. I'm going to sit here and wait for the police."
هری وقتی که چراغ قرمز شد ماشین خود را نگه نداشت و با ماشین دیگری برخورد کرد. هری پرید بیرون و به پیش آن رفت.داخل ماشین یک پیر مرد بود. او ترسیده بود و به هری گفت: چه کار می کنی؟ نزدیک بود منو بکشی!
هری جواب داد:بله؛ من متاسفم .او یک بطری از داخل ماشینش آورد و گفت:کمی از این را بنوش و این حال تو را بهتر میکنه. او مقداری ویسکی به آن مرد داد،و پیر مرد آن را نوشید،اما دوباره فریاد زد: نزدیک بود تو منو بکشی!
هری یک بطری دیگرهم به او داد و پیر مرد مقدار زیادی ویسکی نوشید.سپس لبخند زد و به هری گفت: متشکرم،احساس می کنم بهتر شدم،اما چرا تو نمی نوشی؟
هری جواب داد: صحیح، من الآن هیچ ویسکی نمی خواهم.من قصد دارم بروم آنجا بنشینم و منتظر پلیس بمانم.
"yes" Harry answered, "I'm very sorry." He took a bottle out of his car and said ,"Drink some of this. then you'll feel better." He gave the man some whisky, and the man drank it ,but then he shouted again, "you nearly killed me!"
Harry gave him the bottle again, and the old man drank a lot of the whisky. Then he smiled and said to Harry ,"Thank you .I feel much better now .but why aren't you drinking?"
"oh, well" Harry answered ,"I don’t want any whisky now. I'm going to sit here and wait for the police."
هری وقتی که چراغ قرمز شد ماشین خود را نگه نداشت و با ماشین دیگری برخورد کرد. هری پرید بیرون و به پیش آن رفت.داخل ماشین یک پیر مرد بود. او ترسیده بود و به هری گفت: چه کار می کنی؟ نزدیک بود منو بکشی!
هری جواب داد:بله؛ من متاسفم .او یک بطری از داخل ماشینش آورد و گفت:کمی از این را بنوش و این حال تو را بهتر میکنه. او مقداری ویسکی به آن مرد داد،و پیر مرد آن را نوشید،اما دوباره فریاد زد: نزدیک بود تو منو بکشی!
هری یک بطری دیگرهم به او داد و پیر مرد مقدار زیادی ویسکی نوشید.سپس لبخند زد و به هری گفت: متشکرم،احساس می کنم بهتر شدم،اما چرا تو نمی نوشی؟
هری جواب داد: صحیح، من الآن هیچ ویسکی نمی خواهم.من قصد دارم بروم آنجا بنشینم و منتظر پلیس بمانم.
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:25
The cautious captain of a small ship had to go along a coast with which he was unfamiliar , so he tried to find a qualified pilot to guide him. He went ashore in one of the small ports where his ship stopped, and a local fisherman pretended that he was one because he needed some money. The captain took him on board and let him tell him where to steer the ship.
After half an hour the captain began to suspect that the fisherman did not really know what he was doing or where he was going so he said to him,' are you sure you are a qualified pilot?
'Oh, yes' answered the fisherman .'I know every rock on this part of the coast.'
Suddenly there was a terrible tearing sound from under the ship.
At once the fisherman added," and that's one of them."
نا خدای هوشیار یک کشتی کوچک مجبور بود در امتداد ساحل دریایی که نمی شناخت حرکت کند،بنابراین او تلاش کرد تا یک ناخدای آشنا به آنجا برای راهنمایی پیدا کند.او کنار یکی از بندرهای کوچکی که کشتی اش توقف کرد ایستاد؛ و یک ماهیگیر محلی چون به پول احتیاج داشت طوری وانمود کرد که یک راننده کشتی ماهر است. نا خدا او را سوار کشتی کرد و به او اجازه داد تا بگوید کشتی را به کجا براند.
بعد از نیم ساعت نا خدا گمان کرد که ماهیگیر واقعا نمی داند چه کار دارد می کند یا به کجا می رود پس به او گفت:"ایا تو مطمئنی که ناخدای ماهرهستی؟
ماهیگیر جواب داد:" بله"."من هر سنگ این بندر از کنار دریا را می شناسم".ناگهان صدای پاره شدن از زیر کشتی آمد. سرانجام ماهیگیر افزود:"و آن هست یکی از آن سنگ ها."
After half an hour the captain began to suspect that the fisherman did not really know what he was doing or where he was going so he said to him,' are you sure you are a qualified pilot?
'Oh, yes' answered the fisherman .'I know every rock on this part of the coast.'
Suddenly there was a terrible tearing sound from under the ship.
At once the fisherman added," and that's one of them."
نا خدای هوشیار یک کشتی کوچک مجبور بود در امتداد ساحل دریایی که نمی شناخت حرکت کند،بنابراین او تلاش کرد تا یک ناخدای آشنا به آنجا برای راهنمایی پیدا کند.او کنار یکی از بندرهای کوچکی که کشتی اش توقف کرد ایستاد؛ و یک ماهیگیر محلی چون به پول احتیاج داشت طوری وانمود کرد که یک راننده کشتی ماهر است. نا خدا او را سوار کشتی کرد و به او اجازه داد تا بگوید کشتی را به کجا براند.
بعد از نیم ساعت نا خدا گمان کرد که ماهیگیر واقعا نمی داند چه کار دارد می کند یا به کجا می رود پس به او گفت:"ایا تو مطمئنی که ناخدای ماهرهستی؟
ماهیگیر جواب داد:" بله"."من هر سنگ این بندر از کنار دریا را می شناسم".ناگهان صدای پاره شدن از زیر کشتی آمد. سرانجام ماهیگیر افزود:"و آن هست یکی از آن سنگ ها."
jnicou
24-12-2008, 16:35
The worst day in Dad's life.
A father put his three-year-old daughter to bed, told her a story and listened to her prayers, which she ended by saying.
"God bless Mommy, God bless daddy, and God bless grandma and good-bye grandpa."
The father asked, "Why did you say good-bye grandpa?"
The little girl said, "I don't know daddy, it just seemed like the right thing to do."
The next day grandpa died.
The father thought it was a strange coincidence. A few months later the father put the girl to bed and listened to her prayers, which went like this:
"God bless Mommy, God Bless Daddy and good-bye Grandma."
The next day the grandmother died.
Oh my god, thought the father, this kid is in contact with the other side.
Several weeks later when the girl was going to bed the dad heard her say, "God bless Mommy and good-bye daddy."
He practically went into shock.
He couldn't sleep all night and got up at the crack of dawn to go to his office.
He was nervous as a cat all day, had lunch sent in and watched the clock.
He figured if he could get by until midnight he would be okay.
He felt safe in the office, so instead of going home at the
end of the day he stayed there, looking at his watch and jumping at every sound. Finally, when midnight arrived, he breathed a sigh of relief and went home.
When he got home his wife said, "I've never seen you work so late, what's the matter?"
He said, "I don't want to talk about it, I've just spent the worst day of my life."
She said "You think you had a bad day, you'll never believe what happened HERE.
He asked "What?”
She said "This morning our neighbor James suddenly died
A father put his three-year-old daughter to bed, told her a story and listened to her prayers, which she ended by saying.
"God bless Mommy, God bless daddy, and God bless grandma and good-bye grandpa."
The father asked, "Why did you say good-bye grandpa?"
The little girl said, "I don't know daddy, it just seemed like the right thing to do."
The next day grandpa died.
The father thought it was a strange coincidence. A few months later the father put the girl to bed and listened to her prayers, which went like this:
"God bless Mommy, God Bless Daddy and good-bye Grandma."
The next day the grandmother died.
Oh my god, thought the father, this kid is in contact with the other side.
Several weeks later when the girl was going to bed the dad heard her say, "God bless Mommy and good-bye daddy."
He practically went into shock.
He couldn't sleep all night and got up at the crack of dawn to go to his office.
He was nervous as a cat all day, had lunch sent in and watched the clock.
He figured if he could get by until midnight he would be okay.
He felt safe in the office, so instead of going home at the
end of the day he stayed there, looking at his watch and jumping at every sound. Finally, when midnight arrived, he breathed a sigh of relief and went home.
When he got home his wife said, "I've never seen you work so late, what's the matter?"
He said, "I don't want to talk about it, I've just spent the worst day of my life."
She said "You think you had a bad day, you'll never believe what happened HERE.
He asked "What?”
She said "This morning our neighbor James suddenly died
arashbi2
09-01-2009, 14:28
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
Eons ago the existence of Earth was recognized by the Elder Gods. These Gods ruled various realms which make up the unstable universe all worlds must occupy. The delicate balance of a realm’s existence rests on its furies - negative and positive forces which keep the realm from collapsing onto itself. Each realm, in itself, is therefore very powerful, containing a portion of the energy which makes up the universe. Our realm, Earth, however is special.
As a gateway or crossroads to other realms, the young world is considered one of the most powerful of all...making it attractive to other dark forces in the universe - forces like that of Shao Kahn. For thousands of years Shao Kahn has been stealing realms, transforming them into his ever expanding collection of vanquished realms known as the Outworld. He has even attempted to invade the Earth realm and steal the world from , 'inferior' human occupants. His plans were thwarted by a group of wise men from the Far East, who thousands of years ago sensed a weakening of Earth's own furies
Knowing that the eminent Outworld invasion would prove too much for Earth, the wise men appealed to the Elder Gods. They believed that Outworld had an unfair advantage over of the Earth, and thought there was a more honorable and traditional way to battle for the realms. The wise men felt that a tournament would be the noble solution. It was for this reason the Elder Gods created the tournament called Mortal Kombat.
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
Mortal Kombat would allow Earth to fend for itself, pitting the finest warriors from both realms against each other in honorable kombat. The rules of the tournament were simple - the first realm to win a consecutive set of tournaments wins the contest. If Earth wins, they have successfully defended their realm from an Outworld invasion. If Outworld wins, then Earth’s furies would be weakened and Shao Kahn would be able to step through the dimensional gate which separates the two realms.
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
The first Mortal Kombat was held nearly ten centuries ago and it was won by Shao Kahn’s demon sorcerer, Shang Tsung. Shang Tsung used his dark and unholy powers to steal the soul of his vanquished opponents. But his reign as champion was not long lived as he was defeated by a noble warrior from the Temple of the Order of Light in China named Kung Lao. Earth basked in the glory of its victories over the dark realm and Kung Lao proved to be a gifted warrior. Because the champion of Mortal Kombat doesn’t age until the next tournament, Kung Lao would return to defend his title as grand champion.
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
But for Kung Lao, the tournament was over, he had won. It was now time to get on with his life, give up his training, and fall in love. It was what he wanted and what he’s yearned all his life for. However, Kung Lao became plagued by dark and treacherous visions. It was then that he realized he wouldn’t be able to defend their realm forever. The responsibility for the fate of the Earth combined with the overwhelming sense of an impending failure tortured his soul. Rayden, the God of Thunder and protector of the Realm of Earth told Kung Lao his fate and that he therefore, must spend the time between tournaments finding new warriors who are worthy enough to train in the traditions of Mortal Kombat. Unfortunately, Kung Lao’s time as champion comes when the lands are ruled by inexplicable evil and black arts. That time is 500 years ago, the time for MORTAL KOMBAT CONQUEST.
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
As decreed by the elders, there is only one place for Kung Lao and his companions to go, one place which contains all that they search for. It is the city of Zhu Zin. And although it is known as the crossroads to the continents, it is the most dark and treacherous place one could be. It’s a city where nothing is as it seems. Streets can seem to go nowhere forever. Doorways can transport you to other realms. And around every corner, in every nook, something or someone awaits.
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
The threat to Kung Lao and his warrior companions, Siro and Taja, is enormous,for not only is Outworld plotting its takeover of Earth, but other worlds are as well. These other realms realize, that if Kung Lao and his warriors are destroyed, they’ll be able to enter the tournament and win. Warlords from other realms will stop at nothing to kill Kung Lao and his warriors. Realizing there is strength in numbers Shao Kahn and Shang Tsung often form allegiances with these otherworldly warriors in order to help them with their plan for Kung Lao’s destruction.
Now, Kung Lao, Siro and Taja’s task is made more treacherous as they must decide who is friend and who is foe in this world where nobody is as they seem. The potential threat of being stabbed in the back by a new found 'ally' adds to the terrible pressure Kung Lao is already facing. Trusting nobody, they must find warriors worthy of a responsibility as great as defending the Earth Realm. The God of Thunder, Rayden, will guide the warriors as best he can. But, humanity and its fate are left up to the humans. Only by belief in themselves and using the only force Outworld can’t defeat - human spirit - can our humans win
Eons ago the existence of Earth was recognized by the Elder Gods. These Gods ruled various realms which make up the unstable universe all worlds must occupy. The delicate balance of a realm’s existence rests on its furies - negative and positive forces which keep the realm from collapsing onto itself. Each realm, in itself, is therefore very powerful, containing a portion of the energy which makes up the universe. Our realm, Earth, however is special.
As a gateway or crossroads to other realms, the young world is considered one of the most powerful of all...making it attractive to other dark forces in the universe - forces like that of Shao Kahn. For thousands of years Shao Kahn has been stealing realms, transforming them into his ever expanding collection of vanquished realms known as the Outworld. He has even attempted to invade the Earth realm and steal the world from , 'inferior' human occupants. His plans were thwarted by a group of wise men from the Far East, who thousands of years ago sensed a weakening of Earth's own furies
Knowing that the eminent Outworld invasion would prove too much for Earth, the wise men appealed to the Elder Gods. They believed that Outworld had an unfair advantage over of the Earth, and thought there was a more honorable and traditional way to battle for the realms. The wise men felt that a tournament would be the noble solution. It was for this reason the Elder Gods created the tournament called Mortal Kombat.
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
Mortal Kombat would allow Earth to fend for itself, pitting the finest warriors from both realms against each other in honorable kombat. The rules of the tournament were simple - the first realm to win a consecutive set of tournaments wins the contest. If Earth wins, they have successfully defended their realm from an Outworld invasion. If Outworld wins, then Earth’s furies would be weakened and Shao Kahn would be able to step through the dimensional gate which separates the two realms.
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
The first Mortal Kombat was held nearly ten centuries ago and it was won by Shao Kahn’s demon sorcerer, Shang Tsung. Shang Tsung used his dark and unholy powers to steal the soul of his vanquished opponents. But his reign as champion was not long lived as he was defeated by a noble warrior from the Temple of the Order of Light in China named Kung Lao. Earth basked in the glory of its victories over the dark realm and Kung Lao proved to be a gifted warrior. Because the champion of Mortal Kombat doesn’t age until the next tournament, Kung Lao would return to defend his title as grand champion.
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
But for Kung Lao, the tournament was over, he had won. It was now time to get on with his life, give up his training, and fall in love. It was what he wanted and what he’s yearned all his life for. However, Kung Lao became plagued by dark and treacherous visions. It was then that he realized he wouldn’t be able to defend their realm forever. The responsibility for the fate of the Earth combined with the overwhelming sense of an impending failure tortured his soul. Rayden, the God of Thunder and protector of the Realm of Earth told Kung Lao his fate and that he therefore, must spend the time between tournaments finding new warriors who are worthy enough to train in the traditions of Mortal Kombat. Unfortunately, Kung Lao’s time as champion comes when the lands are ruled by inexplicable evil and black arts. That time is 500 years ago, the time for MORTAL KOMBAT CONQUEST.
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
As decreed by the elders, there is only one place for Kung Lao and his companions to go, one place which contains all that they search for. It is the city of Zhu Zin. And although it is known as the crossroads to the continents, it is the most dark and treacherous place one could be. It’s a city where nothing is as it seems. Streets can seem to go nowhere forever. Doorways can transport you to other realms. And around every corner, in every nook, something or someone awaits.
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
The threat to Kung Lao and his warrior companions, Siro and Taja, is enormous,for not only is Outworld plotting its takeover of Earth, but other worlds are as well. These other realms realize, that if Kung Lao and his warriors are destroyed, they’ll be able to enter the tournament and win. Warlords from other realms will stop at nothing to kill Kung Lao and his warriors. Realizing there is strength in numbers Shao Kahn and Shang Tsung often form allegiances with these otherworldly warriors in order to help them with their plan for Kung Lao’s destruction.
Now, Kung Lao, Siro and Taja’s task is made more treacherous as they must decide who is friend and who is foe in this world where nobody is as they seem. The potential threat of being stabbed in the back by a new found 'ally' adds to the terrible pressure Kung Lao is already facing. Trusting nobody, they must find warriors worthy of a responsibility as great as defending the Earth Realm. The God of Thunder, Rayden, will guide the warriors as best he can. But, humanity and its fate are left up to the humans. Only by belief in themselves and using the only force Outworld can’t defeat - human spirit - can our humans win
C. Breezy
19-01-2009, 19:59
destiny
during a momentous battle, a japanese general decided to attack even though his army was greatly outnumbered. He was confident they would win, but his men were filled with doubt.
On the way to the battle, they stopped at a religious shrine. After praying with the men, the general took out a coin and said, "i shall now toss this coin. If it is heads, we shall win. If it is tails we shall lose."
"destiny will now reveal itself."
he threw the coin into the air and all watched intently as it landed. It was heads. The soldiers were so overjoyed and filled with confidence that they vigorously attacked the enemy and were victorious.
After the battle. A lieutenant remarked to the general, "no one can change destiny."
"quite right," the general replied as he showed the lieutenant the coin, which had heads on both sides.
ایول ، من این داستان رو یکی دوماه پیش برای معلم زبانم برده بودم ، می گفت داستان کوتاه بنویسین بیارین ، من اینو با کلی بدبختی از اینترنت پیدا کردم ، حالا که این تاپیک هست کلی ازش فیض می بریم ...
she said "this morning our neighbor james suddenly died
من اینجاشو نفهمیدم که چرا همسایشون مُرد ؟!
during a momentous battle, a japanese general decided to attack even though his army was greatly outnumbered. He was confident they would win, but his men were filled with doubt.
On the way to the battle, they stopped at a religious shrine. After praying with the men, the general took out a coin and said, "i shall now toss this coin. If it is heads, we shall win. If it is tails we shall lose."
"destiny will now reveal itself."
he threw the coin into the air and all watched intently as it landed. It was heads. The soldiers were so overjoyed and filled with confidence that they vigorously attacked the enemy and were victorious.
After the battle. A lieutenant remarked to the general, "no one can change destiny."
"quite right," the general replied as he showed the lieutenant the coin, which had heads on both sides.
ایول ، من این داستان رو یکی دوماه پیش برای معلم زبانم برده بودم ، می گفت داستان کوتاه بنویسین بیارین ، من اینو با کلی بدبختی از اینترنت پیدا کردم ، حالا که این تاپیک هست کلی ازش فیض می بریم ...
she said "this morning our neighbor james suddenly died
من اینجاشو نفهمیدم که چرا همسایشون مُرد ؟!
seymour
20-01-2009, 18:41
من اینجاشو نفهمیدم که چرا همسایشون مُرد ؟!
It's like a sad joke[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ] … their neighbor died because apparently he was the real father of the kid … (meaning her mom at some point has had an affair with the neighbor and the girl was the result!!!)
It's like a sad joke[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ] … their neighbor died because apparently he was the real father of the kid … (meaning her mom at some point has had an affair with the neighbor and the girl was the result!!!)
C. Breezy
21-01-2009, 20:01
it's like a sad joke[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ] … their neighbor died because apparently he was the real father of the kid … (meaning her mom at some point has had an affair with the neighbor and the girl was the result!!!)
چقدر غم انگیز ( راستی اینجا میشه فارسی حرف زد ؟! ) :37:
چقدر غم انگیز ( راستی اینجا میشه فارسی حرف زد ؟! ) :37:
seymour
21-01-2009, 23:42
چقدر غم انگیز ( راستی اینجا میشه فارسی حرف زد ؟! ) :37:
well , try not to!!!
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
well , try not to!!!
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
C. Breezy
22-01-2009, 15:59
well , try not to!!!
ok :27: ....
ok :27: ....
afsane b
11-02-2009, 13:09
Once upon a time
It was so cold, snow fell constantly. Animals have never seen it before. At first it was a thing to play but it became deeper and deeper, small animals were buried in the snow and the large animals could walk with difficulty. Animals began to worry, "we would all perish if something weren’t be done" said wise owl "we should send a messenger to the creator and tell him about this disastrous"
Animals were happy with this idea and began to debate among themselves to choose somebody as a messenger. The wise owl couldn't see during the day, so he wasn’t suitable. The wolf was tricky, he wasn’t trustful. The turtle was steady but too slow. In the end the rain bow crow, the most beautiful bird, with shimmering feathers and enchanting voice was chosen.
It was a very difficult trip, tree days flying up and up, he passed trees and rivers, stars and moon, even the sun, he flied bravely. When he reached the heaven, called out for the creator but received no answer, so started to sing his beautiful song, the creator heard his amazing voice and came and greeted him warmly, then asked him what gift he could give the noble bird in exchanging for his song. The rainbow crow told him about the animals on he earth who were dying out of the cold.
The creator stuck the stick into the blazing sun and handed the rainbow crow and told him "fly as fast as you can before the fire burn you up". The bird nodded to thank and started his journey. Three days decreasing from heaven to earth that was more difficult, because the stick was so heavy. When the elegance bird was passing the sun his tail touched the flaming fire and his shimmering feathers turn to black and the smoke of the fire went to his trout and destroyed his beautiful voice.
The time he stepped on the earth, he was as black as the tar and could just cow instead of singing. He gave the fire to the animals and they melted the ice and warmed themselves.
It was the time of joy. All the animals were happy except the crow who wasn’t rainbow anymore. He had sat apart sadly when felt wind on his face he looked up and saw the creator. The creator told him "don’t be sad, all the animals will honor you for the sacrificed you have done for them, and when the people come, they won't hunt you because of the smoke taste of your meat, also they won't keep you into the cage, because of your ugly appearance and hoarse voice, you will be free.:46:
It was so cold, snow fell constantly. Animals have never seen it before. At first it was a thing to play but it became deeper and deeper, small animals were buried in the snow and the large animals could walk with difficulty. Animals began to worry, "we would all perish if something weren’t be done" said wise owl "we should send a messenger to the creator and tell him about this disastrous"
Animals were happy with this idea and began to debate among themselves to choose somebody as a messenger. The wise owl couldn't see during the day, so he wasn’t suitable. The wolf was tricky, he wasn’t trustful. The turtle was steady but too slow. In the end the rain bow crow, the most beautiful bird, with shimmering feathers and enchanting voice was chosen.
It was a very difficult trip, tree days flying up and up, he passed trees and rivers, stars and moon, even the sun, he flied bravely. When he reached the heaven, called out for the creator but received no answer, so started to sing his beautiful song, the creator heard his amazing voice and came and greeted him warmly, then asked him what gift he could give the noble bird in exchanging for his song. The rainbow crow told him about the animals on he earth who were dying out of the cold.
The creator stuck the stick into the blazing sun and handed the rainbow crow and told him "fly as fast as you can before the fire burn you up". The bird nodded to thank and started his journey. Three days decreasing from heaven to earth that was more difficult, because the stick was so heavy. When the elegance bird was passing the sun his tail touched the flaming fire and his shimmering feathers turn to black and the smoke of the fire went to his trout and destroyed his beautiful voice.
The time he stepped on the earth, he was as black as the tar and could just cow instead of singing. He gave the fire to the animals and they melted the ice and warmed themselves.
It was the time of joy. All the animals were happy except the crow who wasn’t rainbow anymore. He had sat apart sadly when felt wind on his face he looked up and saw the creator. The creator told him "don’t be sad, all the animals will honor you for the sacrificed you have done for them, and when the people come, they won't hunt you because of the smoke taste of your meat, also they won't keep you into the cage, because of your ugly appearance and hoarse voice, you will be free.:46:
afsane b
12-02-2009, 10:17
Hey buddies;
First of all, I'd like to thank you for your informative short stories:46:.
I recognized some of the stories have translation, so, am I supposed to translate this story in Persian too?
First of all, I'd like to thank you for your informative short stories:46:.
I recognized some of the stories have translation, so, am I supposed to translate this story in Persian too?
C. Breezy
12-02-2009, 21:57
اهم اهم ... بهتر بود توی بخش ترجمه می پرسیدی ...
در کل ، من دیدم متنش ساده اس ، گفتم ترجمش کنم ... منتها بعضی جاهاش نفهمیدم چی شد ... اون قسمت هاش رو انگلیسی نوشتم ... اگه خواستی من ترجمش رو توی همون تاپیک ترجمه می نویسم .... فعلا در حال ترجمه شدن هست :31:
در کل ، من دیدم متنش ساده اس ، گفتم ترجمش کنم ... منتها بعضی جاهاش نفهمیدم چی شد ... اون قسمت هاش رو انگلیسی نوشتم ... اگه خواستی من ترجمش رو توی همون تاپیک ترجمه می نویسم .... فعلا در حال ترجمه شدن هست :31:
afsane b
17-02-2009, 13:51
ECHO & NARCISSUS BY
THOMAS BULLFINCH
Echo was a beautiful nymph, fond of the woods and hills, where she devoted herself to woodland sports. She was a favourite of Diana, and attended her in the chase. But Echo had one failing; she was fond of talking, and whether in chat or argument, would have the last word. One day Juno was seeking her husband, who, she had reason to fear, was amusing himself among the nymphs. Echo by her talk contrived to detain the goddess till the nymphs made their escape. When Juno discovered it, she passed sentence upon Echo in these words: "You shall forfeit the use of that tongue with which you have cheated me, except for that one purpose you are so fond of- reply. You shall still have the last word, but no power to speak first."
This nymph saw Narcissus, a beautiful youth, as he pursued the chase upon the mountains. She loved him and followed his footsteps. O how she longed to address him in the softest accents, and win him to converse! but it was not in her power. She waited with impatience for him to speak first, and had her answer ready. One day the youth, being separated from his companions, shouted aloud, "Who's here?" Echo replied, "Here." Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one, called out, "Come." Echo answered, "Come." As no one came, Narcissus called again, "Why do you shun me?" Echo asked the same question. "Let us join one another," said the youth. The maid answered with all her heart in the same words, and hastened to the spot, ready to throw her arms about his neck. He started back, exclaiming, "Hands off! I would rather die than you should have me!" "Have me," said she; but it was all in vain. He left her, and she went to hide her blushes in the recesses of the woods. From that time forth she lived in caves and among mountain cliffs. Her form faded with grief, till at last all her flesh shrank away. Her bones were changed into rocks and there was nothing left of her but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to any one who calls her, and keeps up her old habit of having the last word.
Narcissus's cruelty in this case was not the only instance. He shunned all the rest of the nymphs, as he had done poor Echo. One day a maiden who had in vain endeavored to attract him uttered a prayer that he might some time or other feel what it was to love and meet no return of affection. The avenging goddess heard and granted the prayer.
There was a clear fountain, with water like silver, to which the shepherds never drove their flocks, nor the mountain goats resorted, nor any of the beasts of the forests; neither was it defaced with fallen leaves or branches; but the grass grew fresh around it, and the rocks sheltered it from the sun. Hither came one day the youth, fatigued with hunting, heated and thirsty. He stooped down to drink, and saw his own image in the water; he thought it was some beautiful water-spirit living in the fountain. He stood gazing with admiration at those bright eyes, those locks curled like the locks of Bacchus or Apollo, the rounded cheeks, the ivory neck, the parted lips, and the glow of health and exercise over all. He fell in love with himself. He brought his lips near to take a kiss; he plunged his arms in to embrace the beloved object. It fled at the touch, but returned again after a moment and renewed the fascination. He could not tear himself away; he lost all thought of food or rest. while he hovered over the brink of the fountain gazing upon his own image. He talked with the supposed spirit: "Why, beautiful being, do you shun me? Surely my face is not one to repel you. The nymphs love me, and you yourself look not indifferent upon me. When I stretch forth my arms you do the same; and you smile upon me and answer my beckonings with the like." His tears fell into the water and disturbed the image. As he saw it depart, he exclaimed, "Stay, I entreat you! Let me at least gaze upon you, if I may not touch you." With this, and much more of the same kind, he cherished the flame that consumed him, so that by degrees be lost his colour, his vigour, and the beauty which formerly had so charmed the nymph Echo.
She kept near him, however, and when he exclaimed, "Alas! alas!" she answered him with the same words. He pined away and died; and when his shade passed the Stygian river, it leaned over the boat to catch a look of itself in the waters. The nymphs mourned for him, especially the water-nymphs; and when they smote their breasts Echo smote hers also. They prepared a funeral pile and would have burned the body, but it was nowhere to be found; but in its place a flower, purple within, and surrounded with white leaves, which bears the name and preserves the memory of Narcissus.
THOMAS BULLFINCH
Echo was a beautiful nymph, fond of the woods and hills, where she devoted herself to woodland sports. She was a favourite of Diana, and attended her in the chase. But Echo had one failing; she was fond of talking, and whether in chat or argument, would have the last word. One day Juno was seeking her husband, who, she had reason to fear, was amusing himself among the nymphs. Echo by her talk contrived to detain the goddess till the nymphs made their escape. When Juno discovered it, she passed sentence upon Echo in these words: "You shall forfeit the use of that tongue with which you have cheated me, except for that one purpose you are so fond of- reply. You shall still have the last word, but no power to speak first."
This nymph saw Narcissus, a beautiful youth, as he pursued the chase upon the mountains. She loved him and followed his footsteps. O how she longed to address him in the softest accents, and win him to converse! but it was not in her power. She waited with impatience for him to speak first, and had her answer ready. One day the youth, being separated from his companions, shouted aloud, "Who's here?" Echo replied, "Here." Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one, called out, "Come." Echo answered, "Come." As no one came, Narcissus called again, "Why do you shun me?" Echo asked the same question. "Let us join one another," said the youth. The maid answered with all her heart in the same words, and hastened to the spot, ready to throw her arms about his neck. He started back, exclaiming, "Hands off! I would rather die than you should have me!" "Have me," said she; but it was all in vain. He left her, and she went to hide her blushes in the recesses of the woods. From that time forth she lived in caves and among mountain cliffs. Her form faded with grief, till at last all her flesh shrank away. Her bones were changed into rocks and there was nothing left of her but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to any one who calls her, and keeps up her old habit of having the last word.
Narcissus's cruelty in this case was not the only instance. He shunned all the rest of the nymphs, as he had done poor Echo. One day a maiden who had in vain endeavored to attract him uttered a prayer that he might some time or other feel what it was to love and meet no return of affection. The avenging goddess heard and granted the prayer.
There was a clear fountain, with water like silver, to which the shepherds never drove their flocks, nor the mountain goats resorted, nor any of the beasts of the forests; neither was it defaced with fallen leaves or branches; but the grass grew fresh around it, and the rocks sheltered it from the sun. Hither came one day the youth, fatigued with hunting, heated and thirsty. He stooped down to drink, and saw his own image in the water; he thought it was some beautiful water-spirit living in the fountain. He stood gazing with admiration at those bright eyes, those locks curled like the locks of Bacchus or Apollo, the rounded cheeks, the ivory neck, the parted lips, and the glow of health and exercise over all. He fell in love with himself. He brought his lips near to take a kiss; he plunged his arms in to embrace the beloved object. It fled at the touch, but returned again after a moment and renewed the fascination. He could not tear himself away; he lost all thought of food or rest. while he hovered over the brink of the fountain gazing upon his own image. He talked with the supposed spirit: "Why, beautiful being, do you shun me? Surely my face is not one to repel you. The nymphs love me, and you yourself look not indifferent upon me. When I stretch forth my arms you do the same; and you smile upon me and answer my beckonings with the like." His tears fell into the water and disturbed the image. As he saw it depart, he exclaimed, "Stay, I entreat you! Let me at least gaze upon you, if I may not touch you." With this, and much more of the same kind, he cherished the flame that consumed him, so that by degrees be lost his colour, his vigour, and the beauty which formerly had so charmed the nymph Echo.
She kept near him, however, and when he exclaimed, "Alas! alas!" she answered him with the same words. He pined away and died; and when his shade passed the Stygian river, it leaned over the boat to catch a look of itself in the waters. The nymphs mourned for him, especially the water-nymphs; and when they smote their breasts Echo smote hers also. They prepared a funeral pile and would have burned the body, but it was nowhere to be found; but in its place a flower, purple within, and surrounded with white leaves, which bears the name and preserves the memory of Narcissus.
afsane b
25-02-2009, 12:31
David and Bathsheba
David was a good king and made sure his people were treated right fairly. Since he would not get to build the temple for God himself, he began to gather materials for the time when his son would build it. David was famous with the people because of the victories God gave him over their enemies. These wars were not just fought for glory, though. God was using his people to punish those who had turned away from him to worship idols. Finally the nations nearby were conquered; Israel included all the land God had promised to Abraham. During one of the wars, however, David stayed behind in Jerusalem when his soldiers went off to fight. It was at this time that David fell into grievous sin, which would haunt him for the rest of his life.
As David walked on the roof of his house one evening, he saw a beautiful woman taking a bath. Someone told him she was Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah, a Hittite soldier off fighting with David’s army. David should have put Bathsheba out of his mind when he heard she was married, but he didn’t. Instead he had her brought to the palace and sinned with her there. Sometime later Bathsheba sent David word she was going to have his baby.
David the king over all Israel had committed adultery with one of his soldiers’ wives and now there was going to be a child! Desperately he tried to think of a way to cover his sin. Finally David had a plan; he would bring Uriah home from the battlefront and let him visit his wife. Then everyone would think he was the baby’s father.
But David’s plan didn’t work. Uriah came back to Jerusalem, but he wouldn’t go down to his house, not even after David got him drunk. He slept with the king’s servants instead. He wouldn’t let himself enjoy being home with his wife while the other soldiers were having a hard time on the battlefield.
What could David do now? Soon Uriah would hear Bathsheba was going to have a baby, a baby that was not his. He must never know that David was its father!
David did a terrible thing. He wrote to Joab, the leader of his army, commanding him, “Set Uriah in the forefront of the hottest battle, and retreat from him, that he may be struck down and die.” Then he had Uriah take the letter back with him.
Was David actually trying to get Uriah killed? Yes, he was! And that was just what happened. When David heard Uriah was dead he told Joab not to feel guilty. “The sword devours one as well as another.” David said, just as if Uriah’s death had been an ordinary casualty of war.
After about a year God sent Nathan the prophet to talk with David. He had been a wise judge over his people so Nathan told a parable that would let the king himself judge. In the parable there was a rich man with many sheep and a poor man with only one little lamb. This little lamb was so special to the poor man that he treated it like his own child. This rich man did an awful thing. One day a traveler came by and he killed the poor man’s little lamb to feed the visitor. When David heard what the rich man had done, his anger was hot. “As the Lord lives, the man who has done this shall die!” he declared indignantly, not knowing he was talking about himself!
“You are the man,” Nathan told the king. Then he delivered God’s message. “I anointed you king over Israel, and I delivered you from the hand of Saul. I gave you the house of Israel and Judah. And if that had not been too little, I also would have given you much more,” God said. Yet David had broken God’s law and had done evil in his sight. Not only had he killed Uriah with the sword, he had taken his wife for himself.
As punishment Nathan said David’s family would have trouble for the rest of his life. “I have sinned against the Lord,” David confessed and God saw he has repented. But sad consequences would still follow
David was a good king and made sure his people were treated right fairly. Since he would not get to build the temple for God himself, he began to gather materials for the time when his son would build it. David was famous with the people because of the victories God gave him over their enemies. These wars were not just fought for glory, though. God was using his people to punish those who had turned away from him to worship idols. Finally the nations nearby were conquered; Israel included all the land God had promised to Abraham. During one of the wars, however, David stayed behind in Jerusalem when his soldiers went off to fight. It was at this time that David fell into grievous sin, which would haunt him for the rest of his life.
As David walked on the roof of his house one evening, he saw a beautiful woman taking a bath. Someone told him she was Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah, a Hittite soldier off fighting with David’s army. David should have put Bathsheba out of his mind when he heard she was married, but he didn’t. Instead he had her brought to the palace and sinned with her there. Sometime later Bathsheba sent David word she was going to have his baby.
David the king over all Israel had committed adultery with one of his soldiers’ wives and now there was going to be a child! Desperately he tried to think of a way to cover his sin. Finally David had a plan; he would bring Uriah home from the battlefront and let him visit his wife. Then everyone would think he was the baby’s father.
But David’s plan didn’t work. Uriah came back to Jerusalem, but he wouldn’t go down to his house, not even after David got him drunk. He slept with the king’s servants instead. He wouldn’t let himself enjoy being home with his wife while the other soldiers were having a hard time on the battlefield.
What could David do now? Soon Uriah would hear Bathsheba was going to have a baby, a baby that was not his. He must never know that David was its father!
David did a terrible thing. He wrote to Joab, the leader of his army, commanding him, “Set Uriah in the forefront of the hottest battle, and retreat from him, that he may be struck down and die.” Then he had Uriah take the letter back with him.
Was David actually trying to get Uriah killed? Yes, he was! And that was just what happened. When David heard Uriah was dead he told Joab not to feel guilty. “The sword devours one as well as another.” David said, just as if Uriah’s death had been an ordinary casualty of war.
After about a year God sent Nathan the prophet to talk with David. He had been a wise judge over his people so Nathan told a parable that would let the king himself judge. In the parable there was a rich man with many sheep and a poor man with only one little lamb. This little lamb was so special to the poor man that he treated it like his own child. This rich man did an awful thing. One day a traveler came by and he killed the poor man’s little lamb to feed the visitor. When David heard what the rich man had done, his anger was hot. “As the Lord lives, the man who has done this shall die!” he declared indignantly, not knowing he was talking about himself!
“You are the man,” Nathan told the king. Then he delivered God’s message. “I anointed you king over Israel, and I delivered you from the hand of Saul. I gave you the house of Israel and Judah. And if that had not been too little, I also would have given you much more,” God said. Yet David had broken God’s law and had done evil in his sight. Not only had he killed Uriah with the sword, he had taken his wife for himself.
As punishment Nathan said David’s family would have trouble for the rest of his life. “I have sinned against the Lord,” David confessed and God saw he has repented. But sad consequences would still follow
seymour
25-02-2009, 22:23
the above post is one of my favorite biblical stories [ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
babak2002
26-02-2009, 09:56
On Friday afternoon a judge sentenced lawyer Mickey Mantle to 24 hours in jail for contempt. Mantle had just won a lawsuit against a man who had struck Mantle’s client. The client had accidentally spilled a diet soda onto the defendant’s new sneakers, so he broke the client’s jaw. The judge sentenced the defendant to two years in jail for assault and battery. But after handcuffing the defendant, the sheriff’s deputy also handcuffed Mantle. “What the heck do you think you’re doing?” Mantle shouted.
“Sorry. Judge’s orders,” replied the deputy, as he escorted Mantle and the defendant out of the courtroom. “She said to throw you in jail overnight for contempt of court.” Because the judge had already left the courtroom, Mantle had no one to protest to.
Mantle and the convicted man were put in the back of the same van and driven five miles to the city jail. When they were taken out of the van, Mantle had a black eye and a bloody nose. He told the deputy that the defendant had head-butted him. The defendant called Mantle a liar. He told the deputy that Mantle had gone flying when the van made a sharp turn and banged his face on the defendant’s knee.
The deputy took Mantle to the jail emergency room. Mantle couldn’t believe what was going on. He was a respected lawyer about to spend the night in jail with violent criminals, some of whom he’d helped to convict. He’d be lucky to get out alive. And all because of a stupid cup of coffee.
Mantle was in jail because he had displeased Judge Brown. Brown had asked Mantle to bring her a caffe latte from Moonbucks on Mantle’s way back from lunch. Mantle had had previous run-ins with Brown. He didn’t like Brown, and refused to be her errand boy. When Mantle returned from lunch, she asked him where her coffee was. Mantle said, “They ran out. They said to come back tomorrow.”
“Sorry. Judge’s orders,” replied the deputy, as he escorted Mantle and the defendant out of the courtroom. “She said to throw you in jail overnight for contempt of court.” Because the judge had already left the courtroom, Mantle had no one to protest to.
Mantle and the convicted man were put in the back of the same van and driven five miles to the city jail. When they were taken out of the van, Mantle had a black eye and a bloody nose. He told the deputy that the defendant had head-butted him. The defendant called Mantle a liar. He told the deputy that Mantle had gone flying when the van made a sharp turn and banged his face on the defendant’s knee.
The deputy took Mantle to the jail emergency room. Mantle couldn’t believe what was going on. He was a respected lawyer about to spend the night in jail with violent criminals, some of whom he’d helped to convict. He’d be lucky to get out alive. And all because of a stupid cup of coffee.
Mantle was in jail because he had displeased Judge Brown. Brown had asked Mantle to bring her a caffe latte from Moonbucks on Mantle’s way back from lunch. Mantle had had previous run-ins with Brown. He didn’t like Brown, and refused to be her errand boy. When Mantle returned from lunch, she asked him where her coffee was. Mantle said, “They ran out. They said to come back tomorrow.”
babak2002
26-02-2009, 10:04
It was 10 p.m. Fritz said good night to his wife. She was watching TV. He went to bed. Tomorrow was a big day. It was his last day of work. Thirty years with the federal government. Thirty years of flying out of town for weeks on end. Thirty years of interviews, meetings, and heavy briefcases. Tomorrow it would all be over. Not that he didn’t like it. He had enjoyed his career.
Fritz felt blessed. His father had had a tough life as an unskilled laborer. Whenever Fritz was a bit discouraged or upset, he thought about his overworked and underpaid father. He thanked God for his own good life, and for the fact that he had been able to make his dad’s last years comfortable.
His two children were married and had their own careers. His wife Paige kept busy with, among other things, her bridge club. She had tried to get him interested in bridge, but without success. Fritz was content with his own Friday night poker group.
Friday morning, he went to work for the very last time. Those who knew him well would miss him. Fritz was a genuinely nice guy. He never had a bad word to say about anyone. Some people might have thought he was a little dull, but he was intelligent, a hard worker, and a team player. He had taken only three weeks of sick leave in 30 years.
A small group took him out to lunch. When he returned from lunch, the whole office gathered around for cake, ice cream, a farewell card, and a few short speeches. They presented him with various going-away gifts, including a big, paperback US atlas. It listed all the motels, campgrounds, national parks, tourist spots, and other information to help guide a leisurely traveler throughout the good old USA. He had told his friends that he and Paige were going to spend a couple of years visiting all the places that he never had gotten to explore while there on business. As a final gift, his supervisor told him to take the rest of the day off.
Paige’s car wasn’t in the driveway when he got home. She was probably shopping for some traveling clothes. Maybe she was out arranging a dinner at a restaurant that evening for just the two of them. That would be nice.
But something was wrong. When he hung up his jacket, he saw that the bedroom closet was half empty. Paige’s clothes were gone. Her shoes were not on the closet floor. Confused, he looked around the bedroom.
He saw an envelope on the lamp stand. Inside it were two pieces of paper. One notified him of a divorce proceeding. The other was a hand-written note from Paige. “I’m so sorry,” it began. She said that her lawyer had told her to wait until today. If she had sought divorce a year earlier, like her boyfriend had suggested, she would not have been able to qualify for 50 percent of Fritz’s pension. She hoped that he would find it in his heart to forgive her. She felt terrible about this, she wrote, because “you’ve been so good to me. But I can’t ignore my own heart.”
Fritz sat immobile on the edge of the bed. Her note was in his hand; her words were burning in his brain.
Maybe an hour later, the phone rang. He picked it up on the fifth ring. It was Bob, wondering if Fritz was going to play poker later that night
:37::37::41::45:
Fritz felt blessed. His father had had a tough life as an unskilled laborer. Whenever Fritz was a bit discouraged or upset, he thought about his overworked and underpaid father. He thanked God for his own good life, and for the fact that he had been able to make his dad’s last years comfortable.
His two children were married and had their own careers. His wife Paige kept busy with, among other things, her bridge club. She had tried to get him interested in bridge, but without success. Fritz was content with his own Friday night poker group.
Friday morning, he went to work for the very last time. Those who knew him well would miss him. Fritz was a genuinely nice guy. He never had a bad word to say about anyone. Some people might have thought he was a little dull, but he was intelligent, a hard worker, and a team player. He had taken only three weeks of sick leave in 30 years.
A small group took him out to lunch. When he returned from lunch, the whole office gathered around for cake, ice cream, a farewell card, and a few short speeches. They presented him with various going-away gifts, including a big, paperback US atlas. It listed all the motels, campgrounds, national parks, tourist spots, and other information to help guide a leisurely traveler throughout the good old USA. He had told his friends that he and Paige were going to spend a couple of years visiting all the places that he never had gotten to explore while there on business. As a final gift, his supervisor told him to take the rest of the day off.
Paige’s car wasn’t in the driveway when he got home. She was probably shopping for some traveling clothes. Maybe she was out arranging a dinner at a restaurant that evening for just the two of them. That would be nice.
But something was wrong. When he hung up his jacket, he saw that the bedroom closet was half empty. Paige’s clothes were gone. Her shoes were not on the closet floor. Confused, he looked around the bedroom.
He saw an envelope on the lamp stand. Inside it were two pieces of paper. One notified him of a divorce proceeding. The other was a hand-written note from Paige. “I’m so sorry,” it began. She said that her lawyer had told her to wait until today. If she had sought divorce a year earlier, like her boyfriend had suggested, she would not have been able to qualify for 50 percent of Fritz’s pension. She hoped that he would find it in his heart to forgive her. She felt terrible about this, she wrote, because “you’ve been so good to me. But I can’t ignore my own heart.”
Fritz sat immobile on the edge of the bed. Her note was in his hand; her words were burning in his brain.
Maybe an hour later, the phone rang. He picked it up on the fifth ring. It was Bob, wondering if Fritz was going to play poker later that night
:37::37::41::45:
babak2002
26-02-2009, 10:10
Adrian’s favorite store was the $1 Store. This store had everything, from fresh produce to birthday cards to gasoline additives. Everything was one dollar. Usually, he got very good deals; occasionally, he got ripped off.
A few days ago, Adrian bought six packages of ink for his printer. Then he found a deal on better ink at the local computer store. So Adrian went back to the $1 Store to exchange the ink for some other items.
He put the ink into a plastic bag and tied it up. When he entered the store, he immediately showed the bag to a clerk and told her that he was returning some items. She looked at him but said nothing. There were about ten people in her line. She was obviously very busy. Not knowing exactly what to do, Adrian put the bag into a push-cart and started shopping.
He was midway through shopping when a female employee suddenly stopped him. “Sir,” she said sternly, “you are not allowed to carry a plastic bag of items around in this store. What’s in this bag? Show me what’s in the bag!”
Adrian was taken aback. There was no need for her to yell. He opened the bag and showed her the six packages of ink. “I’m returning these to exchange for some other items,” Adrian said.
“You should have left the bag with the clerk when you entered this store. Let me see your receipt!” the employee demanded.
Adrian was embarrassed. He felt like a shoplifter. He looked around to see if anyone was paying attention. He showed her the receipt.
“Perhaps in the future you’ll learn how to follow store policy. Leave this bag here with the clerk. You can have your receipt and bag back when you check out.”
By the time Adrian had finished shopping and exchanged the items, he was angry. How dare she treat him like a criminal? He went looking for her. He wanted an apology. He found her in the produce section and asked what her name was. She mumbled something. He asked her again, and this time he heard “Ursula.”
“Ursula what?” he asked. She yelled at him, “Ursula!” and stormed away.
When Adrian got home, he called the store’s corporate headquarters. This rude employee was about to lose her job, he said to himself. He described his unpleasant experience to a customer service representative. She was sympathetic. “Our employees are taught to be polite. We will not tolerate such behavior. Give me your phone number and I will call you back.”
Two days later, Adrian received a phone call from the representative. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but there’s no one at that store named Ursula. Can you describe her? I’ll find out who she is. I assure you, we do not tolerate rude behavior, nor do we tolerate lying to customers.”
By this time, Adrian had calmed down. He didn’t really want the employee to lose her job. He told the representative to forget about it.
:27::27::27::27::27:
:27::27::27::27:
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:27:
A few days ago, Adrian bought six packages of ink for his printer. Then he found a deal on better ink at the local computer store. So Adrian went back to the $1 Store to exchange the ink for some other items.
He put the ink into a plastic bag and tied it up. When he entered the store, he immediately showed the bag to a clerk and told her that he was returning some items. She looked at him but said nothing. There were about ten people in her line. She was obviously very busy. Not knowing exactly what to do, Adrian put the bag into a push-cart and started shopping.
He was midway through shopping when a female employee suddenly stopped him. “Sir,” she said sternly, “you are not allowed to carry a plastic bag of items around in this store. What’s in this bag? Show me what’s in the bag!”
Adrian was taken aback. There was no need for her to yell. He opened the bag and showed her the six packages of ink. “I’m returning these to exchange for some other items,” Adrian said.
“You should have left the bag with the clerk when you entered this store. Let me see your receipt!” the employee demanded.
Adrian was embarrassed. He felt like a shoplifter. He looked around to see if anyone was paying attention. He showed her the receipt.
“Perhaps in the future you’ll learn how to follow store policy. Leave this bag here with the clerk. You can have your receipt and bag back when you check out.”
By the time Adrian had finished shopping and exchanged the items, he was angry. How dare she treat him like a criminal? He went looking for her. He wanted an apology. He found her in the produce section and asked what her name was. She mumbled something. He asked her again, and this time he heard “Ursula.”
“Ursula what?” he asked. She yelled at him, “Ursula!” and stormed away.
When Adrian got home, he called the store’s corporate headquarters. This rude employee was about to lose her job, he said to himself. He described his unpleasant experience to a customer service representative. She was sympathetic. “Our employees are taught to be polite. We will not tolerate such behavior. Give me your phone number and I will call you back.”
Two days later, Adrian received a phone call from the representative. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but there’s no one at that store named Ursula. Can you describe her? I’ll find out who she is. I assure you, we do not tolerate rude behavior, nor do we tolerate lying to customers.”
By this time, Adrian had calmed down. He didn’t really want the employee to lose her job. He told the representative to forget about it.
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babak2002
28-02-2009, 21:06
Maria and Lisa were best friends. They shared a two-bedroom apartment in Hollywood. Maria was a clerk at a clothing store, and Lisa was a clerk at a supermarket. Their hours varied, so they didn’t get to spend a whole lot of time together. But last weekend both were off work. “Let’s go to the beach,” suggested Maria.
“That’s a good idea,” agreed Lisa. “Which one?”
“Well, I would prefer an uncrowded beach, because I think I’ve put on a few pounds recently. I don’t want any boys seeing my fat.”
“Oh, please,” said Lisa. “You eat so little. Ounces don’t turn into pounds. How about Zuma Beach? That’s pretty far north of Santa Monica Beach, so it’s just right—not too crowded and not too empty.”
“That sounds good,” said Maria.
The drive to the beach took more than an hour. When they got there, the hot and sunny Hollywood weather had become cool, windy, and overcast beach weather. Both of them had been to the beach many times before, so they were not surprised by the change in weather. They put on their jackets, shoes, and socks, and headed north to hunt for seashells.
Within an hour they had collected about 20 beautiful shells into a plastic bag. They were still walking slowly north when they heard a roar. They turned around to see a four-wheel All Terrain Vehicle coming rapidly toward them. The driver braked at the last moment. Sand flew onto the two girls. They both screamed.
The driver was wearing a jacket that said Beach Patrol. He got off the ATV and started yelling at them. “What are you two doing here? Can’t you read? The signs say Private Property. They say No Trespassing. Get out of here before I write you a ticket and have you arrested.”
“What’s your name?” Maria stood defiantly. “I’m going to report you to the police. You’re not a real patrol officer. This is a public beach. Those signs are phony signs put up by homeowners who think they own the beach.”
“My name is John Smith. Report me to whoever you want. Now get out of here or you’ll be sorry.”
“You can’t make us leave. This is a public beach!” yelled Maria.
The man got back onto his ATV and started driving in circles around the women. The ATV was spraying sand and water all over them. He was laughing. They started running back south. When the ATV driver saw that they were leaving, he drove off.
“John Smith. A phony name to go with a phony uniform,” said Maria when they slowed down to a walk. “We’re going to the police station and make a complaint. I hope they put him in jail.”
A few minutes later, Lisa asked, “Where are the shells?”
“Oh, gee, in all the excitement I left them back there. I’m sorry.”
“No problem,” replied Lisa. “There’s plenty of seashells in the sea.”
“Yeah, just like there’s plenty of jerks on the shore.”
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“That’s a good idea,” agreed Lisa. “Which one?”
“Well, I would prefer an uncrowded beach, because I think I’ve put on a few pounds recently. I don’t want any boys seeing my fat.”
“Oh, please,” said Lisa. “You eat so little. Ounces don’t turn into pounds. How about Zuma Beach? That’s pretty far north of Santa Monica Beach, so it’s just right—not too crowded and not too empty.”
“That sounds good,” said Maria.
The drive to the beach took more than an hour. When they got there, the hot and sunny Hollywood weather had become cool, windy, and overcast beach weather. Both of them had been to the beach many times before, so they were not surprised by the change in weather. They put on their jackets, shoes, and socks, and headed north to hunt for seashells.
Within an hour they had collected about 20 beautiful shells into a plastic bag. They were still walking slowly north when they heard a roar. They turned around to see a four-wheel All Terrain Vehicle coming rapidly toward them. The driver braked at the last moment. Sand flew onto the two girls. They both screamed.
The driver was wearing a jacket that said Beach Patrol. He got off the ATV and started yelling at them. “What are you two doing here? Can’t you read? The signs say Private Property. They say No Trespassing. Get out of here before I write you a ticket and have you arrested.”
“What’s your name?” Maria stood defiantly. “I’m going to report you to the police. You’re not a real patrol officer. This is a public beach. Those signs are phony signs put up by homeowners who think they own the beach.”
“My name is John Smith. Report me to whoever you want. Now get out of here or you’ll be sorry.”
“You can’t make us leave. This is a public beach!” yelled Maria.
The man got back onto his ATV and started driving in circles around the women. The ATV was spraying sand and water all over them. He was laughing. They started running back south. When the ATV driver saw that they were leaving, he drove off.
“John Smith. A phony name to go with a phony uniform,” said Maria when they slowed down to a walk. “We’re going to the police station and make a complaint. I hope they put him in jail.”
A few minutes later, Lisa asked, “Where are the shells?”
“Oh, gee, in all the excitement I left them back there. I’m sorry.”
“No problem,” replied Lisa. “There’s plenty of seashells in the sea.”
“Yeah, just like there’s plenty of jerks on the shore.”
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babak2002
28-02-2009, 21:10
Travis and Paul were best friends and in the ninth grade. They didn’t like anything about school except the girls and the baseball. They were both on the junior high baseball team. Both wanted to be major league baseball players when they grew up.
On Thursday, baseball practice lasted for two hours after school. After practice, Travis and Paul were hungry and thirsty. Between them, they had $2.05. There was a small grocery store three blocks from the school.
“What can we buy for only $2?” asked Travis.
“We could split a soda and a candy bar,” replied Paul.
“That’s going to be hard to do, since I like orange soda and you like root beer,” said Travis. “And I hate peanuts in candy bars and you love them,” said Paul.
As they approached the store, they were still thinking about their problem. One solution, of course, was for one of them to pick the soda and the other to pick the candy bar. The problem with that solution would be that one of them would still be thirsty and the other would still be hungry.
“Wait a minute,” said Paul. “I’ve got an idea.” They stopped, and Paul told Travis his idea.
Mr. Cobb was the store owner. He had no use for kids. They were little people with little money. His eyes narrowed as he saw the boys approaching the store.
After they entered the store, Travis walked over to the big cooler that was filled with ice and sodas. Paul walked over to the candy bar section.
“Mr. Cobb, you don’t have any orange soda,” Travis said.
“Yes, I do. Just dig a little. You’ll find one.”
Travis dug for a minute.
“I still can’t find one.”
“Are you blind? I’ll be right there.”
Mr. Cobb started digging through the ice. Paul immediately put two candy bars into his trousers’ baggy pockets. He patted the pockets down a little bit.
“Look! Orange soda! What did I tell you?”
“Thank you, sir,” Travis said.
As Travis was paying for the orange soda and the root beer, Mr. Cobb looked at Paul.
“You’re not buying anything?”
“No, sir. We just wanted some sodas.”
“Then why were you looking at the candy bars?”
“Just to see if you got any new brands, sir.” Mr. Cobb’s narrow eyes got narrower as they moved slowly from Paul’s eyes to his shirt, to his pants, and to his shoes.
“If I ever catch you stealing from me, I’ll chop off your hands, you hear me?” For emphasis, Mr. Cobb reached down beneath the countertop and pulled out a butcher knife, sharp and shiny.
Both boys were startled. They ran out of the store.
“Come back here. You forgot your change!” Mr. Cobb yelled at them.
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On Thursday, baseball practice lasted for two hours after school. After practice, Travis and Paul were hungry and thirsty. Between them, they had $2.05. There was a small grocery store three blocks from the school.
“What can we buy for only $2?” asked Travis.
“We could split a soda and a candy bar,” replied Paul.
“That’s going to be hard to do, since I like orange soda and you like root beer,” said Travis. “And I hate peanuts in candy bars and you love them,” said Paul.
As they approached the store, they were still thinking about their problem. One solution, of course, was for one of them to pick the soda and the other to pick the candy bar. The problem with that solution would be that one of them would still be thirsty and the other would still be hungry.
“Wait a minute,” said Paul. “I’ve got an idea.” They stopped, and Paul told Travis his idea.
Mr. Cobb was the store owner. He had no use for kids. They were little people with little money. His eyes narrowed as he saw the boys approaching the store.
After they entered the store, Travis walked over to the big cooler that was filled with ice and sodas. Paul walked over to the candy bar section.
“Mr. Cobb, you don’t have any orange soda,” Travis said.
“Yes, I do. Just dig a little. You’ll find one.”
Travis dug for a minute.
“I still can’t find one.”
“Are you blind? I’ll be right there.”
Mr. Cobb started digging through the ice. Paul immediately put two candy bars into his trousers’ baggy pockets. He patted the pockets down a little bit.
“Look! Orange soda! What did I tell you?”
“Thank you, sir,” Travis said.
As Travis was paying for the orange soda and the root beer, Mr. Cobb looked at Paul.
“You’re not buying anything?”
“No, sir. We just wanted some sodas.”
“Then why were you looking at the candy bars?”
“Just to see if you got any new brands, sir.” Mr. Cobb’s narrow eyes got narrower as they moved slowly from Paul’s eyes to his shirt, to his pants, and to his shoes.
“If I ever catch you stealing from me, I’ll chop off your hands, you hear me?” For emphasis, Mr. Cobb reached down beneath the countertop and pulled out a butcher knife, sharp and shiny.
Both boys were startled. They ran out of the store.
“Come back here. You forgot your change!” Mr. Cobb yelled at them.
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محمد88
02-03-2009, 21:23
It was raining as I got off the train in Nashville, Tennessee -- a slow, gray rain. I was tired so I went straight to my hotel.
A big, heavy man was walking up and down in the hotel lobby. Something about the way he moved made me think of a hungry dog looking for a bone. He had a big, fat, red face and a sleepy expression in his eyes. He introduced himself as Wentworth Caswell -- Major Wentworth Caswell -- from "a fine southern family." Caswell pulled me into the hotel's barroom and yelled for a waiter. We ordered drinks. While we drank, he talked continually about himself, his family, his wife and her family. He said his wife was rich. He showed me a handful of silver coins that he pulled from his coat pocket.
By this time, I had decided that I wanted no more of him. I said good night.
I went up to my room and looked out the window. It was ten o'clock but the town was silent. "A nice quiet place," I said to myself as I got ready for bed. Just an ordinary, sleepy southern town."
I was born in the south myself. But I live in New York now. I write for a large magazine. My boss had asked me to go to Nashville. The magazine had received some stories and poems from a writer in Nashville, named Azalea Adair. The editor liked her work very much. The publisher asked me to get her to sign an agreement to write only for his magazine.
I left the hotel at nine o'clock the next morning to find Miss Adair. It was still raining. As soon as I stepped outside I met Uncle Caesar. He was a big, old black man with fuzzy gray hair.
Uncle Caesar was wearing the strangest coat I had ever seen. It must have been a military officer's coat. It was very long and when it was new it had been gray. But now rain, sun and age had made it a rainbow of colors. Only one of the buttons was left. It was yellow and as big as a fifty cent coin.
Uncle Caesar stood near a horse and carriage. He opened the carriage door and said softly, "Step right in, sir. I'll take you anywhere in the city."
"I want to go to eight-sixty-one Jasmine Street," I said, and I started to climb into the carriage. But the old man stopped me. "Why do you want to go there, sir? "
"What business is it of yours?" I said angrily. Uncle Caesar relaxed and smiled. "Nothing, sir. But it's a lonely part of town. Just step in and I'll take you there right away."
Eight-sixty-one Jasmine Street had been a fine house once, but now it was old and dying. I got out of the carriage.
"That will be two dollars, sir," Uncle Caesar said. I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them to him, I noticed that one had been torn in half and fixed with a piece of blue paper. Also, the upper right hand corner was missing.
Azalea Adair herself opened the door when I knocked. She was about fifty years old. Her white hair was pulled back from her small, tired face. She wore a pale yellow dress. It was old, but very clean.
Azalea Adair led me into her living room. A damaged table, three chairs and an old red sofa were in the center of the floor.
Azalea Adair and I sat down at the table and began to talk. I told her about the magazine's offer and she told me about herself. She was from an old southern family. Her father had been a judge.
Azalea Adair told me she had never traveled or even attended school. Her parents taught her at home with private teachers. We finished our meeting. I promised to return with the agreement the next day, and rose to leave.
At that moment, someone knocked at the back door. Azalea Adair whispered a soft apology and went to answer the caller. She came back a minute later with bright eyes and pink cheeks. She looked ten years younger. "You must have a cup of tea before you go," she said. She shook a little bell on the table, and a small black girl about twelve years old ran into the room.
Azalea Aair opened a tiny old purse and took out a dollar bill. It had been fixed with a piece of blue paper and the upper right hand corner was missing. It was the dollar I had given to Uncle Caesar. "Go to Mister Baker's store, Impy," she said, "and get me twenty-five cents' worth of tea and ten cents' worth of sugar cakes. And please hurry."
The child ran out of the room. We heard the back door close. Then the girl screamed. Her cry mixed with a man's angry voice. Azalea Adair stood up. Her face showed no emotion as she left the room. I heard the man's rough voice and her gentle one. Then a door slammed and she came back into the room.
"I am sorry, but I won't be able to offer you any tea after all," she said. "It seems that Mister Baker has no more tea. Perhaps he will find some for our visit tomorrow."
We said good-bye. I went back to my hotel.
Just before dinner, Major Wentworth Caswell found me. It was impossible to avoid him. He insisted on buying me a drink and pulled two one-dollar bills from his pocket. Again I saw a torn dollar fixed with blue paper, with a corner missing. It was the one I gave Uncle Caesar. How strange, I thought. I wondered how Caswell got it.
Uncle Caesar was waiting outside the hotel the next afternoon. He took me to Miss Adair's house and agreed to wait there until we had finished our business.
Azalea Adair did not look well. I explained the agreement to her. She signed it. Then, as she started to rise from the table, Azalea Adair fainted and fell to the floor. I picked her up and carried her to the old red sofa. I ran to the door and yelled to Uncle Caesar for help. He ran down the street. Five minutes later, he was back with a doctor.
The doctor examined Miss Adair and turned to the old black driver. "Uncle Caesar," he said, "run to my house and ask my wife for some milk and some eggs. Hurry!"
Then the doctor turned to me. "She does not get enough to eat," he said. "She has many friends who want to help her, but she is proud. Misses Caswell will accept help only from that old black man. He was once her family's slave."
"Misses Caswell." I said in surprise. "I thought she was Azalea Adair."
"She was," the doctor answered, "until she married Wentworth Caswell twenty years ago. But he's a hopeless drunk who takes even the small amount of money that Uncle Caesar gives her."
After the doctor left I heard Caesar's voice in the other room. "Did he take all the money I gave you yesterday, Miss Azalea?" "Yes, Caesar," I heard her answer softly. "He took both dollars."
I went into the room and gave Azalea Adair fifty dollars. I told her it was from the magazine. Then Uncle Caesar drove me back to the hotel.
A few hours later, I went out for a walk before dinner. A crowd of people were talking excitedly in front of a store. I pushed my way into the store. Major Caswell was lying on the floor. He was dead.
Someone had found his body on the street. He had been killed in a fight. In fact, his hands were still closed into tight fists. But as I stood near his body, Caswell's right hand opened. Something fell from it and rolled near my feet. I put my foot on it, then picked it up and put it in my pocket.
People said they believed a thief had killed him. They said Caswell had been showing everyone that he had fifty dollars. But when he was found, he had no money on him.
I left Nashville the next morning. As the train crossed a river I took out of my pocket the object that had dropped from Caswell's dead hand. I threw it into the river below.
It was a button. A yellow button...the one from Uncle Caesar's coat.
(O. Henry)
A big, heavy man was walking up and down in the hotel lobby. Something about the way he moved made me think of a hungry dog looking for a bone. He had a big, fat, red face and a sleepy expression in his eyes. He introduced himself as Wentworth Caswell -- Major Wentworth Caswell -- from "a fine southern family." Caswell pulled me into the hotel's barroom and yelled for a waiter. We ordered drinks. While we drank, he talked continually about himself, his family, his wife and her family. He said his wife was rich. He showed me a handful of silver coins that he pulled from his coat pocket.
By this time, I had decided that I wanted no more of him. I said good night.
I went up to my room and looked out the window. It was ten o'clock but the town was silent. "A nice quiet place," I said to myself as I got ready for bed. Just an ordinary, sleepy southern town."
I was born in the south myself. But I live in New York now. I write for a large magazine. My boss had asked me to go to Nashville. The magazine had received some stories and poems from a writer in Nashville, named Azalea Adair. The editor liked her work very much. The publisher asked me to get her to sign an agreement to write only for his magazine.
I left the hotel at nine o'clock the next morning to find Miss Adair. It was still raining. As soon as I stepped outside I met Uncle Caesar. He was a big, old black man with fuzzy gray hair.
Uncle Caesar was wearing the strangest coat I had ever seen. It must have been a military officer's coat. It was very long and when it was new it had been gray. But now rain, sun and age had made it a rainbow of colors. Only one of the buttons was left. It was yellow and as big as a fifty cent coin.
Uncle Caesar stood near a horse and carriage. He opened the carriage door and said softly, "Step right in, sir. I'll take you anywhere in the city."
"I want to go to eight-sixty-one Jasmine Street," I said, and I started to climb into the carriage. But the old man stopped me. "Why do you want to go there, sir? "
"What business is it of yours?" I said angrily. Uncle Caesar relaxed and smiled. "Nothing, sir. But it's a lonely part of town. Just step in and I'll take you there right away."
Eight-sixty-one Jasmine Street had been a fine house once, but now it was old and dying. I got out of the carriage.
"That will be two dollars, sir," Uncle Caesar said. I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them to him, I noticed that one had been torn in half and fixed with a piece of blue paper. Also, the upper right hand corner was missing.
Azalea Adair herself opened the door when I knocked. She was about fifty years old. Her white hair was pulled back from her small, tired face. She wore a pale yellow dress. It was old, but very clean.
Azalea Adair led me into her living room. A damaged table, three chairs and an old red sofa were in the center of the floor.
Azalea Adair and I sat down at the table and began to talk. I told her about the magazine's offer and she told me about herself. She was from an old southern family. Her father had been a judge.
Azalea Adair told me she had never traveled or even attended school. Her parents taught her at home with private teachers. We finished our meeting. I promised to return with the agreement the next day, and rose to leave.
At that moment, someone knocked at the back door. Azalea Adair whispered a soft apology and went to answer the caller. She came back a minute later with bright eyes and pink cheeks. She looked ten years younger. "You must have a cup of tea before you go," she said. She shook a little bell on the table, and a small black girl about twelve years old ran into the room.
Azalea Aair opened a tiny old purse and took out a dollar bill. It had been fixed with a piece of blue paper and the upper right hand corner was missing. It was the dollar I had given to Uncle Caesar. "Go to Mister Baker's store, Impy," she said, "and get me twenty-five cents' worth of tea and ten cents' worth of sugar cakes. And please hurry."
The child ran out of the room. We heard the back door close. Then the girl screamed. Her cry mixed with a man's angry voice. Azalea Adair stood up. Her face showed no emotion as she left the room. I heard the man's rough voice and her gentle one. Then a door slammed and she came back into the room.
"I am sorry, but I won't be able to offer you any tea after all," she said. "It seems that Mister Baker has no more tea. Perhaps he will find some for our visit tomorrow."
We said good-bye. I went back to my hotel.
Just before dinner, Major Wentworth Caswell found me. It was impossible to avoid him. He insisted on buying me a drink and pulled two one-dollar bills from his pocket. Again I saw a torn dollar fixed with blue paper, with a corner missing. It was the one I gave Uncle Caesar. How strange, I thought. I wondered how Caswell got it.
Uncle Caesar was waiting outside the hotel the next afternoon. He took me to Miss Adair's house and agreed to wait there until we had finished our business.
Azalea Adair did not look well. I explained the agreement to her. She signed it. Then, as she started to rise from the table, Azalea Adair fainted and fell to the floor. I picked her up and carried her to the old red sofa. I ran to the door and yelled to Uncle Caesar for help. He ran down the street. Five minutes later, he was back with a doctor.
The doctor examined Miss Adair and turned to the old black driver. "Uncle Caesar," he said, "run to my house and ask my wife for some milk and some eggs. Hurry!"
Then the doctor turned to me. "She does not get enough to eat," he said. "She has many friends who want to help her, but she is proud. Misses Caswell will accept help only from that old black man. He was once her family's slave."
"Misses Caswell." I said in surprise. "I thought she was Azalea Adair."
"She was," the doctor answered, "until she married Wentworth Caswell twenty years ago. But he's a hopeless drunk who takes even the small amount of money that Uncle Caesar gives her."
After the doctor left I heard Caesar's voice in the other room. "Did he take all the money I gave you yesterday, Miss Azalea?" "Yes, Caesar," I heard her answer softly. "He took both dollars."
I went into the room and gave Azalea Adair fifty dollars. I told her it was from the magazine. Then Uncle Caesar drove me back to the hotel.
A few hours later, I went out for a walk before dinner. A crowd of people were talking excitedly in front of a store. I pushed my way into the store. Major Caswell was lying on the floor. He was dead.
Someone had found his body on the street. He had been killed in a fight. In fact, his hands were still closed into tight fists. But as I stood near his body, Caswell's right hand opened. Something fell from it and rolled near my feet. I put my foot on it, then picked it up and put it in my pocket.
People said they believed a thief had killed him. They said Caswell had been showing everyone that he had fifty dollars. But when he was found, he had no money on him.
I left Nashville the next morning. As the train crossed a river I took out of my pocket the object that had dropped from Caswell's dead hand. I threw it into the river below.
It was a button. A yellow button...the one from Uncle Caesar's coat.
(O. Henry)
محمد88
03-03-2009, 08:06
A Horseman in the Sky
Carter Druse was born in Virginia. He loved his parents, his home and the south. But he loved his country, too. And in the autumn of eighteen sixty-one, when the United States was divided by a terrible civil war, Carter Druse, a southerner, decided to join the Union Army of the north.
He told his father about his decision one morning at breakfast.
The older man looked at his only son for a moment, too shocked to speak. Then he said, "As of this moment you are a traitor to the south. Please don't tell your mother about your decision. She is sick, and we both know she has only a few weeks to live."
Carter's father paused, again looking deep into his son's eyes. "Carter," he said, "No matter what happens -- be sure you always do what you think is your duty."
Both Carter Druse and his father left the table that morning with broken hearts. And Carter soon left his home, and everyone he loved to wear the blue uniform of the Union soldier.
One sunny afternoon, a few weeks later, Carter Druse lay with his face in the dirt by the side of a road. He was on his stomach, his arms still holding his gun. Carter would not receive a medal for his actions. In fact, if his commanding officer were to see him, he would order Carter shot immediately.
For Carter was not dead or wounded. He was sleeping while on duty. Fortunately, no one could see him. He was hidden by some bushes, growing by the side of the road.
The road Carter Druse had been sent to guard was only a few miles from his father's house.
It began in a forest, down in the valley, and climbed up the side of a huge rock. Anyone standing on the top of this high rock would be able to see down into the valley. And that person would feel very dizzy, looking down. If he dropped a stone from the edge of this cliff, it would fall for six hundred meters before disappearing into the forest in the valley below.
Giant cliffs, like the one Carter lay on, surrounded the valley.
Hidden in the valley's forest were five union regiments -- thousands of Carter's fellow soldiers. They had marched for thirty-six hours. Now they were resting. But at midnight they would climb that road up the rocky cliff.
Their plan was to attack by surprise an army of southerners, camped on the other side of the cliff. But if their enemy learned about the Union Army hiding in the forest, the soldiers would find themselves in a trap with no escape. That was why Carter Druse had been sent to guard the road.
It was his duty to be sure that no enemy soldier, dressed in gray, spied on the valley, where the union army was hiding.
But Carter Druse had fallen asleep. Suddenly, as if a messenger of fate came to touch him on the shoulder, the young man opened his eyes. As he lifted his head, he saw a man on horseback standing on the huge rocky cliff that looked down into the valley.
The rider and his horse stood so still that they seemed made of stone. The man's gray uniform blended with the blue sky and the white clouds behind him. He held a gun in his right hand, and the horse's reins in the other.
Carter could not see the man's face, because the rider was looking down into the valley. But the man and his horse seemed to be of heroic, almost gigantic size, standing there motionless against the sky. Carter discovered he was very much afraid, even though he knew the enemy soldier could not see him hiding in the bushes.
Suddenly the horse moved, pulling back its head from the edge of the cliff. Carter was completely awake now. He raised his gun, pushing its barrel through the bushes. And he aimed for the horseman's heart. A small squeeze of the trigger, and Carter Druse would have done his duty.
At that instant, the horseman turned his head and looked in Carter's direction. He seemed to look at Carter's face, into his eyes, and deep into his brave, generous heart.
Carter's face became very white. His entire body began shaking. His mind began to race, and in his fantasy, the horse and rider became black figures, rising and falling in slow circles against a fiery red sky.
Carter did not pull the trigger. Instead, he let go of his gun and slowly dropped his face until it rested again in the dirt.
Brave and strong as he was, Carter almost fainted from the shock of what he had seen.
Is it so terrible to kill an enemy who might kill you and your friends? Carter knew that this man must be shot from ambush -- without warning. This man must die without a moment to prepare his soul; without even the chance to say a silent prayer.
Slowly, a hope began to form in Carter Druse's mind. Perhaps the southern soldier had not seen the northern troops.
Perhaps he was only admiring the view. Perhaps he would now turn and ride carelessly away.
Then Carter looked down into the valley so far below. He saw a line of men in blue uniforms and their horses, slowly leaving the protection of the forest. A foolish Union officer had permitted his soldiers to bring their horses to drink at a small stream near the forest. And there they were -- in plain sight!
Carter Druse looked back to the man and horse standing there against the sky. Again he took aim. But this time he pointed his gun at the horse. Words rang in his head -- the last words his father ever spoke to him: "No matter what happens, be sure you always do what you think is your duty."
Carter Druse was calm as he pulled the trigger of his gun.
At that moment, a Union officer happened to look up from his hiding place near the edge of the forest. His eyes climbed to the top of the cliff that looked over the valley. Just looking at the top of the gigantic rock, so far above him, made the soldier feel dizzy.
And then the officer saw something that filled his heart with horror. A man on a horse was riding down into the valley through the air!
The rider sat straight in his saddle. His hair streamed back, waving in the wind. His left hand held his horse's reins while his right hand was hidden in the cloud of the horse's mane. The horse looked as if it were galloping across the earth. Its body was proud and noble.
As the frightened Union officer watched this horseman in the sky, he almost believed he was witnessing a messenger from heaven. A messenger who had come to announce the end of the world. The officer's legs grew weak, and he fell. At almost the same instant, he heard a crashing sound in the trees. The sound died without an echo. And all was silent.
The officer got to his feet, still shaking. He went back to his camp. But he didn't tell anyone what he had seen. He knew no one would ever believe him.
Soon after firing his gun, Carter Druse was joined by a Union sergeant. Carter did not turn his head as the sergeant kneeled beside him.
"Did you fire?" The sergeant whispered.
"Yes."
"At what?"
"A horse. It was on that rock. It's not there now. It went over the cliff." Carter's face was white. But he showed no other sign of emotion. The sergeant did not understand.
"See here, Druse," he said, after a moment's silence. "Why are you making this into a mystery. I order you to report. Was there anyone on the horse?"
"Yes."
"Who? "
"My father."
Ambrose Bierce
Carter Druse was born in Virginia. He loved his parents, his home and the south. But he loved his country, too. And in the autumn of eighteen sixty-one, when the United States was divided by a terrible civil war, Carter Druse, a southerner, decided to join the Union Army of the north.
He told his father about his decision one morning at breakfast.
The older man looked at his only son for a moment, too shocked to speak. Then he said, "As of this moment you are a traitor to the south. Please don't tell your mother about your decision. She is sick, and we both know she has only a few weeks to live."
Carter's father paused, again looking deep into his son's eyes. "Carter," he said, "No matter what happens -- be sure you always do what you think is your duty."
Both Carter Druse and his father left the table that morning with broken hearts. And Carter soon left his home, and everyone he loved to wear the blue uniform of the Union soldier.
One sunny afternoon, a few weeks later, Carter Druse lay with his face in the dirt by the side of a road. He was on his stomach, his arms still holding his gun. Carter would not receive a medal for his actions. In fact, if his commanding officer were to see him, he would order Carter shot immediately.
For Carter was not dead or wounded. He was sleeping while on duty. Fortunately, no one could see him. He was hidden by some bushes, growing by the side of the road.
The road Carter Druse had been sent to guard was only a few miles from his father's house.
It began in a forest, down in the valley, and climbed up the side of a huge rock. Anyone standing on the top of this high rock would be able to see down into the valley. And that person would feel very dizzy, looking down. If he dropped a stone from the edge of this cliff, it would fall for six hundred meters before disappearing into the forest in the valley below.
Giant cliffs, like the one Carter lay on, surrounded the valley.
Hidden in the valley's forest were five union regiments -- thousands of Carter's fellow soldiers. They had marched for thirty-six hours. Now they were resting. But at midnight they would climb that road up the rocky cliff.
Their plan was to attack by surprise an army of southerners, camped on the other side of the cliff. But if their enemy learned about the Union Army hiding in the forest, the soldiers would find themselves in a trap with no escape. That was why Carter Druse had been sent to guard the road.
It was his duty to be sure that no enemy soldier, dressed in gray, spied on the valley, where the union army was hiding.
But Carter Druse had fallen asleep. Suddenly, as if a messenger of fate came to touch him on the shoulder, the young man opened his eyes. As he lifted his head, he saw a man on horseback standing on the huge rocky cliff that looked down into the valley.
The rider and his horse stood so still that they seemed made of stone. The man's gray uniform blended with the blue sky and the white clouds behind him. He held a gun in his right hand, and the horse's reins in the other.
Carter could not see the man's face, because the rider was looking down into the valley. But the man and his horse seemed to be of heroic, almost gigantic size, standing there motionless against the sky. Carter discovered he was very much afraid, even though he knew the enemy soldier could not see him hiding in the bushes.
Suddenly the horse moved, pulling back its head from the edge of the cliff. Carter was completely awake now. He raised his gun, pushing its barrel through the bushes. And he aimed for the horseman's heart. A small squeeze of the trigger, and Carter Druse would have done his duty.
At that instant, the horseman turned his head and looked in Carter's direction. He seemed to look at Carter's face, into his eyes, and deep into his brave, generous heart.
Carter's face became very white. His entire body began shaking. His mind began to race, and in his fantasy, the horse and rider became black figures, rising and falling in slow circles against a fiery red sky.
Carter did not pull the trigger. Instead, he let go of his gun and slowly dropped his face until it rested again in the dirt.
Brave and strong as he was, Carter almost fainted from the shock of what he had seen.
Is it so terrible to kill an enemy who might kill you and your friends? Carter knew that this man must be shot from ambush -- without warning. This man must die without a moment to prepare his soul; without even the chance to say a silent prayer.
Slowly, a hope began to form in Carter Druse's mind. Perhaps the southern soldier had not seen the northern troops.
Perhaps he was only admiring the view. Perhaps he would now turn and ride carelessly away.
Then Carter looked down into the valley so far below. He saw a line of men in blue uniforms and their horses, slowly leaving the protection of the forest. A foolish Union officer had permitted his soldiers to bring their horses to drink at a small stream near the forest. And there they were -- in plain sight!
Carter Druse looked back to the man and horse standing there against the sky. Again he took aim. But this time he pointed his gun at the horse. Words rang in his head -- the last words his father ever spoke to him: "No matter what happens, be sure you always do what you think is your duty."
Carter Druse was calm as he pulled the trigger of his gun.
At that moment, a Union officer happened to look up from his hiding place near the edge of the forest. His eyes climbed to the top of the cliff that looked over the valley. Just looking at the top of the gigantic rock, so far above him, made the soldier feel dizzy.
And then the officer saw something that filled his heart with horror. A man on a horse was riding down into the valley through the air!
The rider sat straight in his saddle. His hair streamed back, waving in the wind. His left hand held his horse's reins while his right hand was hidden in the cloud of the horse's mane. The horse looked as if it were galloping across the earth. Its body was proud and noble.
As the frightened Union officer watched this horseman in the sky, he almost believed he was witnessing a messenger from heaven. A messenger who had come to announce the end of the world. The officer's legs grew weak, and he fell. At almost the same instant, he heard a crashing sound in the trees. The sound died without an echo. And all was silent.
The officer got to his feet, still shaking. He went back to his camp. But he didn't tell anyone what he had seen. He knew no one would ever believe him.
Soon after firing his gun, Carter Druse was joined by a Union sergeant. Carter did not turn his head as the sergeant kneeled beside him.
"Did you fire?" The sergeant whispered.
"Yes."
"At what?"
"A horse. It was on that rock. It's not there now. It went over the cliff." Carter's face was white. But he showed no other sign of emotion. The sergeant did not understand.
"See here, Druse," he said, after a moment's silence. "Why are you making this into a mystery. I order you to report. Was there anyone on the horse?"
"Yes."
"Who? "
"My father."
Ambrose Bierce
afsane b
04-03-2009, 10:00
Once upon a time,
there was an ugly girl. She was short and dumpy, had one leg a bit shorter than the other, and her eyebrows met in the middle. The ugly girl gutted fish for a living, so her hands smelt funny and her dress was covered in scales. She had no mother or brother, no father, sister, or any friends. She lived in a ramshackle house on the outskirts of the village, and she never complained.
One by one, the village girls married the local lads, and up the path to the church they'd prance, smiling all the way. At the weddings, the ugly girl always stood at the back of the church, smelling slightly of brine. The village women gossiped about the ugly girl. They wondered what she did with the money she earnt. The ugly girl never bought a new frock, never made repairs to the house, and never drank in the village tavern.
Now, it so happened that outside the village, in a great damp swamp, lived an old basket-maker who was famed for the quality of his work. One day the old basket-maker heard a knock on his door. When he opened it, the ugly girl stood there. In her hand, she held six gold coins.
'I want you to make me a husband,' she said.
'Come back in a month,' he replied.
Well, the old basket-maker was greatly moved that the ugly girl had entrusted him with such an important task. He resolved to make her the best husband he could. He made the wicker husband broad of shoulder and long of leg, and all the other things women like. He made him strong of arm and elegant of neck, and his brows were wide and well-spaced. His hair was a fine dark brown, his eyes a greenish hazel.
When the day came, the ugly girl knocked on the basket-maker's door.
'He says today is too soon. He will be in the church tomorrow, at ten,' said the basket-maker. The ugly girl went away, and spent the day scraping scales from her dress.
Later that night, there was a knock on the door of the village tailor. When the tailor opened it, the wicker husband stood outside.
'Lend me a suit,' he said. 'I am getting married in the morning, and I cannot go to church naked.'
'Aaaaaaargh!' yelled the tailor, and ran out the back door.
The tailor's wife came out, wiping her hands. 'What's going on?' she said.
'Lend me a suit,' said the wicker husband. 'I am getting married tomorrow, and I cannot go to my wedding naked.'
The tailor's wife gave him a suit, and slammed the door in his face.
Next, there was a knock on the door of the village shoe-maker. When the shoe-maker opened it, the wicker husband stood there.
'Lend me some shoes,' he said. 'I am getting married in the morning, and I cannot go to church barefoot.'
'Aaaaaaargh!' yelled the shoe-maker, and he ran out the back door.
The shoe-maker's wife came out, her hands trembling.
'What do you want?' she said.
'Lend me some shoes,' said the wicker husband. 'I am getting married in the morning, and I cannot go to my wedding barefoot.'
The shoe-maker's wife gave him a pair of shoes, and slammed the door in his face. Next, the wicker husband went to the village inn.
'Give me a drink,' said the wicker husband. 'I am getting married tomorrow, and I wish to celebrate.'
'Aaaaaaargh!' yelled the inn-keeper and all his customers, and out they ran. The poor wicker husband went behind the bar, and poured himself a drink.
When the ugly girl got to church in the morning, she was mighty pleased to find her husband so handsome, and so well turned-out.
When the couple had enjoyed their first night of marriage, the wicker husband said to his wife: 'This bed is broken. Bring me a chisel: I will fix it.'
So like a good husband, he began to fix the bed. The ugly girl went out to gut fish. When she came back at the end of the day, the wicker husband looked at her, and said: 'I was made to be with you.'
When the couple had enjoyed their second night of marriage, the wicker husband said: 'This roof is leaky. Bring me a ladder: I will fix it.'
So, like a good husband, he climbed up and began to fix the thatch. The ugly girl went out to gut fish. When she returned in the evening, the wicker husband looked at his wife, and said: 'Without you, I should never have seen the sun on the water, or the clouds in the sky.'
When the couple had enjoyed their third night of marriage, the ugly girl got ready to out. 'The chimney needs cleaning,' she said, hopefully, 'And the fire could be laid...' But at this, the wicker husband - she was just beginning to learn his expressions - looked completely terrified. From this, the ugly girl came to understand that there are some things you cannot ask a man to do, even if he is very kind.
Over the weeks, the villagers began to notice a change in the ugly girl. If one of her legs was still shorter than the other, her hips moved with a swing that didn't please them. If she still smelt funny, she sang while she gutted the fish. She bought a new frock and wore flowers in her hair. Even her eyebrows no longer met in the middle: the wicker husband had pulled them out with his strong, withied fingers. When the villagers passed the ugly girl's house, they saw it had been painted anew, the windows sparkled, and the door no longer hung askew. You might think that all these changes pleased the villagers, but oh no. Instead, wives pointed out to husbands that their doors needed fixing, and why didn't they offer? The men retorted that maybe if their wives made an effort with new frocks and flowers in their hair, then maybe they'd feel like fixing the house, and everybody grumbled and cursed each other, but secretly, in their hearts, they blamed the ugly girl and her husband.
As to the ugly girl, she didn't notice all the jealousy. She was too busy growing accustomed to married life, and was finding that the advantages of a wicker husband outweighed his few shortcomings. The wicker husband didn't eat, and never complained that his dinner was late. He only drank water, the muddier the better. She was a little sad that she could not cook him dinner like an ordinary man, and watch him while he ate. In the cold nights, she hoped they would sit together close to the fire, but he preferred the darkness, far from the flames. The ugly girl got in the habit of calling across the room all the things she had to say to him. As winter turned to spring, and rain pelted down, the wicker husband became a little mouldy, and the ugly girl had to scrub him down with a brush and a bottle of vinegar. Spring turned to summer, and June was very dry. The wicker husband complained of stiffness in his joints, and spent the hottest hour of the day lying in the stream. The ugly girl took her fish-gutting, and sat on the bank, keeping him company.
Eventually the villagers were too ridden with curiosity to stand it any longer. There was a wedding in the village: the ugly girl and her husband were invited. At the wedding, there was music and dancing, and food and wine. As the musicians struck up, the wicker husband and the ugly girl went to dance. The villagers could not help staring: the wicker husband moved so fine. He lifted his dumpy wife like she was nought but a feather, and swung her round and round. He swayed and shimmered; he was elegant, he was graceful. As for the ugly girl: she was in heaven.
The women began to whisper behind their hands. Now, the blacksmith's wife was boldest, and she resolved to ask the wicker husband to dance. When the music paused she went towards the couple. The ugly girl was sitting in the wicker husband's lap, so he creaked a little. The blacksmith's wife was about to tap the wicker husband on the shoulder, but his arms were wrapped round the ugly girl.
'You are the only reason that I live and breathe,' the wicker husband said to his wife.
The blacksmith's wife heard what he said, and went off, sulking. The next day there were many frayed tempers in the village.
'You've got two left feet!' shouted the shoe-maker's wife at her husband.
'You never tell me anything nice!' yelled the blacksmith's wife.
'All you do is look at other women!' shouted the baker's wife, though how she knew was a mystery, as she'd done nothing but stare at the wicker husband all night. The husbands fled their homes and congregated in the tavern.
'T'aint right,' they muttered, 'T'isn't natural.'
'E's showing us up.'
'Painting doors.'
'Fixing thatch.'
'Murmuring sweet nothings.'
'Dancing!' muttered the blacksmith, and they all spat.
'He's not really a man,' muttered the baker. 'An abomination!'
'He don't eat.'
'He don't grumble.'
'He don't even fart,' added the tailor, gloomily.
The men shook their heads, and agreed that it couldn't go on.
Meanwhile the women congregated in each other's kitchens.
'It's not right,' they muttered. 'Why does she deserve him?'
'It's an enchantment,' they whispered. 'She bewitched him.'
'She'll be onto our husbands next, I expect,' said the baker's wife. 'We should be careful.'
'She needs to be brought down a peg or two.'
'Fancies that she's better than the rest of us, I reckon.'
'Flowers in her hair!!'
'Did you see her dancing?'
And they all agreed that it couldn't go on.
One day the wicker husband was on his way back from checking the fish-traps, when he was accosted by the baker.
'Hello,' said the baker. The wicker husband was a little surprised: the baker never bothered to speak to him. 'You made an impression the other night.'
'I did?' said the wicker husband.
'Oh yes,' continued the baker. 'The women are all aflutter. Don't you ever think - well...'
'What?' said the wicker husband, completely confused.
'Man like you,' said the baker. 'Could do well for himself. A lot of opportunities...' He leaned forward, so the wicker husband recoiled. The baker's breath smelt of dough, which he found unpleasant. 'Butcher's wife,' added the baker meaningfully. 'Very taken. I know for a fact that he's not at home. Gone to visit his brother in the city. Why don't you go round?'
'I can't,' said the wicker husband. 'My wife's waiting for me at home.' And he strode off, up the lane. The baker went home, annoyed.
Now the wicker husband, who was too trusting, thought less of this of this than he should, and did not warn his wife that trouble was brewing. About a week later, the ugly girl was picking berries in the hedgerow, when the tailor's wife sidled up. Her own basket was empty, which made the ugly girl suspicious.
'My dear!' cried the tailor's wife, fluttering her hands.
'What d'you want?' said the ugly girl.
The tailor's wife wiped away a fake tear, and looked in both directions. 'My dear,' she whispered. 'I'm only here to warn you. Your husband - he's been seen with other women.'
'What other women?' said the ugly girl.
The tailor's wife fluttered her hands. This wasn't going as she intended. 'My dear, you can't trust men. They're all the same. And you can't expect - a man like him, and a woman like you - frankly -'
The ugly girl was so angry that she hit the tailor's wife with her basket, and ran off, up the lane. The ugly girl went home, and - knowing more of cruelty than her husband did - thought on this too much and too long. But she did not want to upset her husband, so she said nothing.
The tailor's wife came home fuming, with scratches all over her face. That night, the wives and husbands of the village all agreed - for once - that something drastic had to be done.
A few days later the old basket-maker heard a knocking at his door. When he opened it, the villagers stood outside. Right on cue, the tailor's wife began to weep, pitifully.
'What's the matter?' said the old basket-maker.
'She's childless,' said the baker's wife, sniffing.
'Not a son,' said the tailor, sadly.
'Or a daughter.'
'No-one to comfort them in their old age,' added the butcher.
'It's breaking their hearts,' went on the baker.
'So we've come to ask -'
'If you'll make us a baby. Out of wicker.'
And they held out a bag of gold.
'Very well,' said the old basket-maker. 'Come back in a month.'
Well, one dusky day in autumn, the ugly girl was sitting by the fire, when there came a knock at the door. The wicker husband opened it. Outside, stood the villagers. The tailor's wife bore a bundle in her arms, and the bundle began to whimper.
'What's that?' said the ugly girl.
'This is all your fault,' hissed the butcher, pointing at the wicker husband.
'Look what you've done!' shouted the baker.
'It's an abomination,' sneered the inn-keeper. 'Not even human!'
The tailor pulled away the blanket. The ugly girl saw that the baby was made of wicker. It had the same shaped nose, the same green eyes that her husband did.
'Tell me it's not true!' she cried.
But the wicker husband said nothing. He just stared at the baby. He had never seen one of his own kind before, and now - his heart filled up with tenderness. When the ugly girl saw this on his face, a great cloud of bitterness came upon her. She sank to the floor, moaning.
'Filthy, foul, creature!' cried the tailor. 'I should burn it!' He seized the baby, and made to fling it into the blaze. At this, the wicker husband let out a yell. Forward he leapt.
The ugly girl let out a terrible cry. She took the lamp, and flung it straight at her husband. The lamp burst in shards of glass. Oil went everywhere. Flames began to lick at the wicker husband's chest, up his neck, into his face. He tried to beat at the flames, but his fingers grew oily, and burst into fire. Out he ran, shrieking, and plunged into the river.
'Well, that worked well,' said the butcher, in a satisfied manner.
The villagers did not spare a second glance for the ugly girl, but went home again to their dinners. On the way, the tailor's wife threw the wicker baby in the ditch. She stamped on its face. 'Ugh,' she said. 'Horrible thing.'
The next day the ugly girl wandered the highways, weeping, her face smeared in ashes.
'Have you seen my husband?' she asked passing travellers, but they saw madness in her eyes, and spurred their horses on. Dusk fell. Stumbling home, scarce knowing where she was, the ugly girl heard a sound in the ditch. Kneeling, she found the wicker baby. It wailed and thrashed, and held up its hands. The ugly girl saw in its face her husband's eyes, and her husband's nose. She coddled it to her chest and took it home.
Now, the old basket maker knew nothing of all this. One day, the old man took it into his head to see how his creations were faring. He walked into town, and knocked on the tailor's door. The wife answered.
'How is the baby?' he said.
'Oh that,' she said. 'It died.' And she shut the door in his face. The old basket-maker walked on, till he came to the ugly girl's place. The door was closed, the garden untended, and dirt smeared the windows. The old basket-maker knocked on the door. No-one answered, though he waited a very long time.
The old-basket maker went home, disheartened. He was walking the long dark road into the swamp, when he heard something in the rushes. At first he was afraid: he wrapped his scarf closer round his face. But the thing seemed to follow him. From time to time, it groaned.
'Who's there?' called the old man.
Out onto the roadway staggered the most broken and bedraggled, the most pathetic and pitiful thing. The old basket-maker stared at what was left of the wicker husband: his hands consumed by fire, his face equally gone. Dark pits of scorched wood marred his chest. Where he had burnt, he had started to rot.
'What have they done to my children?' cried the old basket-maker.
The wicker husband said nothing: he had lost his tongue.
The old basket-maker took the wicker husband home. As daylight came, the old basket-maker sat down to repair him. But as he worked, his heart grew hot with anger.
'I made you, but I failed you,' he said. 'I will not send you there again.'
Eventually, the wicker husband looked as good as new, though the smell of burning still clung. But as the days passed, a damp black mould began to grow on him. The old basket-maker pulled out the rotting withies and replaced them. But it seemed useless: the wicker husband rotted from the inside, outwards.
At last, the old basket-maker saw there was nothing else to be done. He took up his travelling cloak, set out at night, and passed through the village. He came to the ugly girl's house. In the garden, wreathed in filth, stood the ugly girl, cuddling a child. She was singing the saddest lullaby he had ever heard. The old basket-maker saw that the child was the one he'd made, and his heart softened a little. He stepped out of the shadows.
'Why do you keep the baby,' he said, 'when you cast your husband from home?'
The ugly girl cried out, to hear someone speak to her.
'It is all I have left of my husband,' she said at last. 'Though it is proof he betrayed me, I could not leave it in the ditch to die.'
'You are a fool,' he said. 'It was I that made the child. Your husband is innocent.'
At this, the ugly girl let out a cry, and ran towards the river. But old basket-maker caught her arm. 'Wait - I have something to show you,' he said.
The ugly girl walked behind him, through the swamp where the water sucked and burbled, carrying the baby. As the sun rose, she saw that its features were only those of the old basket-maker, who, like any maker, had passed down his face to his creations.
When they came to the dwelling, the ugly girl opened the door, and saw her husband, sitting in darkness.
'It cannot be you,' she said. 'You are dead. I know: I killed you myself.'
'I was made for you alone,' said the wicker husband, 'But you threw me away.'
The ugly girl let out a cry so loud, birds surfaced from the marches for miles around, and threw herself at her husband's feet.
A few days later, the villagers were surprised to see the old basket-maker standing outside the church.
'I have something to say,' he said. 'Soon I will retire. But first, I am making my masterwork - a woman made of wicker. If you want her, you can have her. But you must bring me a gift for my retirement. Whoever brings me the best gift can have the wicker woman.'
Then he turned round and went back to the swamp.
Behind him, the villagers began to whisper. Hadn't the wicker husband been tall and graceful? Hadn't he been a hard worker? Hadn't he been handsome, and eager to please his wife?
Next day, the entire village denied any interest in the wicker lady, but secretly began to plan. Men eyed up prize cows; women sneaked open jewellery boxes.
'That wicker husband worked like a slave, and never even ate,' said the shoe-maker's wife to her husband. 'Get me the wicker woman as a servant, I'll live like a lady, never lift a finger.'
'That wicker husband never quarrelled with anyone, never even raised his voice. Not like you, you old fishwife,' the inn-keeper said to his wife.
'That wicker husband never tired, and never had a headache,' said the butcher to the baker. 'Imagine...!'
'Lend me a shilling, cousin,' said the shoe-maker's wife. 'I need a new petticoat.'
'I can't,' lied the blacksmith's wife. 'I spent it on medicine. The child was very sick.'
'I need that back-rent you owe me,' said the butcher, who owned the tailor's house.
'Been a very bad season in the tailoring trade,' muttered the tailor. 'You'll get it soon.'
The butcher went into town, hired a lawyer, and got the tailor evicted from his house. The tailor and his wife had to go and live in the shoe-maker's shed.
'But what are you going to do with the empty house?' asked the butcher's wife.
'Nothing,' said the butcher, who thought the place would do admirably to keep a mistress. The butcher's wife and the tailor's wife had a fight in the market, and went home with black eyes. In the tavern, no-one spoke, but only eyed each other, suspiciously. The lawyer was still in town. Rumour had it that the tailor's wife was suing for divorce: the inn-keeper's wife had her husband arrested after she found the stairs had been greased. In short, the fields went uncut, the cows went unmilked, ovens uncleaned: the village was obsessed.
When the day came, the old basket-maker came to town, and sat on the churchyard wall. The villagers brought their gifts. First the tailor, who'd made a luxurious coat. Next the miller, bringing twelve sacks of grain. The baker made the most extravagant cake; the carpenter brought a table and chairs, the carter a good strong horse. The blacksmith's wife staggered up with a cheese the size of a millwheel. Her cousin, the tailor's wife, arrived with a bag of gold.
'Where d'you get that, wife?' said her husband, amazed.
'Never you mind,' she snapped.
The inn-keeper's wife wasn't there: she'd slipped while climbing the stairs.
Last to come was the butcher. He'd really outdone the others: two oxen, four cows, and a dozen sheep.
The old-basket maker looked around him. 'Well,' he said. 'I think the prize goes to... the butcher. I'll just take these and be back, with the wicker lady.'
The butcher was so pleased, spittle ran from his mouth.
'Can I have my grain back?' said the miller.
'No no,' said the old man. 'That wasn't the bargain.' And he began to load all the goods onto the horse. The villagers would have fallen on each other, fighting, but they were so desperate to see the wicker lady, they just stood there, to wait.
It was dusk by the time the basket-maker returned. The wicker woman was seated on the horse, shrouded in a cloak, veiled like a bride. From under the cloak, white flowers fell. As she passed the villagers, a most marvellous smell drifted down.
The butcher stood outside the tailor's old house. He'd locked his wife in the coal cellar in preparation.
The old basket-maker held out a hand, and helped the lady dismount. The butcher smelt her fragrance. From under the veil, he thought he saw her give him a saucy glance. He was so excited, he hopped from foot to foot.
The wicker lady lifted her veil: she took off her cloak. The butcher stared at her. The wicker lady was short of stature and twisted of limb, her face was dark and rough. But worse than that - from head to foot, she was covered in thorns.
'What have you done?' shrieked the butcher.
'Ah,' said the old basket-maker. 'The wicker husband was made of willow. Willow is the kindest of trees: tall, elegant, pliable, of much assistance in easing pain. But I saw that you did not like him. Therefore I made you the wicker lady from blackthorn. Blackthorn is cold, hard, and thorny - it will not be killed, either by fire or frost.'
The villagers would have fallen on the old basket-maker there and then, had not the wicker lady stepped forward. She seized hold of the butcher and reached up to kiss him. The butcher let out a howl. When he pulled his lips away, they were shredded and tattered: blood ran down his chin. Then, with a bang, the butcher's wife broke out of the coal cellar, and ran down the road. Seeing the wicker lady kissing her husband, she screamed, and fell on her. The two of them rolled in the gutter, howling and scratching.
Just then, the lawyer piped up. 'Didn't you check the details first?' he said. 'It's very important. You should always check the small print.'
The men of the village took their butcher's knives and pitchforks and tailoring shears, and chased the lawyer out of town. When they'd run out of breath, they stopped.
'That old fraud the basket-maker,' said the baker. 'He tricked us.'
So they turned round and began to go back in the other direction, on the road into the swamp. In the darkness they stumbled and squelched, lost their way and nearly drowned. It was light by the time they came to the old basket-maker's dwelling, but the old basket-maker, the wicker husband, the ugly girl and the baby, as well as all the villagers' goods, had already upped, and gone.
there was an ugly girl. She was short and dumpy, had one leg a bit shorter than the other, and her eyebrows met in the middle. The ugly girl gutted fish for a living, so her hands smelt funny and her dress was covered in scales. She had no mother or brother, no father, sister, or any friends. She lived in a ramshackle house on the outskirts of the village, and she never complained.
One by one, the village girls married the local lads, and up the path to the church they'd prance, smiling all the way. At the weddings, the ugly girl always stood at the back of the church, smelling slightly of brine. The village women gossiped about the ugly girl. They wondered what she did with the money she earnt. The ugly girl never bought a new frock, never made repairs to the house, and never drank in the village tavern.
Now, it so happened that outside the village, in a great damp swamp, lived an old basket-maker who was famed for the quality of his work. One day the old basket-maker heard a knock on his door. When he opened it, the ugly girl stood there. In her hand, she held six gold coins.
'I want you to make me a husband,' she said.
'Come back in a month,' he replied.
Well, the old basket-maker was greatly moved that the ugly girl had entrusted him with such an important task. He resolved to make her the best husband he could. He made the wicker husband broad of shoulder and long of leg, and all the other things women like. He made him strong of arm and elegant of neck, and his brows were wide and well-spaced. His hair was a fine dark brown, his eyes a greenish hazel.
When the day came, the ugly girl knocked on the basket-maker's door.
'He says today is too soon. He will be in the church tomorrow, at ten,' said the basket-maker. The ugly girl went away, and spent the day scraping scales from her dress.
Later that night, there was a knock on the door of the village tailor. When the tailor opened it, the wicker husband stood outside.
'Lend me a suit,' he said. 'I am getting married in the morning, and I cannot go to church naked.'
'Aaaaaaargh!' yelled the tailor, and ran out the back door.
The tailor's wife came out, wiping her hands. 'What's going on?' she said.
'Lend me a suit,' said the wicker husband. 'I am getting married tomorrow, and I cannot go to my wedding naked.'
The tailor's wife gave him a suit, and slammed the door in his face.
Next, there was a knock on the door of the village shoe-maker. When the shoe-maker opened it, the wicker husband stood there.
'Lend me some shoes,' he said. 'I am getting married in the morning, and I cannot go to church barefoot.'
'Aaaaaaargh!' yelled the shoe-maker, and he ran out the back door.
The shoe-maker's wife came out, her hands trembling.
'What do you want?' she said.
'Lend me some shoes,' said the wicker husband. 'I am getting married in the morning, and I cannot go to my wedding barefoot.'
The shoe-maker's wife gave him a pair of shoes, and slammed the door in his face. Next, the wicker husband went to the village inn.
'Give me a drink,' said the wicker husband. 'I am getting married tomorrow, and I wish to celebrate.'
'Aaaaaaargh!' yelled the inn-keeper and all his customers, and out they ran. The poor wicker husband went behind the bar, and poured himself a drink.
When the ugly girl got to church in the morning, she was mighty pleased to find her husband so handsome, and so well turned-out.
When the couple had enjoyed their first night of marriage, the wicker husband said to his wife: 'This bed is broken. Bring me a chisel: I will fix it.'
So like a good husband, he began to fix the bed. The ugly girl went out to gut fish. When she came back at the end of the day, the wicker husband looked at her, and said: 'I was made to be with you.'
When the couple had enjoyed their second night of marriage, the wicker husband said: 'This roof is leaky. Bring me a ladder: I will fix it.'
So, like a good husband, he climbed up and began to fix the thatch. The ugly girl went out to gut fish. When she returned in the evening, the wicker husband looked at his wife, and said: 'Without you, I should never have seen the sun on the water, or the clouds in the sky.'
When the couple had enjoyed their third night of marriage, the ugly girl got ready to out. 'The chimney needs cleaning,' she said, hopefully, 'And the fire could be laid...' But at this, the wicker husband - she was just beginning to learn his expressions - looked completely terrified. From this, the ugly girl came to understand that there are some things you cannot ask a man to do, even if he is very kind.
Over the weeks, the villagers began to notice a change in the ugly girl. If one of her legs was still shorter than the other, her hips moved with a swing that didn't please them. If she still smelt funny, she sang while she gutted the fish. She bought a new frock and wore flowers in her hair. Even her eyebrows no longer met in the middle: the wicker husband had pulled them out with his strong, withied fingers. When the villagers passed the ugly girl's house, they saw it had been painted anew, the windows sparkled, and the door no longer hung askew. You might think that all these changes pleased the villagers, but oh no. Instead, wives pointed out to husbands that their doors needed fixing, and why didn't they offer? The men retorted that maybe if their wives made an effort with new frocks and flowers in their hair, then maybe they'd feel like fixing the house, and everybody grumbled and cursed each other, but secretly, in their hearts, they blamed the ugly girl and her husband.
As to the ugly girl, she didn't notice all the jealousy. She was too busy growing accustomed to married life, and was finding that the advantages of a wicker husband outweighed his few shortcomings. The wicker husband didn't eat, and never complained that his dinner was late. He only drank water, the muddier the better. She was a little sad that she could not cook him dinner like an ordinary man, and watch him while he ate. In the cold nights, she hoped they would sit together close to the fire, but he preferred the darkness, far from the flames. The ugly girl got in the habit of calling across the room all the things she had to say to him. As winter turned to spring, and rain pelted down, the wicker husband became a little mouldy, and the ugly girl had to scrub him down with a brush and a bottle of vinegar. Spring turned to summer, and June was very dry. The wicker husband complained of stiffness in his joints, and spent the hottest hour of the day lying in the stream. The ugly girl took her fish-gutting, and sat on the bank, keeping him company.
Eventually the villagers were too ridden with curiosity to stand it any longer. There was a wedding in the village: the ugly girl and her husband were invited. At the wedding, there was music and dancing, and food and wine. As the musicians struck up, the wicker husband and the ugly girl went to dance. The villagers could not help staring: the wicker husband moved so fine. He lifted his dumpy wife like she was nought but a feather, and swung her round and round. He swayed and shimmered; he was elegant, he was graceful. As for the ugly girl: she was in heaven.
The women began to whisper behind their hands. Now, the blacksmith's wife was boldest, and she resolved to ask the wicker husband to dance. When the music paused she went towards the couple. The ugly girl was sitting in the wicker husband's lap, so he creaked a little. The blacksmith's wife was about to tap the wicker husband on the shoulder, but his arms were wrapped round the ugly girl.
'You are the only reason that I live and breathe,' the wicker husband said to his wife.
The blacksmith's wife heard what he said, and went off, sulking. The next day there were many frayed tempers in the village.
'You've got two left feet!' shouted the shoe-maker's wife at her husband.
'You never tell me anything nice!' yelled the blacksmith's wife.
'All you do is look at other women!' shouted the baker's wife, though how she knew was a mystery, as she'd done nothing but stare at the wicker husband all night. The husbands fled their homes and congregated in the tavern.
'T'aint right,' they muttered, 'T'isn't natural.'
'E's showing us up.'
'Painting doors.'
'Fixing thatch.'
'Murmuring sweet nothings.'
'Dancing!' muttered the blacksmith, and they all spat.
'He's not really a man,' muttered the baker. 'An abomination!'
'He don't eat.'
'He don't grumble.'
'He don't even fart,' added the tailor, gloomily.
The men shook their heads, and agreed that it couldn't go on.
Meanwhile the women congregated in each other's kitchens.
'It's not right,' they muttered. 'Why does she deserve him?'
'It's an enchantment,' they whispered. 'She bewitched him.'
'She'll be onto our husbands next, I expect,' said the baker's wife. 'We should be careful.'
'She needs to be brought down a peg or two.'
'Fancies that she's better than the rest of us, I reckon.'
'Flowers in her hair!!'
'Did you see her dancing?'
And they all agreed that it couldn't go on.
One day the wicker husband was on his way back from checking the fish-traps, when he was accosted by the baker.
'Hello,' said the baker. The wicker husband was a little surprised: the baker never bothered to speak to him. 'You made an impression the other night.'
'I did?' said the wicker husband.
'Oh yes,' continued the baker. 'The women are all aflutter. Don't you ever think - well...'
'What?' said the wicker husband, completely confused.
'Man like you,' said the baker. 'Could do well for himself. A lot of opportunities...' He leaned forward, so the wicker husband recoiled. The baker's breath smelt of dough, which he found unpleasant. 'Butcher's wife,' added the baker meaningfully. 'Very taken. I know for a fact that he's not at home. Gone to visit his brother in the city. Why don't you go round?'
'I can't,' said the wicker husband. 'My wife's waiting for me at home.' And he strode off, up the lane. The baker went home, annoyed.
Now the wicker husband, who was too trusting, thought less of this of this than he should, and did not warn his wife that trouble was brewing. About a week later, the ugly girl was picking berries in the hedgerow, when the tailor's wife sidled up. Her own basket was empty, which made the ugly girl suspicious.
'My dear!' cried the tailor's wife, fluttering her hands.
'What d'you want?' said the ugly girl.
The tailor's wife wiped away a fake tear, and looked in both directions. 'My dear,' she whispered. 'I'm only here to warn you. Your husband - he's been seen with other women.'
'What other women?' said the ugly girl.
The tailor's wife fluttered her hands. This wasn't going as she intended. 'My dear, you can't trust men. They're all the same. And you can't expect - a man like him, and a woman like you - frankly -'
The ugly girl was so angry that she hit the tailor's wife with her basket, and ran off, up the lane. The ugly girl went home, and - knowing more of cruelty than her husband did - thought on this too much and too long. But she did not want to upset her husband, so she said nothing.
The tailor's wife came home fuming, with scratches all over her face. That night, the wives and husbands of the village all agreed - for once - that something drastic had to be done.
A few days later the old basket-maker heard a knocking at his door. When he opened it, the villagers stood outside. Right on cue, the tailor's wife began to weep, pitifully.
'What's the matter?' said the old basket-maker.
'She's childless,' said the baker's wife, sniffing.
'Not a son,' said the tailor, sadly.
'Or a daughter.'
'No-one to comfort them in their old age,' added the butcher.
'It's breaking their hearts,' went on the baker.
'So we've come to ask -'
'If you'll make us a baby. Out of wicker.'
And they held out a bag of gold.
'Very well,' said the old basket-maker. 'Come back in a month.'
Well, one dusky day in autumn, the ugly girl was sitting by the fire, when there came a knock at the door. The wicker husband opened it. Outside, stood the villagers. The tailor's wife bore a bundle in her arms, and the bundle began to whimper.
'What's that?' said the ugly girl.
'This is all your fault,' hissed the butcher, pointing at the wicker husband.
'Look what you've done!' shouted the baker.
'It's an abomination,' sneered the inn-keeper. 'Not even human!'
The tailor pulled away the blanket. The ugly girl saw that the baby was made of wicker. It had the same shaped nose, the same green eyes that her husband did.
'Tell me it's not true!' she cried.
But the wicker husband said nothing. He just stared at the baby. He had never seen one of his own kind before, and now - his heart filled up with tenderness. When the ugly girl saw this on his face, a great cloud of bitterness came upon her. She sank to the floor, moaning.
'Filthy, foul, creature!' cried the tailor. 'I should burn it!' He seized the baby, and made to fling it into the blaze. At this, the wicker husband let out a yell. Forward he leapt.
The ugly girl let out a terrible cry. She took the lamp, and flung it straight at her husband. The lamp burst in shards of glass. Oil went everywhere. Flames began to lick at the wicker husband's chest, up his neck, into his face. He tried to beat at the flames, but his fingers grew oily, and burst into fire. Out he ran, shrieking, and plunged into the river.
'Well, that worked well,' said the butcher, in a satisfied manner.
The villagers did not spare a second glance for the ugly girl, but went home again to their dinners. On the way, the tailor's wife threw the wicker baby in the ditch. She stamped on its face. 'Ugh,' she said. 'Horrible thing.'
The next day the ugly girl wandered the highways, weeping, her face smeared in ashes.
'Have you seen my husband?' she asked passing travellers, but they saw madness in her eyes, and spurred their horses on. Dusk fell. Stumbling home, scarce knowing where she was, the ugly girl heard a sound in the ditch. Kneeling, she found the wicker baby. It wailed and thrashed, and held up its hands. The ugly girl saw in its face her husband's eyes, and her husband's nose. She coddled it to her chest and took it home.
Now, the old basket maker knew nothing of all this. One day, the old man took it into his head to see how his creations were faring. He walked into town, and knocked on the tailor's door. The wife answered.
'How is the baby?' he said.
'Oh that,' she said. 'It died.' And she shut the door in his face. The old basket-maker walked on, till he came to the ugly girl's place. The door was closed, the garden untended, and dirt smeared the windows. The old basket-maker knocked on the door. No-one answered, though he waited a very long time.
The old-basket maker went home, disheartened. He was walking the long dark road into the swamp, when he heard something in the rushes. At first he was afraid: he wrapped his scarf closer round his face. But the thing seemed to follow him. From time to time, it groaned.
'Who's there?' called the old man.
Out onto the roadway staggered the most broken and bedraggled, the most pathetic and pitiful thing. The old basket-maker stared at what was left of the wicker husband: his hands consumed by fire, his face equally gone. Dark pits of scorched wood marred his chest. Where he had burnt, he had started to rot.
'What have they done to my children?' cried the old basket-maker.
The wicker husband said nothing: he had lost his tongue.
The old basket-maker took the wicker husband home. As daylight came, the old basket-maker sat down to repair him. But as he worked, his heart grew hot with anger.
'I made you, but I failed you,' he said. 'I will not send you there again.'
Eventually, the wicker husband looked as good as new, though the smell of burning still clung. But as the days passed, a damp black mould began to grow on him. The old basket-maker pulled out the rotting withies and replaced them. But it seemed useless: the wicker husband rotted from the inside, outwards.
At last, the old basket-maker saw there was nothing else to be done. He took up his travelling cloak, set out at night, and passed through the village. He came to the ugly girl's house. In the garden, wreathed in filth, stood the ugly girl, cuddling a child. She was singing the saddest lullaby he had ever heard. The old basket-maker saw that the child was the one he'd made, and his heart softened a little. He stepped out of the shadows.
'Why do you keep the baby,' he said, 'when you cast your husband from home?'
The ugly girl cried out, to hear someone speak to her.
'It is all I have left of my husband,' she said at last. 'Though it is proof he betrayed me, I could not leave it in the ditch to die.'
'You are a fool,' he said. 'It was I that made the child. Your husband is innocent.'
At this, the ugly girl let out a cry, and ran towards the river. But old basket-maker caught her arm. 'Wait - I have something to show you,' he said.
The ugly girl walked behind him, through the swamp where the water sucked and burbled, carrying the baby. As the sun rose, she saw that its features were only those of the old basket-maker, who, like any maker, had passed down his face to his creations.
When they came to the dwelling, the ugly girl opened the door, and saw her husband, sitting in darkness.
'It cannot be you,' she said. 'You are dead. I know: I killed you myself.'
'I was made for you alone,' said the wicker husband, 'But you threw me away.'
The ugly girl let out a cry so loud, birds surfaced from the marches for miles around, and threw herself at her husband's feet.
A few days later, the villagers were surprised to see the old basket-maker standing outside the church.
'I have something to say,' he said. 'Soon I will retire. But first, I am making my masterwork - a woman made of wicker. If you want her, you can have her. But you must bring me a gift for my retirement. Whoever brings me the best gift can have the wicker woman.'
Then he turned round and went back to the swamp.
Behind him, the villagers began to whisper. Hadn't the wicker husband been tall and graceful? Hadn't he been a hard worker? Hadn't he been handsome, and eager to please his wife?
Next day, the entire village denied any interest in the wicker lady, but secretly began to plan. Men eyed up prize cows; women sneaked open jewellery boxes.
'That wicker husband worked like a slave, and never even ate,' said the shoe-maker's wife to her husband. 'Get me the wicker woman as a servant, I'll live like a lady, never lift a finger.'
'That wicker husband never quarrelled with anyone, never even raised his voice. Not like you, you old fishwife,' the inn-keeper said to his wife.
'That wicker husband never tired, and never had a headache,' said the butcher to the baker. 'Imagine...!'
'Lend me a shilling, cousin,' said the shoe-maker's wife. 'I need a new petticoat.'
'I can't,' lied the blacksmith's wife. 'I spent it on medicine. The child was very sick.'
'I need that back-rent you owe me,' said the butcher, who owned the tailor's house.
'Been a very bad season in the tailoring trade,' muttered the tailor. 'You'll get it soon.'
The butcher went into town, hired a lawyer, and got the tailor evicted from his house. The tailor and his wife had to go and live in the shoe-maker's shed.
'But what are you going to do with the empty house?' asked the butcher's wife.
'Nothing,' said the butcher, who thought the place would do admirably to keep a mistress. The butcher's wife and the tailor's wife had a fight in the market, and went home with black eyes. In the tavern, no-one spoke, but only eyed each other, suspiciously. The lawyer was still in town. Rumour had it that the tailor's wife was suing for divorce: the inn-keeper's wife had her husband arrested after she found the stairs had been greased. In short, the fields went uncut, the cows went unmilked, ovens uncleaned: the village was obsessed.
When the day came, the old basket-maker came to town, and sat on the churchyard wall. The villagers brought their gifts. First the tailor, who'd made a luxurious coat. Next the miller, bringing twelve sacks of grain. The baker made the most extravagant cake; the carpenter brought a table and chairs, the carter a good strong horse. The blacksmith's wife staggered up with a cheese the size of a millwheel. Her cousin, the tailor's wife, arrived with a bag of gold.
'Where d'you get that, wife?' said her husband, amazed.
'Never you mind,' she snapped.
The inn-keeper's wife wasn't there: she'd slipped while climbing the stairs.
Last to come was the butcher. He'd really outdone the others: two oxen, four cows, and a dozen sheep.
The old-basket maker looked around him. 'Well,' he said. 'I think the prize goes to... the butcher. I'll just take these and be back, with the wicker lady.'
The butcher was so pleased, spittle ran from his mouth.
'Can I have my grain back?' said the miller.
'No no,' said the old man. 'That wasn't the bargain.' And he began to load all the goods onto the horse. The villagers would have fallen on each other, fighting, but they were so desperate to see the wicker lady, they just stood there, to wait.
It was dusk by the time the basket-maker returned. The wicker woman was seated on the horse, shrouded in a cloak, veiled like a bride. From under the cloak, white flowers fell. As she passed the villagers, a most marvellous smell drifted down.
The butcher stood outside the tailor's old house. He'd locked his wife in the coal cellar in preparation.
The old basket-maker held out a hand, and helped the lady dismount. The butcher smelt her fragrance. From under the veil, he thought he saw her give him a saucy glance. He was so excited, he hopped from foot to foot.
The wicker lady lifted her veil: she took off her cloak. The butcher stared at her. The wicker lady was short of stature and twisted of limb, her face was dark and rough. But worse than that - from head to foot, she was covered in thorns.
'What have you done?' shrieked the butcher.
'Ah,' said the old basket-maker. 'The wicker husband was made of willow. Willow is the kindest of trees: tall, elegant, pliable, of much assistance in easing pain. But I saw that you did not like him. Therefore I made you the wicker lady from blackthorn. Blackthorn is cold, hard, and thorny - it will not be killed, either by fire or frost.'
The villagers would have fallen on the old basket-maker there and then, had not the wicker lady stepped forward. She seized hold of the butcher and reached up to kiss him. The butcher let out a howl. When he pulled his lips away, they were shredded and tattered: blood ran down his chin. Then, with a bang, the butcher's wife broke out of the coal cellar, and ran down the road. Seeing the wicker lady kissing her husband, she screamed, and fell on her. The two of them rolled in the gutter, howling and scratching.
Just then, the lawyer piped up. 'Didn't you check the details first?' he said. 'It's very important. You should always check the small print.'
The men of the village took their butcher's knives and pitchforks and tailoring shears, and chased the lawyer out of town. When they'd run out of breath, they stopped.
'That old fraud the basket-maker,' said the baker. 'He tricked us.'
So they turned round and began to go back in the other direction, on the road into the swamp. In the darkness they stumbled and squelched, lost their way and nearly drowned. It was light by the time they came to the old basket-maker's dwelling, but the old basket-maker, the wicker husband, the ugly girl and the baby, as well as all the villagers' goods, had already upped, and gone.
محمد88
06-03-2009, 09:09
.I was out of breath to read it:31:....but it was nice
:11:thanks anyway
:11:thanks anyway
sepid12ir
08-03-2009, 21:48
wow ! I just read this nobble short story! great it was. I'd love to share it with u guys here:
All Good Things
By: Sister Helen P. Mrosla
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's School in Morris, Minn. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one in a million. Very neat in appearance, but had that happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his occasional mischievousness delightful.
Mark talked incessantly. I had to remind him again and again that talking without permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so much, though, was his sincere response every time I had to correct him for misbehaving -- "Thank you for correcting me, Sister!"
I didn't know what to make of it at first, but before long I became accustomed to hearing it many times a day.
One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too often, and then I made a novice-teacher's mistake. I looked at Mark and said, "If you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!"
It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is talking again." I hadn't asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it.
I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to my desk, very deliberately opened by drawer and took out a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark's desk, tore off two pieces of tape and made a big X with them over his mouth. I then returned to the front of the room.
As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did it!! I started laughing. The class cheered as I walked back to Mark's desk, removed the tape, and shrugged my shoulders. His first words were, "Thank you for correcting me, Sister."
At the end of the year, I was asked to teach junior-high math. The years flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He was more handsome than ever and just as polite. Since he had to listen carefully to my instruction in the "new math," he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in third. One Friday, things just didn't feel right. We had worked hard on a new concept all week, and I sensed that the students were frowning, frustrated with themselves -- and edgy with one another. I had to stop this crankiness before it got out of hand. So I asked them to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down.
It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed me the papers. Charlie smiled.
Mark said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend."
That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On Monday I gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" I heard whispered. "I never knew that meant anything to anyone!" "I didn't know others liked me so much." No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another again.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I returned from vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother asked me the usual questions about the trip -- the weather, my experiences in general. There was a lull in the conversation.
Mother gave Dad a sideways glance and simply says, "Dad?" My father cleared his throat as he usually did before something important. "The Eklunds called last night," he began. "Really?" I said. "I haven't heard from them in years. I wonder how Mark is."
Dad responded quietly. "Mark was killed in Vietnam," he said. "The funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend."
To this day I can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me about Mark.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, Mark I would give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me.
The church was packed with Mark's friends. Chuck's sister sang "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? It was difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the usual prayers, and the bugler played taps. One by one those who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water. I was the last one to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to me. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. "Mark talked about you a lot," he said.
After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chuck's farmhouse for lunch. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me. "We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it."
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him.
"Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it."
Mark's classmates started to gather around us. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home." Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album."
"I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary."
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said without batting an eyelash. "I think we all saved our lists."
That's when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again.
All Good Things
By: Sister Helen P. Mrosla
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's School in Morris, Minn. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one in a million. Very neat in appearance, but had that happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his occasional mischievousness delightful.
Mark talked incessantly. I had to remind him again and again that talking without permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so much, though, was his sincere response every time I had to correct him for misbehaving -- "Thank you for correcting me, Sister!"
I didn't know what to make of it at first, but before long I became accustomed to hearing it many times a day.
One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too often, and then I made a novice-teacher's mistake. I looked at Mark and said, "If you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!"
It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is talking again." I hadn't asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it.
I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to my desk, very deliberately opened by drawer and took out a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark's desk, tore off two pieces of tape and made a big X with them over his mouth. I then returned to the front of the room.
As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did it!! I started laughing. The class cheered as I walked back to Mark's desk, removed the tape, and shrugged my shoulders. His first words were, "Thank you for correcting me, Sister."
At the end of the year, I was asked to teach junior-high math. The years flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He was more handsome than ever and just as polite. Since he had to listen carefully to my instruction in the "new math," he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in third. One Friday, things just didn't feel right. We had worked hard on a new concept all week, and I sensed that the students were frowning, frustrated with themselves -- and edgy with one another. I had to stop this crankiness before it got out of hand. So I asked them to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down.
It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed me the papers. Charlie smiled.
Mark said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend."
That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On Monday I gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" I heard whispered. "I never knew that meant anything to anyone!" "I didn't know others liked me so much." No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another again.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I returned from vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother asked me the usual questions about the trip -- the weather, my experiences in general. There was a lull in the conversation.
Mother gave Dad a sideways glance and simply says, "Dad?" My father cleared his throat as he usually did before something important. "The Eklunds called last night," he began. "Really?" I said. "I haven't heard from them in years. I wonder how Mark is."
Dad responded quietly. "Mark was killed in Vietnam," he said. "The funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend."
To this day I can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me about Mark.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, Mark I would give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me.
The church was packed with Mark's friends. Chuck's sister sang "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? It was difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the usual prayers, and the bugler played taps. One by one those who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water. I was the last one to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to me. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. "Mark talked about you a lot," he said.
After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chuck's farmhouse for lunch. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me. "We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it."
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him.
"Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it."
Mark's classmates started to gather around us. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home." Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album."
"I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary."
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said without batting an eyelash. "I think we all saved our lists."
That's when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again.
brain
08-03-2009, 22:42
Oh it is very hard for me
It uses some hard sentences and voc
:31:
but I try to read that and I know I can't understand it very well
:31:
Thx anyway
It uses some hard sentences and voc
:31:
but I try to read that and I know I can't understand it very well
:31:
Thx anyway
afsane b
09-03-2009, 14:46
I just finished this nice story and am full of admiration for such a teacher :20:
:11:thank u
:11:thank u
sepid12ir
11-03-2009, 21:04
I 've just read another short story which has truely effected me; it's so short n easy at the same time so hope u guys enjoy it:
A Simple Gesture
Author: John W. Schlatter (a true story)
Mark was walking home from school one day when he noticed the boy ahead of him had tripped and dropped all of the books he was carrying, along with two sweaters, a baseball bat, a glove and a small tape recorder.
Mark knelt down and helped the boy pick up the scattered articles. Since they were going the same way, he helped to carry part of the burden.
As they walked Mark discovered the boy's name was Bill, that he loved video games, baseball and history, and that he was having lots of trouble with his other subjects and that he had just broken up with his girlfriend.
They arrived at Bill's home first and Mark was invited in for a Coke and to watch some television. The afternoon passed pleasantly with a few laughs and some shared small talk, then Mark went home.
They continued to see each other around school, had lunch together once or twice, then both graduated from junior high school. They ended up in the same high school where they had brief contacts over the years. Finally the long awaited senior year came and three weeks before graduation, Bill asked Mark if they could talk.
Bill reminded him of the day years ago when they had first met.
"Did you ever wonder why I was carrying so many things home that day?" asked Bill. "You see, I cleaned out my locker because I didn't want to leave a mess for anyone else. I had stored away some of my mothers sleeping pills and I was going home to commit suicide. But after we spent some time together talking and laughing, I realized that if I had killed myself, I would have missed that time and so many others that might follow. So you see, Mark, when you picked up those books that day, you did a lot more, you saved my life."
A Simple Gesture
Author: John W. Schlatter (a true story)
Mark was walking home from school one day when he noticed the boy ahead of him had tripped and dropped all of the books he was carrying, along with two sweaters, a baseball bat, a glove and a small tape recorder.
Mark knelt down and helped the boy pick up the scattered articles. Since they were going the same way, he helped to carry part of the burden.
As they walked Mark discovered the boy's name was Bill, that he loved video games, baseball and history, and that he was having lots of trouble with his other subjects and that he had just broken up with his girlfriend.
They arrived at Bill's home first and Mark was invited in for a Coke and to watch some television. The afternoon passed pleasantly with a few laughs and some shared small talk, then Mark went home.
They continued to see each other around school, had lunch together once or twice, then both graduated from junior high school. They ended up in the same high school where they had brief contacts over the years. Finally the long awaited senior year came and three weeks before graduation, Bill asked Mark if they could talk.
Bill reminded him of the day years ago when they had first met.
"Did you ever wonder why I was carrying so many things home that day?" asked Bill. "You see, I cleaned out my locker because I didn't want to leave a mess for anyone else. I had stored away some of my mothers sleeping pills and I was going home to commit suicide. But after we spent some time together talking and laughing, I realized that if I had killed myself, I would have missed that time and so many others that might follow. So you see, Mark, when you picked up those books that day, you did a lot more, you saved my life."
brain
12-03-2009, 15:42
"You see, I cleaned out my locker because I didn't want to leave a mess for anyone else. I had stored away some of my mothers sleeping pills and I was going home to commit suicide. But after we spent some time together talking and laughing, I realized that if I had killed myself, I would have missed that time and so many others that might follow.
Hi I read this story but I couldnt understand this part ... can u explain me simpler this part again
:31:
plz put another story
this really helps me in learinng english
thx anyway
Hi I read this story but I couldnt understand this part ... can u explain me simpler this part again
:31:
plz put another story
this really helps me in learinng english
thx anyway
brain
12-03-2009, 17:21
KINDNESS Pays !
One day, a poor boy who was selling goods from door to door to pay his
way through school, found he had only one thin dime left, and he was
hungry.
He decided he would ask for a meal at the next house. However, he lost
his nerve when a lovely young woman opened the door. Instead of a meal
he asked for a drink of water. She thought he looked hungry so brought
him a large glass of milk. He drank it slowly, and then asked, "How
much do I owe you?"
"You don't owe me anything," she replied "Mother has taught us never
to accept payment for a kindness." He said... "Then I thank you from
my heart."
As Howard Kelly left that house, he not only felt; stronger
physically, but his faith in God and man was strong also. He had been
ready to give up and quit.
Years later that young woman became critically ill. The local doctors
were baffled. They finally sent her to the big city, where they called
in specialists to study her rare disease. Dr. Howard Kelly was called
in for the consultation. When he heard the name of the town she came
from, a strange light filled his eyes.
Immediately he rose and went down the hall of the hospital to her room.
Dressed in his doctor's gown he we nt in to see her. He recognized her
at once. He went back to the consultation room determined to do his
best to save her life. From that day he gave special attention to the
case.
After a long struggle, the battle was won. Dr. Kelly requested the
business office to pass the final bill to him for approval. He looked
at it, then wrote something on the edge and the bill was sent to her
room.
She feared to open it, for she was sure it would take the rest of her
life to pay for it all. Finally, she looked, and something caught ;
her attention on the side as She read these words.....
"Paid in full with one glass of milk." (Signed) Dr. Howard Kelly.
Tears of joy flooded her eyes as her happy heart prayed: "Thank You,
GOD, that Your love has spread abroad through human hearts and hands."
Cheers
Anu
One day, a poor boy who was selling goods from door to door to pay his
way through school, found he had only one thin dime left, and he was
hungry.
He decided he would ask for a meal at the next house. However, he lost
his nerve when a lovely young woman opened the door. Instead of a meal
he asked for a drink of water. She thought he looked hungry so brought
him a large glass of milk. He drank it slowly, and then asked, "How
much do I owe you?"
"You don't owe me anything," she replied "Mother has taught us never
to accept payment for a kindness." He said... "Then I thank you from
my heart."
As Howard Kelly left that house, he not only felt; stronger
physically, but his faith in God and man was strong also. He had been
ready to give up and quit.
Years later that young woman became critically ill. The local doctors
were baffled. They finally sent her to the big city, where they called
in specialists to study her rare disease. Dr. Howard Kelly was called
in for the consultation. When he heard the name of the town she came
from, a strange light filled his eyes.
Immediately he rose and went down the hall of the hospital to her room.
Dressed in his doctor's gown he we nt in to see her. He recognized her
at once. He went back to the consultation room determined to do his
best to save her life. From that day he gave special attention to the
case.
After a long struggle, the battle was won. Dr. Kelly requested the
business office to pass the final bill to him for approval. He looked
at it, then wrote something on the edge and the bill was sent to her
room.
She feared to open it, for she was sure it would take the rest of her
life to pay for it all. Finally, she looked, and something caught ;
her attention on the side as She read these words.....
"Paid in full with one glass of milk." (Signed) Dr. Howard Kelly.
Tears of joy flooded her eyes as her happy heart prayed: "Thank You,
GOD, that Your love has spread abroad through human hearts and hands."
Cheers
Anu
sepid12ir
12-03-2009, 17:29
Hi I read this story but I couldnt understand this part ... can u explain me simpler this part again
:31:
plz put another story
this really helps me in learinng english
thx anyway
here it is refering to the first part of the story, where these two guys got familiar with eah other. he is explaing about all the stuff he had with himeslef on that very day and he is mentioning that he was about to kill himself(commit suicide) after getting home but the things changed since he got familiar with the one who helped him out and it is trying to show the beauty and small things which can have a great effect on our lives:10:l
hope u got it, in case u had problem, send me private message so that I can explain there. I think it is against the rules of this topic, talking about the stories!:46:l
:31:
plz put another story
this really helps me in learinng english
thx anyway
here it is refering to the first part of the story, where these two guys got familiar with eah other. he is explaing about all the stuff he had with himeslef on that very day and he is mentioning that he was about to kill himself(commit suicide) after getting home but the things changed since he got familiar with the one who helped him out and it is trying to show the beauty and small things which can have a great effect on our lives:10:l
hope u got it, in case u had problem, send me private message so that I can explain there. I think it is against the rules of this topic, talking about the stories!:46:l
brain
12-03-2009, 18:07
I think it is against the rules of this topic, talking about the stories!
Why ???!!!!
it is useful surly(talking abt stories) .... and I think it is not against the rules of this topic because
I read First post and it has not any rules
r u sure ?
Why ???!!!!
it is useful surly(talking abt stories) .... and I think it is not against the rules of this topic because
I read First post and it has not any rules
r u sure ?
sepid12ir
13-03-2009, 00:42
well, dear Brain, I'm not sure; but ya, that is for sur useful; anyhow, keep asking questions in case there was any;
--------------
here's another story which I adore
One At A Time
A friend of ours was walking down a deserted Mexican beach at sunset. As he walked along, he began to see another man in the distance. As he grew nearer, he noticed that the local native kept leaning down, picking something up and throwing it out into the water. Time and again he kept hurling things out into the ocean.
As our friend approached even closer, he noticed that the man was picking up starfish that had been washed up on the beach and, one at time, he was throwing them back into the water.
Our friend was puzzled. He approached the man and said, "Good evening, friend. I was wondering what you are doing."
"I'm throwing these starfish back into the ocean. You see, it's low tide right now and all of these starfish have been washed up onto the shore. If I don't throw them back into the sea, they'll die up here from lack of oxygen."
"I understand," my friend replied, "but there must be thousands of starfish on this beach. You can't possibly get to all of them. There are simply too many. And don't you realize this is probably happening on hundreds of beaches all up and down this coast. Can't you see that you can't possibly make a difference?"
The local native smiled, bent down and picked up yet another starfish, and as he threw it back into the sea, he replied, "made a difference to that one!"
By Jack Canfield and Mark V. Hansen
from Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1993 by Jack Canfield
and Mark Victor Hansen
--------------
here's another story which I adore
One At A Time
A friend of ours was walking down a deserted Mexican beach at sunset. As he walked along, he began to see another man in the distance. As he grew nearer, he noticed that the local native kept leaning down, picking something up and throwing it out into the water. Time and again he kept hurling things out into the ocean.
As our friend approached even closer, he noticed that the man was picking up starfish that had been washed up on the beach and, one at time, he was throwing them back into the water.
Our friend was puzzled. He approached the man and said, "Good evening, friend. I was wondering what you are doing."
"I'm throwing these starfish back into the ocean. You see, it's low tide right now and all of these starfish have been washed up onto the shore. If I don't throw them back into the sea, they'll die up here from lack of oxygen."
"I understand," my friend replied, "but there must be thousands of starfish on this beach. You can't possibly get to all of them. There are simply too many. And don't you realize this is probably happening on hundreds of beaches all up and down this coast. Can't you see that you can't possibly make a difference?"
The local native smiled, bent down and picked up yet another starfish, and as he threw it back into the sea, he replied, "made a difference to that one!"
By Jack Canfield and Mark V. Hansen
from Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1993 by Jack Canfield
and Mark Victor Hansen
afsane b
16-03-2009, 13:16
One At A Time
This story was somehow bewildering:41:, the man was rescuing starfishes and didn’t care that how many of them he could save,
Am I right?:31:
This story was somehow bewildering:41:, the man was rescuing starfishes and didn’t care that how many of them he could save,
Am I right?:31:
sepid12ir
16-03-2009, 13:42
This story was somehow bewildering:41:, the man was rescuing starfishes and didn’t care that how many of them he could save,
Am I right?:31:
ya, exactly! it is sorta saying that we should go thru good things, the moral things . how small they are, does't matter, what matters is the action we take to live beautifuly...
in farsi we say: ghatre ghatre jam gardad vangahi darya shavad:10:l
Am I right?:31:
ya, exactly! it is sorta saying that we should go thru good things, the moral things . how small they are, does't matter, what matters is the action we take to live beautifuly...
in farsi we say: ghatre ghatre jam gardad vangahi darya shavad:10:l
FARA360
16-03-2009, 15:30
Hey, here is my fav topic.. stories....we can learn alot from stories:10:
Jack Canfield is my fav author. his stories are meaningful and thought- provoking
This story was somehow bewildering:41:, the man was rescuing starfishes and didn’t care that how many of them he could save,
Am I right?:31:
:31::31: bewildering????... somehow
but i think it s so clear...the rescuer is a symbol which could be a reality in our life. he s trying to say that human can make a difference in his life even if it s worthless doing.
:11:
Jack Canfield is my fav author. his stories are meaningful and thought- provoking
This story was somehow bewildering:41:, the man was rescuing starfishes and didn’t care that how many of them he could save,
Am I right?:31:
:31::31: bewildering????... somehow
but i think it s so clear...the rescuer is a symbol which could be a reality in our life. he s trying to say that human can make a difference in his life even if it s worthless doing.
:11:
afsane b
03-05-2009, 13:26
Why God Made Mothers
By the time the Lord made mothers, he was into his sixth day of working overtime.
An Angel appeared and said "Why are you spending so much time on this one"?
She has to be completely washable, but not plastic, have 200 movable parts, all replaceable, run on black coffee and leftovers, have a lap that can hold three children at one time , have a kiss that can cure anything from a scraped knee to a broken heart, and do these things only with two hands."
the angel was impressed" just two hands. Impossible" "
"And that's just on the standard model?" the Angel asked.
"This is too much work for one day. Wait until tomorrow to finish."
"But I can't!" The Lord protested, "I am so close to finishing this creation that is so close to my own heart. She already heals herself when she's sick AND she can work 18 hours a day The Angel moved closer and touched the woman, "But you have made her so soft, Lord."
"She is soft," the Lord agreed, "but I have also made her tough. You have no idea what she can endure or accomplish."
"Will she be able to think?", asked the Angel.
The Lord replied, "Not only will she be able to think, she will be able to reason, and negotiate."
The Angel then noticed something and reached out and touched the woman's cheek. "Oops, it looks like you have a leak with this model. I told you that you were trying to put too much into this one."
"That's not a leak." The Lord objected. "That's a tear!
"What's the tear for?" the Angel asked.
The Lord said, "The tear is her way of expressing her joy, her sorrow, her disappointment, her pain, her loneliness, her grief, and her pride."
The Angel was impressed. "You are a genius, Lord. You thought of everything; for mothers are truly amazing!"
but there is only one thing wrong with her
she forgets what she is worth...
By the time the Lord made mothers, he was into his sixth day of working overtime.
An Angel appeared and said "Why are you spending so much time on this one"?
She has to be completely washable, but not plastic, have 200 movable parts, all replaceable, run on black coffee and leftovers, have a lap that can hold three children at one time , have a kiss that can cure anything from a scraped knee to a broken heart, and do these things only with two hands."
the angel was impressed" just two hands. Impossible" "
"And that's just on the standard model?" the Angel asked.
"This is too much work for one day. Wait until tomorrow to finish."
"But I can't!" The Lord protested, "I am so close to finishing this creation that is so close to my own heart. She already heals herself when she's sick AND she can work 18 hours a day The Angel moved closer and touched the woman, "But you have made her so soft, Lord."
"She is soft," the Lord agreed, "but I have also made her tough. You have no idea what she can endure or accomplish."
"Will she be able to think?", asked the Angel.
The Lord replied, "Not only will she be able to think, she will be able to reason, and negotiate."
The Angel then noticed something and reached out and touched the woman's cheek. "Oops, it looks like you have a leak with this model. I told you that you were trying to put too much into this one."
"That's not a leak." The Lord objected. "That's a tear!
"What's the tear for?" the Angel asked.
The Lord said, "The tear is her way of expressing her joy, her sorrow, her disappointment, her pain, her loneliness, her grief, and her pride."
The Angel was impressed. "You are a genius, Lord. You thought of everything; for mothers are truly amazing!"
but there is only one thing wrong with her
she forgets what she is worth...
afsane b
03-05-2009, 13:29
وقتي خدا مادران را مي آفريد در روز ششم تا ديروقت كار مي كرد.
فرشته اي اومد و پرسيد: چرا اينقدر روي اين يكي وقت مي گذاري؟
و خدا پاسخ داد :
مي دوني چه خصوصياتي در نظر گرفتم تا درستش كنم ؟
بايد قابل شستشو باشه ولي پلاستيكي نباشه. بيش از 200 قسمت قابل حركت داشته باشه كه قابل تعويض باشند. و بايد بتونه از همه جور غذا استفاده كنه. .بايد بتونه هم زمان سه تا بچه رو در آغوش بگيره . با يه بوسه كه از زانوي زخمي تا قلب شكسته رو شفا بده. و همه اينها رو بايد فقط با دو تا دست انجام بده.
فرشته تحت تأثير قرار گرفته بود .
فقط دو تا دست غير ممكنه . مطمئني اين يك مدل درست و استاندارده ؟
اين همه كار براي امروز زياده بقيهاش رو بگذار براي فردا و تكميلش كن
نمي تونم ديگه آخراي كارمه. چيزي نمونده كه موجودي را كه محبوب قلبم هست رو كامل كنم.
وقتي بيمار مي شه خودش، خودش رو معالجه مي كنه و مي تونه 18 ساعت در روز كاركنه .
فرشته نزديكتر اومد و زن رو لمس كرد:
اين كه خيلي لطيفه!!
بله لطيفه. ولي خيلي قوي درستش كردم . نمي توني تصور كني چه چيزهايي رو مي تونه تحمل كنه و بر چه مشكلاتي پيروز بشه.
فرشته پرسيد : مي تونه فكر كنه ؟
خدا پاسخ داد : نه تنها فكر مي كنه مي تونه استدلال و بحث و گفتگو كنه .
فرشته گونه زن رو لمس كرد: ”خدا فكر كنم بار مسئوليت زيادي بهش دادي ! سوراخ شده و داره چكه مي كنه !”
خدا اشتباه فرشته رو تصحيح كرد : چكه نمي كنه - اين اشكه .
فرشته پرسيد :به چه دردي مي خوره ؟
اشكها روش او هستند تا غمهاش، ترديدهاش، عشقش ، تنهائيش، رنجش و غرورش را بيان كنه .
فرشته هيجان زده گفت :خداوندا تو نابغه اي فکر تمام چيز هاي خارق العاده رو براي ساختن مادرها کرده اي ..
فقط يك چيزش خوب نيست.
خودش فراموش مي كنه كه چقدر با ارزشه .
فرشته اي اومد و پرسيد: چرا اينقدر روي اين يكي وقت مي گذاري؟
و خدا پاسخ داد :
مي دوني چه خصوصياتي در نظر گرفتم تا درستش كنم ؟
بايد قابل شستشو باشه ولي پلاستيكي نباشه. بيش از 200 قسمت قابل حركت داشته باشه كه قابل تعويض باشند. و بايد بتونه از همه جور غذا استفاده كنه. .بايد بتونه هم زمان سه تا بچه رو در آغوش بگيره . با يه بوسه كه از زانوي زخمي تا قلب شكسته رو شفا بده. و همه اينها رو بايد فقط با دو تا دست انجام بده.
فرشته تحت تأثير قرار گرفته بود .
فقط دو تا دست غير ممكنه . مطمئني اين يك مدل درست و استاندارده ؟
اين همه كار براي امروز زياده بقيهاش رو بگذار براي فردا و تكميلش كن
نمي تونم ديگه آخراي كارمه. چيزي نمونده كه موجودي را كه محبوب قلبم هست رو كامل كنم.
وقتي بيمار مي شه خودش، خودش رو معالجه مي كنه و مي تونه 18 ساعت در روز كاركنه .
فرشته نزديكتر اومد و زن رو لمس كرد:
اين كه خيلي لطيفه!!
بله لطيفه. ولي خيلي قوي درستش كردم . نمي توني تصور كني چه چيزهايي رو مي تونه تحمل كنه و بر چه مشكلاتي پيروز بشه.
فرشته پرسيد : مي تونه فكر كنه ؟
خدا پاسخ داد : نه تنها فكر مي كنه مي تونه استدلال و بحث و گفتگو كنه .
فرشته گونه زن رو لمس كرد: ”خدا فكر كنم بار مسئوليت زيادي بهش دادي ! سوراخ شده و داره چكه مي كنه !”
خدا اشتباه فرشته رو تصحيح كرد : چكه نمي كنه - اين اشكه .
فرشته پرسيد :به چه دردي مي خوره ؟
اشكها روش او هستند تا غمهاش، ترديدهاش، عشقش ، تنهائيش، رنجش و غرورش را بيان كنه .
فرشته هيجان زده گفت :خداوندا تو نابغه اي فکر تمام چيز هاي خارق العاده رو براي ساختن مادرها کرده اي ..
فقط يك چيزش خوب نيست.
خودش فراموش مي كنه كه چقدر با ارزشه .
afsane b
05-05-2009, 13:13
A Poor Man at the Palace
Once a poor, unkempt man appeared at the gate of a king's palace. He was in rags and not at all suitably attired to be admitted into the presence of a monarch. So the guards stopped him. "You cannot enter the palace in rags," they said. The man insisted. He began to quarrel with the guards, raising his voice so loud that the king heard it." He sent for the man. When he appeared before the king, the noblemen around raised their eyebrows. What was this pauper doing here? "What is your problem?", the king inquired. "Oh, I have many problems. But the immediate one is that your guards refused me entry into the palace. Am I not your subject?" "Yes, you are.....indeed, you are. But you must dress properly and suitably," the king said. The poor man looked up and said, "O king, it is not wrong to enter a palace in rags and empty-handed. But to come out from a palace empty-handed and in rags is indeed a disgrace."
Once a poor, unkempt man appeared at the gate of a king's palace. He was in rags and not at all suitably attired to be admitted into the presence of a monarch. So the guards stopped him. "You cannot enter the palace in rags," they said. The man insisted. He began to quarrel with the guards, raising his voice so loud that the king heard it." He sent for the man. When he appeared before the king, the noblemen around raised their eyebrows. What was this pauper doing here? "What is your problem?", the king inquired. "Oh, I have many problems. But the immediate one is that your guards refused me entry into the palace. Am I not your subject?" "Yes, you are.....indeed, you are. But you must dress properly and suitably," the king said. The poor man looked up and said, "O king, it is not wrong to enter a palace in rags and empty-handed. But to come out from a palace empty-handed and in rags is indeed a disgrace."
afsane b
05-05-2009, 14:07
Junaid and Behlool
Behlool simulated madness, though he was not mad. Junaid a scholar and Sufi of repute knew him very well. One day as they met, Junaid requested him to give him some counsel and admonition. "You do not need any advice. You are a well known scholar," Behlool said. But Junaid insisted. Behlool gave in and said: "Well, I shall ask you three questions. If you answer them correctly, you will be advised." And then he proceeded to ask: "Do you know how to talk?" "Do you know how to eat?" "Do you know how to sleep?" Junaid found these simple. He said: "I know how to talk. I talk with a low voice, politely and to the point, so that the listeners are not at all offended. I eat after having washed my hands, say Bismillah before I commence, and chew the food properly. When I finish, I thank Allah. Before I go to sleep, I do my wudhu and retire to a clean bed. Then I bear witness to my faith and sleep." Behlool stood up and started walking away. He said: "I thought you were quite learned. You do not know the most elementary things of Islam." But Junaid would not let him go. "Please guide me," he said. "Well," Behlool said, "It is no use talking softly if it is a lie, remembering Allah before eating has no meaning if the food you eat is forbidden or usurped or that the food has been bought from the money of an orphan, a widow or a fellowman. And what is the use of sleeping with wudhu and all the recitations if your heart is full of malice, jealousy and enmity towards your brother in faith."
Behlool simulated madness, though he was not mad. Junaid a scholar and Sufi of repute knew him very well. One day as they met, Junaid requested him to give him some counsel and admonition. "You do not need any advice. You are a well known scholar," Behlool said. But Junaid insisted. Behlool gave in and said: "Well, I shall ask you three questions. If you answer them correctly, you will be advised." And then he proceeded to ask: "Do you know how to talk?" "Do you know how to eat?" "Do you know how to sleep?" Junaid found these simple. He said: "I know how to talk. I talk with a low voice, politely and to the point, so that the listeners are not at all offended. I eat after having washed my hands, say Bismillah before I commence, and chew the food properly. When I finish, I thank Allah. Before I go to sleep, I do my wudhu and retire to a clean bed. Then I bear witness to my faith and sleep." Behlool stood up and started walking away. He said: "I thought you were quite learned. You do not know the most elementary things of Islam." But Junaid would not let him go. "Please guide me," he said. "Well," Behlool said, "It is no use talking softly if it is a lie, remembering Allah before eating has no meaning if the food you eat is forbidden or usurped or that the food has been bought from the money of an orphan, a widow or a fellowman. And what is the use of sleeping with wudhu and all the recitations if your heart is full of malice, jealousy and enmity towards your brother in faith."
محمد88
07-05-2009, 09:34
oh...dear afsane b I love the stories that you put them here
they are full of philosofical messages
:11::11:
they are full of philosofical messages
:11::11:
sepid12ir
10-05-2009, 23:05
I found this one very impressive:
I'm going to help you by Mark V.Hanesn
In 1989 an 8.2 earthquake almost flattened Armenia, killing over 30,000 people in less than four minutes.
In the midst of utter devastation and chaos, a father left his wife securely at home and rushed to the school where his son was supposed to be, only to discover that the building was as flat as a pancake.
After the traumatic initial shock, he remembered the promise he had made to his son: "No matter what, I'll always be there for you!" And tears began to fill his eyes. As he looked at the pile of debris that once was the school, it looked hopeless, but he kept remembering his commitment to his son.
He began to concentrate on where he walked his son to class at school each morning. Remembering his son's classroom would be in the back right corner of the building, he rushed there and started digging through the rubble.
As he was digging, other forlorn parents arrived, clutching their hearts, saying: "My son!" "My daughter!" Other well meaning parents tried to pull him off of what was left of the school saying:
"It's too late!"
"They're dead!"
"You can help!"
"Go home!"
"Come on, face reality, there's nothing you can do!"
"You're just going to make things worse!"
To each parent he responded with one line: "Are you going to help me now?" And then he proceeded to dig for his son, stone by stone.
The fire chief showed up and tried to pull him off of the school's debris saying "Fires are breaking out, explosions are happening everywhere. You're in danger. We'll take care of it. Go home." To which this loving, caring Armenian father asked, "Are you going to help me now?"
The police came and said, "You're angry, distraught and it's over. You're endangering others. Go home. We'll handle it!" To which he replied, "Are you going to help me now?" No one helped.
Courageously he proceeded alone because he needed to know for himself: "Is my boy alive or is he dead?"
He dug for eight hours...12hours...24hours...36 hours...then, in the 38th hour, he pulled back a boulder and heard his son's voice. He screamed his son's name, 'ARMAND!" He heard back, "Dad!?! It's me, Dad! I told the other kids not to worry. I told 'em that if you were alive, you'd save me and when you saved me, they'd be saved. You promised, 'No matter what, I'll always be there for you!' You did it, Dad!"
"What's going on in there? How is it?" the father asked.
"There are 14 of us left out of 33, Dad. We're scared, hungry, thirsty and thankful you're here. When the building collapsed, it made a wedge, like a triangle, and it saved us."
"Come on out, boy!"
"No, Dad! Let the other kids out first, 'cause I know you'll get me! No matter what, I know you'll be there for me!"
I'm going to help you by Mark V.Hanesn
In 1989 an 8.2 earthquake almost flattened Armenia, killing over 30,000 people in less than four minutes.
In the midst of utter devastation and chaos, a father left his wife securely at home and rushed to the school where his son was supposed to be, only to discover that the building was as flat as a pancake.
After the traumatic initial shock, he remembered the promise he had made to his son: "No matter what, I'll always be there for you!" And tears began to fill his eyes. As he looked at the pile of debris that once was the school, it looked hopeless, but he kept remembering his commitment to his son.
He began to concentrate on where he walked his son to class at school each morning. Remembering his son's classroom would be in the back right corner of the building, he rushed there and started digging through the rubble.
As he was digging, other forlorn parents arrived, clutching their hearts, saying: "My son!" "My daughter!" Other well meaning parents tried to pull him off of what was left of the school saying:
"It's too late!"
"They're dead!"
"You can help!"
"Go home!"
"Come on, face reality, there's nothing you can do!"
"You're just going to make things worse!"
To each parent he responded with one line: "Are you going to help me now?" And then he proceeded to dig for his son, stone by stone.
The fire chief showed up and tried to pull him off of the school's debris saying "Fires are breaking out, explosions are happening everywhere. You're in danger. We'll take care of it. Go home." To which this loving, caring Armenian father asked, "Are you going to help me now?"
The police came and said, "You're angry, distraught and it's over. You're endangering others. Go home. We'll handle it!" To which he replied, "Are you going to help me now?" No one helped.
Courageously he proceeded alone because he needed to know for himself: "Is my boy alive or is he dead?"
He dug for eight hours...12hours...24hours...36 hours...then, in the 38th hour, he pulled back a boulder and heard his son's voice. He screamed his son's name, 'ARMAND!" He heard back, "Dad!?! It's me, Dad! I told the other kids not to worry. I told 'em that if you were alive, you'd save me and when you saved me, they'd be saved. You promised, 'No matter what, I'll always be there for you!' You did it, Dad!"
"What's going on in there? How is it?" the father asked.
"There are 14 of us left out of 33, Dad. We're scared, hungry, thirsty and thankful you're here. When the building collapsed, it made a wedge, like a triangle, and it saved us."
"Come on out, boy!"
"No, Dad! Let the other kids out first, 'cause I know you'll get me! No matter what, I know you'll be there for me!"
afsane b
11-05-2009, 14:43
One day, an old professor of the national School of
administration (ENA-France) was asked to give a training-course on
the effective economic planning of one's time to a group of about
fifteen leaders of big companies from North - America.
This course constituted one of 5 workshops of their day of
training. So, the old Prof. only had one hour to spend on this
subject
Standing in front of this group of elite who was ready
to note everything that the expert was going to teach, the old
Prof. looked at them one by one, slowly, then said to them:
"We are going to make an experiment".
From under the table which separated him from his pupils,
the old Prof. took out an immense jar Mason of a gallon
(glass jar of more than 4 liters) which he directly put in
front of him.
Then, he took out about a dozen pebbles roughly as big as
tennis balls and placed them delicately, one by one, in the
big jar. When the jar was filled up to the brim, and when it was
impossible to add anything to it, he raised slowly his eyes
towards the pupils, and asked them:
"Is this jar full?"
Everybody answered: "Yes".
He waited for a few seconds and added: "Really?"
Then, he bent again and took out from under the table a pot
filled with little stones. With accuracy, he poured these little
pebbles on the big stones, then moved softly the jar.
The fragments of little pebbles went between the stones
down to the bottom of the jar. The old Prof. raised his eyes again
towards his audience and asked:
"Is this jar full?".
This time, his brilliant pupils began to understand the whole
process. One of them answered:
"Probably not!"
"Well!" answered the old Prof..
He bent again and this time, took out from under the table a
bucket of sand. With attention, he poured the sand into the jar.
The sand went to fil the spaces between the big big stones and the
little pebbles. Once again, he asked:
"Is this jar full?". This time, without hesitation, and in a
choir, the brilliant pupils answered:
"No!".
"Well!" answered the old Prof. And, as expected by the
brilliant pupils, he took the jug of water which was on the table
and filled the jar up to the brim. Then, the old Prof. raised
his eyes towards his group and asked:
"Which big truth does this experiment show to us?" .
Being no fool, the most audacious of the pupils, thinking
about the topic of this course, answered:
"It shows that even when one believes that our diary is
completely filled, if one wants really wants it, one can add
more meetings to it, more things to be made".
The old Prof. answered. "It is not that".
"The big truth that this experiment shows to us is the following
one:
- "If one does not put the big stones first in the jar, one
will never be able to make all of them go in, then".
There was a profound silence, each becoming aware of the
evidence of these comments.
Then, the old Prof. Told them: "Which are the big stones
in your life?"
"Your health?"
"Your family?"
"Your friends?"
"To make your dreams come true?"
"Learning?"
"To do what you enjoy?"
"To relax?"
"To fight for a cause?"
"To take time for yourself?"
"Or any other thing?"
"What it is necessary to remember is the importance to put
one's BIG STONES in first in one's life, otherwise one encores
the risks not succeed in one's life.
If one gives priority to pecadilloes (the little pebbles, the
sand), one will fill one's life with pecadilloes and one will
have no more enough precious time to dedicate to the important
elements of one's life".
Then do not forget to ask to yourself this question:
"Which are the BIG STONES IN MY LIFE?
Then, put them in, first"
With a friendly gesture of the hand, the old professor
greeted his audience and slowly left the room.
What are the BIG STONES in your life, dear pals?
administration (ENA-France) was asked to give a training-course on
the effective economic planning of one's time to a group of about
fifteen leaders of big companies from North - America.
This course constituted one of 5 workshops of their day of
training. So, the old Prof. only had one hour to spend on this
subject
Standing in front of this group of elite who was ready
to note everything that the expert was going to teach, the old
Prof. looked at them one by one, slowly, then said to them:
"We are going to make an experiment".
From under the table which separated him from his pupils,
the old Prof. took out an immense jar Mason of a gallon
(glass jar of more than 4 liters) which he directly put in
front of him.
Then, he took out about a dozen pebbles roughly as big as
tennis balls and placed them delicately, one by one, in the
big jar. When the jar was filled up to the brim, and when it was
impossible to add anything to it, he raised slowly his eyes
towards the pupils, and asked them:
"Is this jar full?"
Everybody answered: "Yes".
He waited for a few seconds and added: "Really?"
Then, he bent again and took out from under the table a pot
filled with little stones. With accuracy, he poured these little
pebbles on the big stones, then moved softly the jar.
The fragments of little pebbles went between the stones
down to the bottom of the jar. The old Prof. raised his eyes again
towards his audience and asked:
"Is this jar full?".
This time, his brilliant pupils began to understand the whole
process. One of them answered:
"Probably not!"
"Well!" answered the old Prof..
He bent again and this time, took out from under the table a
bucket of sand. With attention, he poured the sand into the jar.
The sand went to fil the spaces between the big big stones and the
little pebbles. Once again, he asked:
"Is this jar full?". This time, without hesitation, and in a
choir, the brilliant pupils answered:
"No!".
"Well!" answered the old Prof. And, as expected by the
brilliant pupils, he took the jug of water which was on the table
and filled the jar up to the brim. Then, the old Prof. raised
his eyes towards his group and asked:
"Which big truth does this experiment show to us?" .
Being no fool, the most audacious of the pupils, thinking
about the topic of this course, answered:
"It shows that even when one believes that our diary is
completely filled, if one wants really wants it, one can add
more meetings to it, more things to be made".
The old Prof. answered. "It is not that".
"The big truth that this experiment shows to us is the following
one:
- "If one does not put the big stones first in the jar, one
will never be able to make all of them go in, then".
There was a profound silence, each becoming aware of the
evidence of these comments.
Then, the old Prof. Told them: "Which are the big stones
in your life?"
"Your health?"
"Your family?"
"Your friends?"
"To make your dreams come true?"
"Learning?"
"To do what you enjoy?"
"To relax?"
"To fight for a cause?"
"To take time for yourself?"
"Or any other thing?"
"What it is necessary to remember is the importance to put
one's BIG STONES in first in one's life, otherwise one encores
the risks not succeed in one's life.
If one gives priority to pecadilloes (the little pebbles, the
sand), one will fill one's life with pecadilloes and one will
have no more enough precious time to dedicate to the important
elements of one's life".
Then do not forget to ask to yourself this question:
"Which are the BIG STONES IN MY LIFE?
Then, put them in, first"
With a friendly gesture of the hand, the old professor
greeted his audience and slowly left the room.
What are the BIG STONES in your life, dear pals?
afsane b
25-05-2009, 09:29
Ghazali, the renowned Muslim scholar, was born in Tus, a small village near Mashhad. He lived in the fifth century hijrah. In those days, students wishing to acquire higher knowledge of Islam travelled to Nishapur, which boasted several centres of learning and many teachers of repute. Ghazall, after completing his preliminary education at home, arrived in Nishapur to pursue further studies. He was brilliant and was soon acclaimed by his tutors as the most studious and painstaking student. In order not to forget any finer points of erudition, he formed the habit of noting down all that he heard and learnt from his teachers. And then he meticulously rewrote them under various headings and chapters. He treasured these notes as dearly as his life, or perhaps more. Years later, he decided to return to his village. He tied all his prepared notes into a neat bundle and set forth in the company of a caravan. On the way, they were held up by a gang of highway thieves who robbed each traveller of all his valuables. And then it was Ghazali's turn. They searched him thoroughly, snatching away all that they wanted, and then laid hands on the tied bundle of notes. ©& "Take all that you want, but please do not touch this bundle," Ghazali pleaded. And the waylayers thought that there must be something very precious hidden in the bundle which Ghazali was trying to save. So they untied the bundle and ransacked the pages. What did they find? Nothing but a few written papers. They asked: "What are these? Of what use are they?" "Well, they may be of no use to you, but they are of great use to me," Ghazali answered. "But of what use are they?" the robbers insisted. "These are the fruits of my labour. If you destroy them, I am also ruinously destroyed. All the years of my attainment go down the drain," Ghazali replied. "So whatever you know is in here, isn't it?" one of them said. "Yes," Ghazali replied. "Well, knowledge confined in a few papers, vulnerable to theft, is no knowledge at all. Go and think about it and about yourself" This casual but pungent remark by a commoner shook Ghazali to the core. He realised that he had studied as a parrot, jotted down all that he learned and crammed in into his mind. He found that he knew more, but he thought less. If he wanted to be a true student and a good scholar, he had to assimilate knowledge, think, ponder, deduce and then form his own judgement. He set out seriously to learn the way he should, and became one of the greatest ulema in Islam. But in his advanced age, when he summarised his achievements, he said: "The best counsel and admonition which changed my thinking, came to me from a highway robber."
afsane b
25-05-2009, 09:37
During the time of the Prophet of Islam, there was a poor man who was lazy in work. His wife said to him once, "Go to the Prophet and ask him for help." The man went to the Prophet. Before he could say anything, the Prophet said, "Whoever asks us for help, we shall help him, but if he does not ask us for anything and instead goes after work then Allah will help him and make his earning a blessing." The man didn't ask for anything from the Holy Prophet, returned to his house and told the story to his wife. The next day because of poverty and needs again he went to the Prophet. Before he could say anything, the Holy Prophet repeated his previous saying.
The man, again, didn't say anything and left. However, on the third day when he heard the same thing from the Prophet, he went to a friend's house. He borrowed an axe from him and went to the jungle. He worked all night long, chopped some wood, and returned to the city. He sold the wood and with the money bought some food to take home. The next day he worked a little harder. Everyday he would chop more wood than the previous day. Finally, he could provide for his family and save a little money on the side. Little by little, he bought some camels and other necessary things he needed for his job. After a short time he discovered how to earn his living.
One day he went to visit the Prophet and explained his whole story from beginning to end. The Holy Prophet said, "I told you! Whoever asks us for help, we shall help him, but if he doesn't ask for anything and goes after work then Allah will help him and make his earning a blessing."
The man, again, didn't say anything and left. However, on the third day when he heard the same thing from the Prophet, he went to a friend's house. He borrowed an axe from him and went to the jungle. He worked all night long, chopped some wood, and returned to the city. He sold the wood and with the money bought some food to take home. The next day he worked a little harder. Everyday he would chop more wood than the previous day. Finally, he could provide for his family and save a little money on the side. Little by little, he bought some camels and other necessary things he needed for his job. After a short time he discovered how to earn his living.
One day he went to visit the Prophet and explained his whole story from beginning to end. The Holy Prophet said, "I told you! Whoever asks us for help, we shall help him, but if he doesn't ask for anything and goes after work then Allah will help him and make his earning a blessing."
zaqaqi
26-05-2009, 09:41
A blind boy sat on the steps of a building with a hat by his feet. He held up a sign which said: "I am blind, please help." There were only a few coins in the hat.
A man was walking by. He took a few coins from his pocket and dropped them into the hat. He then took the sign, turned it around, and wrote some words. He put the sign back so that everyone who walked by would see the new words.
Soon the hat began to fill up. A lot more people were giving money to the blind boy. That afternoon the man who had changed the sign came to see how things were. The boy recognized his footsteps and asked, "Were u the one who changed my sign this morning? What did u write?"
The man said, "I only wrote the truth. I said what u said but in a different way."
What he had written was: "Today is a beautiful day & I cannot see it."
Do u think the first sign & the second sign were saying the same thing? Of course both signs told people the boy was blind. But the first sign simply said the boy was blind. The second sign told people they were so lucky that they were not blind. Should we be surprised that the second sign was more effective?
Moral of the Story:
Be thankful for what you have.
A man was walking by. He took a few coins from his pocket and dropped them into the hat. He then took the sign, turned it around, and wrote some words. He put the sign back so that everyone who walked by would see the new words.
Soon the hat began to fill up. A lot more people were giving money to the blind boy. That afternoon the man who had changed the sign came to see how things were. The boy recognized his footsteps and asked, "Were u the one who changed my sign this morning? What did u write?"
The man said, "I only wrote the truth. I said what u said but in a different way."
What he had written was: "Today is a beautiful day & I cannot see it."
Do u think the first sign & the second sign were saying the same thing? Of course both signs told people the boy was blind. But the first sign simply said the boy was blind. The second sign told people they were so lucky that they were not blind. Should we be surprised that the second sign was more effective?
Moral of the Story:
Be thankful for what you have.
zaqaqi
26-05-2009, 09:55
My Dad used to ask me: "What is the most important part of the body?"
Through the years I would take a guess at what I thought was the correct answer. When I was younger, I thought sound was very important to us as humans, so I said, "My ears, Dad."
Dad said, "No Many people r deaf. But u keep thinking about it & I’ll ask u again soon."
Several years passed before he asked me again. Since making my 1st attempt, I had contemplated the correct answer. So this time I told him, "Dad, it must be our eyes."
Dad looked at me & told me, "U r learning fast, but the answer isn’t correct bcoz there r many people who r blind."
Stumped again, I continued my quest for knowledge. Over the years, Dad asked me the same thing & always his answer was, "No, but u r getting smarter every year."
Then last year, my grandpa died. Everybody was hurt. Even my Dad cried. I remember, Bcoz it was only the 2nd time I saw him cry. My Mom looked at me when it was our turn to say our final good-bye to Grandpa. Dad asked me, "Do you know the most important body part yet, my dear?"
I was shocked when he asked me this now. Dad saw the confusion on my face & told me, "This question is very important. It shows that u have really lived in ur life. For every body part u gave me in the past, I have told u was wrong & I have given u an example why. But today is the day u need to learn this important lesson."
Dad looked down at me, & said, "My dear, the most important body part is ur shoulder."
"It is Bcoz it can hold the head of a loved one when they cry. Everybody needs a shoulder to cry on sometime in life, my dear. I only hope that u have enough love & friends that u will always have a shoulder to cry on when u need it."
Now I knew the shoulders are not a selfish one. It is sympathetic to the pain of others. People will forget what u said... People will forget what u did.... But people will NEVER forget how u made them feel. Be blessed. Be a blessing. Get ur shoulder ready...
Through the years I would take a guess at what I thought was the correct answer. When I was younger, I thought sound was very important to us as humans, so I said, "My ears, Dad."
Dad said, "No Many people r deaf. But u keep thinking about it & I’ll ask u again soon."
Several years passed before he asked me again. Since making my 1st attempt, I had contemplated the correct answer. So this time I told him, "Dad, it must be our eyes."
Dad looked at me & told me, "U r learning fast, but the answer isn’t correct bcoz there r many people who r blind."
Stumped again, I continued my quest for knowledge. Over the years, Dad asked me the same thing & always his answer was, "No, but u r getting smarter every year."
Then last year, my grandpa died. Everybody was hurt. Even my Dad cried. I remember, Bcoz it was only the 2nd time I saw him cry. My Mom looked at me when it was our turn to say our final good-bye to Grandpa. Dad asked me, "Do you know the most important body part yet, my dear?"
I was shocked when he asked me this now. Dad saw the confusion on my face & told me, "This question is very important. It shows that u have really lived in ur life. For every body part u gave me in the past, I have told u was wrong & I have given u an example why. But today is the day u need to learn this important lesson."
Dad looked down at me, & said, "My dear, the most important body part is ur shoulder."
"It is Bcoz it can hold the head of a loved one when they cry. Everybody needs a shoulder to cry on sometime in life, my dear. I only hope that u have enough love & friends that u will always have a shoulder to cry on when u need it."
Now I knew the shoulders are not a selfish one. It is sympathetic to the pain of others. People will forget what u said... People will forget what u did.... But people will NEVER forget how u made them feel. Be blessed. Be a blessing. Get ur shoulder ready...
دل تنگم
29-05-2009, 22:26
by Louis Becke
I once heard a man who for nearly six years had been a martyr to rheumatism say he would give a thousand pounds to have a cure effected.
"I wish, then, that we were in Australia or New Zealand during the shore whaling season," remarked a friend of the writer; "I should feel pretty certain of annexing that thousand pounds." And then he described the whale cure.
The "cure" is not fiction. It is a fact, so the whalemen assert, and there are many people at the township of Eden, Twofold Bay, New South Wales, who, it is vouched, can tell of several cases of chronic rheumatism that have been absolutely perfectly cured by the treatment herewith briefly described. How it came to be discovered I do not know, but it has been known to American whalemen for years.
When a whale is killed and towed ashore (it does not matter whether it is a "right," humpback, finback, or sperm whale) and while the interior of the carcase still retains a little warmth, a hole is out through one side of the body sufficiently large to admit the patient, the lower part of whose body from the feet to the waist should sink in the whale's intestines, leaving the head, of course, outside the aperture. The latter is closed up as closely as possible, otherwise the patient would not be able to breathe through the volume of ammoniacal gases which would escape from every opening left uncovered. It is these gases, which are of an overpowering and atrocious odour, that bring about the cure, so the whalemen say. Sometimes the patient cannot stand this horrible bath for more than an hour, and has to be lifted out in a fainting condition, to undergo a second, third, or perhaps fourth course on that or the following day. Twenty or thirty hours, it is said, will effect a radical cure in the most severe cases, provided there is no malformation or distortion of the joints, and even in such cases the treatment causes very great relief. One man who was put in up to his neck in the carcass of a small "humpback" stood it for sixteen hours, being taken out at two-hour intervals. He went off declaring himself to be cured. ہ year later he had a return of the complaint and underwent the treatment a second time.
All the "shore" whalemen whom the writer has met thoroughly believe in the efficacy of the remedy, and by way of practical proof assert that no man who works at cutting-in and trying out a whale ever suffers from rheumatism. Furthermore, however, some of them maintain that the "deader" the whale is, the better the remedy. "More gas in him," they say. And any one who has been within a mile of a week-dead whale will believe that.
Anyway, if there is any person, rheumatic or otherwise, who wants to emulate Jonah's adventure in a safe manner (with a dead whale), let him write to the Davidson Brothers, Ben Boyd Point, Twofold Bay, N.S.W., or to the Messrs. Christian, Norfolk Island, and I am sure those valorous whalemen would help him to achieve his desire.
I once heard a man who for nearly six years had been a martyr to rheumatism say he would give a thousand pounds to have a cure effected.
"I wish, then, that we were in Australia or New Zealand during the shore whaling season," remarked a friend of the writer; "I should feel pretty certain of annexing that thousand pounds." And then he described the whale cure.
The "cure" is not fiction. It is a fact, so the whalemen assert, and there are many people at the township of Eden, Twofold Bay, New South Wales, who, it is vouched, can tell of several cases of chronic rheumatism that have been absolutely perfectly cured by the treatment herewith briefly described. How it came to be discovered I do not know, but it has been known to American whalemen for years.
When a whale is killed and towed ashore (it does not matter whether it is a "right," humpback, finback, or sperm whale) and while the interior of the carcase still retains a little warmth, a hole is out through one side of the body sufficiently large to admit the patient, the lower part of whose body from the feet to the waist should sink in the whale's intestines, leaving the head, of course, outside the aperture. The latter is closed up as closely as possible, otherwise the patient would not be able to breathe through the volume of ammoniacal gases which would escape from every opening left uncovered. It is these gases, which are of an overpowering and atrocious odour, that bring about the cure, so the whalemen say. Sometimes the patient cannot stand this horrible bath for more than an hour, and has to be lifted out in a fainting condition, to undergo a second, third, or perhaps fourth course on that or the following day. Twenty or thirty hours, it is said, will effect a radical cure in the most severe cases, provided there is no malformation or distortion of the joints, and even in such cases the treatment causes very great relief. One man who was put in up to his neck in the carcass of a small "humpback" stood it for sixteen hours, being taken out at two-hour intervals. He went off declaring himself to be cured. ہ year later he had a return of the complaint and underwent the treatment a second time.
All the "shore" whalemen whom the writer has met thoroughly believe in the efficacy of the remedy, and by way of practical proof assert that no man who works at cutting-in and trying out a whale ever suffers from rheumatism. Furthermore, however, some of them maintain that the "deader" the whale is, the better the remedy. "More gas in him," they say. And any one who has been within a mile of a week-dead whale will believe that.
Anyway, if there is any person, rheumatic or otherwise, who wants to emulate Jonah's adventure in a safe manner (with a dead whale), let him write to the Davidson Brothers, Ben Boyd Point, Twofold Bay, N.S.W., or to the Messrs. Christian, Norfolk Island, and I am sure those valorous whalemen would help him to achieve his desire.
دل تنگم
29-05-2009, 22:36
by T.S. Arthur
"What troubles you, William?" said Mrs. Aiken, speaking in a tone of kind concern to her husband, who sat silent and moody, with his eyes now fixed upon the floor, and now following the forms of his plainly-clad children as they sported, full of health and spirits, about the room.
It was evening, and Mr. Aiken, a man who earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, had, a little while before, returned from his daily labour.
No answer was made to the wife's question. A few minutes went by, and then she spoke again:
"Is any thing wrong with you, William?"
"Nothing more than usual," was replied. "There's always something wrong. The fact is, I'm out of heart."
"William!"
Mrs. Aiken came and stood beside her husband, and laid her hand gently upon his shoulder.
The evil spirit of envy and discontent was in the poor man's heart,--this his wife understood right well. She had often before seen him in this frame of mind.
"I'm as good as Freeman; am I not?"
"Yes, and a great deal better, I hope," replied Mrs. Aiken.
"And yet he is rolling in wealth, while I, though compelled to toil early and late, can scarcely keep soul and body together."
"Hush, William! Don't talk so. It does you no good. We have a comfortable home, with food and raiment,--let us therewith be contented and thankful."
"Thankful for this mean hut! Thankful for hard labour, poor fare, and coarse clothing!"
"None are so happy as those who labour; none enjoy better health than they who have only the plainest food. Do you ever go hungry to bed, William?"
"No, of course not."
"Do you or your children shiver in the cold of winter for lack of warm clothing?"
"No; but"----
"William! Do not look past your real comforts in envy of the blessings God has given to others. Depend upon it, we receive all of this world's goods the kind Father above sees best for us to have. With more, we might not be so happy as we are."
"I'll take all that risk," said Mr. Aiken. "Give me plenty of money, and I'll find a way to largely increase the bounds of enjoyment."
"The largest amount of happiness, I believe, is ever to be found in that condition wherein God had placed us."
"Then every poor man should willingly remain poor!"
"I did not say that, William: I think every man should seek earnestly to improve his worldly affairs--yet, be contented with his lot at all times; for, only in contentment is there happiness, and this is a blessing the poor may share equally with the rich. Indeed, I believe the poor have this blessing in larger store. You, for instance, are a happier man than Mr. Freeman."
"I'm not so sure of that."
"I am, then. Look at his face. Doesn't that tell the story? Would you exchange with him in every respect?"
"No, not in every respect. I would like to have his money."
"Ah, William! William!" Mrs. Aiken shook her head. "You are giving place in your heart for the entrance of bad spirits. Try to enjoy, fully, what you have, and you will be a far happier man than Mr. Freeman. Your sleep is sound at night."
"I know. A man who labours as hard as I do, can't help sleeping soundly."
"Then labour is a blessing, if for nothing else. I took home, to-day, a couple of aprons made for Mrs. Freeman. She looked pale and troubled, and I asked her if she were not well."
"'Not very,' she replied. 'I've lost so much rest of late, that I'm almost worn out.'
"I did not ask why this was; but, after remaining silent for a few moments, she said--
"'Mr. Freeman has got himself so excited about business, that he sleeps scarcely three hours in the twenty-four. He cares neither for eating nor drinking; and, if I did not watch him, would scarcely appear abroad in decent apparel. Hardly a day passes that something does not go wrong. Workmen fail in their contracts, prices fall below what he expected them to be, and agents prove unfaithful; in fact, a hundred things occur to interfere with his expectations, and to cloud his mind with disappointment. We were far happier when we were poor, Mrs. Aiken. There was a time when we enjoyed this life. Bright days!--how well are they remembered! Mr. Freeman's income was twelve dollars a week; we lived in two rooms, and I did all our own work. I had fewer wants then than I have ever had since, and was far happier than I ever expect to be again on this side of the grave.'"
Just then a cry was heard in the street.
"Hark!" exclaimed Mr. Aiken.
"Fire! Fire! Fire!" The startling sound rose clear and shrill upon the air.
Mr. Aiken sprang to the window and threw it open.
"Mr. Freeman's new building, as I live!"
Mr. Aiken dropped the window, and catching up his hat, hurriedly left the house.
It was an hour ere he returned. Meanwhile the fire raged furiously, and from her window, where she was safe from harm, Mrs. Aiken saw the large new factory, which the rich man had just erected, entirely consumed by the fierce, devouring element. All in vain was it that the intrepid firemen wrought almost miracles of daring, in their efforts to save the building. Story after story were successively wrapped in flames, until, at length, over fifty thousand dollars worth of property lay a heap of black and smouldering ruins.
Wet to the skin, and covered with cinders, was Mr. Aiken when he returned to his humble abode, after having worked manfully, in his unselfish efforts to rescue a portion of his neighbour's property from destruction.
"Poor Freeman! I pity him from my very heart!" was his generous, sympathising exclamation, as soon as he met his wife.
"He is insured, is he not?" inquired Mrs. Aiken.
"Partially. But even a full insurance would be a poor compensation for such a loss. In less than two weeks, this new factory, with all its perfect and beautiful machinery, would have been in operation. The price of goods is now high, and Mr. Freeman would have cleared a handsome sum of money on the first season's product of his mill. It is a terrible disappointment for him. I never saw a man so much disturbed."
"Poor man! His sleep will not be so sound as yours, to-night, William."
"Indeed it will not."
"Nor, rich as he is, will he be as happy as you, to-morrow."
"If I were as rich as he is," said Mr. Aiken, "I would not fret myself to death for this loss. I would, rather, be thankful for the wealth still left in my possession."
Mrs. Aiken shook her head.
"No, William, the same spirit that makes you restless and discontented now, would be with you, no matter how greatly improved might be your external condition. Mr. Freeman was once as poor as you are. Do you think him happier for his riches? Does he enjoy life more? Has wealth brought a greater freedom from care? Has it made his sleep sweeter? Far, very far from it. Riches have but increased the sources of discontent."
"This is not a necessary consequence. If Mr. Freeman turn a blessing into a curse, that is a defect in his particular case."
"And few, in this fallen and evil world, are free from this same defect, William. If wealth were sought for unselfish ends, then it would make its possessor happy. But how few so seek riches! It is here, believe me, that the evil lies."
Mrs. Aiken spoke earnestly, and something of the truth that was in her mind, shed its beams upon the mind of her husband.
"You remember," said she smiling, "the anecdote of the rich man of New York, who asked a person who gave utterance to words of envy towards himself--'Would you,' said he, 'take all the care and anxiety attendant upon the management of my large estates and extensive business operations, merely for your victuals and clothes?' 'No, indeed, I would not,' was the quick answer. 'I get no more,' said the rich man, gravely. And it was the truth, William. They who get rich in this world, pass up through incessant toil and anxiety; and, while they seem to enjoy all the good things of life, in reality enjoy but little. They get only their victuals and clothes. I have worked for many rich ladies, and I do not remember one who appeared to be happier than I am. And I am mistaken if your experience is not very much like my own."
One evening, a few days after this time, Aiken came home from his work. As he entered the room where his wife and children sat, the former looked up to him with a cheerful smile of welcome, and the latter gathered around him, filling his ears with the music of their happy voices. The father drew an arm around one and another, and, as he sat in their midst, his heart swelled in his bosom, and warmed with a glow of happiness.
Soon the evening meal was served--served by the hands of his wife--the good angel of his humble home. William Aiken, as he looked around upon his smiling children, and their true-hearted, even-tempered, cheerful mother, felt that he had many blessings for which he should be thankful.
"I saw something, a little while ago, that I shall not soon forget," said he, when alone with his wife.
"What was that, William?"
"I had occasion to call at the house of Mr. Elder, on some business, as I came home this evening. Mr. Elder is rich, and I have often envied him; but I shall do so no more. I found him in his sitting-room, alone, walking the floor with a troubled look on his face. He glanced at me with an impatient expression as I entered. I mentioned my business, when he said abruptly and rudely--
"'I've no time to think of that now.'
"As I was turning away, a door of the room opened, and Mrs. Elder and two children entered.
"'I wish you would send those children up to the nursery,' he exclaimed, in a fretful half-angry voice. 'I'm in no humour to be troubled with them now.'
"The look cast upon their father by those two innocent little children, as their mother pushed them from the room, I shall not soon forget. I remembered, as I left the house, that there had been a large failure in Market street, and that Mr. Elder was said to be the loser by some ten thousand dollars--less than a twentieth part of what he is worth. I am happier than he is to-night, Mary."
"And happier you may ever be, William," returned his wife, "if you but stoop to the humble flowers that spring up along your pathway, and, like the bee, take the honey they contain. God knows what, in external things, is best for us; and he will make either poverty or riches, whichsoever comes, a blessing, if we are humble, patient and contented."
"What troubles you, William?" said Mrs. Aiken, speaking in a tone of kind concern to her husband, who sat silent and moody, with his eyes now fixed upon the floor, and now following the forms of his plainly-clad children as they sported, full of health and spirits, about the room.
It was evening, and Mr. Aiken, a man who earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, had, a little while before, returned from his daily labour.
No answer was made to the wife's question. A few minutes went by, and then she spoke again:
"Is any thing wrong with you, William?"
"Nothing more than usual," was replied. "There's always something wrong. The fact is, I'm out of heart."
"William!"
Mrs. Aiken came and stood beside her husband, and laid her hand gently upon his shoulder.
The evil spirit of envy and discontent was in the poor man's heart,--this his wife understood right well. She had often before seen him in this frame of mind.
"I'm as good as Freeman; am I not?"
"Yes, and a great deal better, I hope," replied Mrs. Aiken.
"And yet he is rolling in wealth, while I, though compelled to toil early and late, can scarcely keep soul and body together."
"Hush, William! Don't talk so. It does you no good. We have a comfortable home, with food and raiment,--let us therewith be contented and thankful."
"Thankful for this mean hut! Thankful for hard labour, poor fare, and coarse clothing!"
"None are so happy as those who labour; none enjoy better health than they who have only the plainest food. Do you ever go hungry to bed, William?"
"No, of course not."
"Do you or your children shiver in the cold of winter for lack of warm clothing?"
"No; but"----
"William! Do not look past your real comforts in envy of the blessings God has given to others. Depend upon it, we receive all of this world's goods the kind Father above sees best for us to have. With more, we might not be so happy as we are."
"I'll take all that risk," said Mr. Aiken. "Give me plenty of money, and I'll find a way to largely increase the bounds of enjoyment."
"The largest amount of happiness, I believe, is ever to be found in that condition wherein God had placed us."
"Then every poor man should willingly remain poor!"
"I did not say that, William: I think every man should seek earnestly to improve his worldly affairs--yet, be contented with his lot at all times; for, only in contentment is there happiness, and this is a blessing the poor may share equally with the rich. Indeed, I believe the poor have this blessing in larger store. You, for instance, are a happier man than Mr. Freeman."
"I'm not so sure of that."
"I am, then. Look at his face. Doesn't that tell the story? Would you exchange with him in every respect?"
"No, not in every respect. I would like to have his money."
"Ah, William! William!" Mrs. Aiken shook her head. "You are giving place in your heart for the entrance of bad spirits. Try to enjoy, fully, what you have, and you will be a far happier man than Mr. Freeman. Your sleep is sound at night."
"I know. A man who labours as hard as I do, can't help sleeping soundly."
"Then labour is a blessing, if for nothing else. I took home, to-day, a couple of aprons made for Mrs. Freeman. She looked pale and troubled, and I asked her if she were not well."
"'Not very,' she replied. 'I've lost so much rest of late, that I'm almost worn out.'
"I did not ask why this was; but, after remaining silent for a few moments, she said--
"'Mr. Freeman has got himself so excited about business, that he sleeps scarcely three hours in the twenty-four. He cares neither for eating nor drinking; and, if I did not watch him, would scarcely appear abroad in decent apparel. Hardly a day passes that something does not go wrong. Workmen fail in their contracts, prices fall below what he expected them to be, and agents prove unfaithful; in fact, a hundred things occur to interfere with his expectations, and to cloud his mind with disappointment. We were far happier when we were poor, Mrs. Aiken. There was a time when we enjoyed this life. Bright days!--how well are they remembered! Mr. Freeman's income was twelve dollars a week; we lived in two rooms, and I did all our own work. I had fewer wants then than I have ever had since, and was far happier than I ever expect to be again on this side of the grave.'"
Just then a cry was heard in the street.
"Hark!" exclaimed Mr. Aiken.
"Fire! Fire! Fire!" The startling sound rose clear and shrill upon the air.
Mr. Aiken sprang to the window and threw it open.
"Mr. Freeman's new building, as I live!"
Mr. Aiken dropped the window, and catching up his hat, hurriedly left the house.
It was an hour ere he returned. Meanwhile the fire raged furiously, and from her window, where she was safe from harm, Mrs. Aiken saw the large new factory, which the rich man had just erected, entirely consumed by the fierce, devouring element. All in vain was it that the intrepid firemen wrought almost miracles of daring, in their efforts to save the building. Story after story were successively wrapped in flames, until, at length, over fifty thousand dollars worth of property lay a heap of black and smouldering ruins.
Wet to the skin, and covered with cinders, was Mr. Aiken when he returned to his humble abode, after having worked manfully, in his unselfish efforts to rescue a portion of his neighbour's property from destruction.
"Poor Freeman! I pity him from my very heart!" was his generous, sympathising exclamation, as soon as he met his wife.
"He is insured, is he not?" inquired Mrs. Aiken.
"Partially. But even a full insurance would be a poor compensation for such a loss. In less than two weeks, this new factory, with all its perfect and beautiful machinery, would have been in operation. The price of goods is now high, and Mr. Freeman would have cleared a handsome sum of money on the first season's product of his mill. It is a terrible disappointment for him. I never saw a man so much disturbed."
"Poor man! His sleep will not be so sound as yours, to-night, William."
"Indeed it will not."
"Nor, rich as he is, will he be as happy as you, to-morrow."
"If I were as rich as he is," said Mr. Aiken, "I would not fret myself to death for this loss. I would, rather, be thankful for the wealth still left in my possession."
Mrs. Aiken shook her head.
"No, William, the same spirit that makes you restless and discontented now, would be with you, no matter how greatly improved might be your external condition. Mr. Freeman was once as poor as you are. Do you think him happier for his riches? Does he enjoy life more? Has wealth brought a greater freedom from care? Has it made his sleep sweeter? Far, very far from it. Riches have but increased the sources of discontent."
"This is not a necessary consequence. If Mr. Freeman turn a blessing into a curse, that is a defect in his particular case."
"And few, in this fallen and evil world, are free from this same defect, William. If wealth were sought for unselfish ends, then it would make its possessor happy. But how few so seek riches! It is here, believe me, that the evil lies."
Mrs. Aiken spoke earnestly, and something of the truth that was in her mind, shed its beams upon the mind of her husband.
"You remember," said she smiling, "the anecdote of the rich man of New York, who asked a person who gave utterance to words of envy towards himself--'Would you,' said he, 'take all the care and anxiety attendant upon the management of my large estates and extensive business operations, merely for your victuals and clothes?' 'No, indeed, I would not,' was the quick answer. 'I get no more,' said the rich man, gravely. And it was the truth, William. They who get rich in this world, pass up through incessant toil and anxiety; and, while they seem to enjoy all the good things of life, in reality enjoy but little. They get only their victuals and clothes. I have worked for many rich ladies, and I do not remember one who appeared to be happier than I am. And I am mistaken if your experience is not very much like my own."
One evening, a few days after this time, Aiken came home from his work. As he entered the room where his wife and children sat, the former looked up to him with a cheerful smile of welcome, and the latter gathered around him, filling his ears with the music of their happy voices. The father drew an arm around one and another, and, as he sat in their midst, his heart swelled in his bosom, and warmed with a glow of happiness.
Soon the evening meal was served--served by the hands of his wife--the good angel of his humble home. William Aiken, as he looked around upon his smiling children, and their true-hearted, even-tempered, cheerful mother, felt that he had many blessings for which he should be thankful.
"I saw something, a little while ago, that I shall not soon forget," said he, when alone with his wife.
"What was that, William?"
"I had occasion to call at the house of Mr. Elder, on some business, as I came home this evening. Mr. Elder is rich, and I have often envied him; but I shall do so no more. I found him in his sitting-room, alone, walking the floor with a troubled look on his face. He glanced at me with an impatient expression as I entered. I mentioned my business, when he said abruptly and rudely--
"'I've no time to think of that now.'
"As I was turning away, a door of the room opened, and Mrs. Elder and two children entered.
"'I wish you would send those children up to the nursery,' he exclaimed, in a fretful half-angry voice. 'I'm in no humour to be troubled with them now.'
"The look cast upon their father by those two innocent little children, as their mother pushed them from the room, I shall not soon forget. I remembered, as I left the house, that there had been a large failure in Market street, and that Mr. Elder was said to be the loser by some ten thousand dollars--less than a twentieth part of what he is worth. I am happier than he is to-night, Mary."
"And happier you may ever be, William," returned his wife, "if you but stoop to the humble flowers that spring up along your pathway, and, like the bee, take the honey they contain. God knows what, in external things, is best for us; and he will make either poverty or riches, whichsoever comes, a blessing, if we are humble, patient and contented."
محمد88
11-07-2009, 14:36
The Frog in the Well
.There was a frog that lived in a shallow well
Look how well off I am here ! " he told a big turtle from the Eastern Ocean "
I can hop along the coping of the well when I go out, and rest by a crevice in the bricks on my return "
I can wallow to my heart's content with only my head above water, or stroll ankle deep through soft mud. No crabs
or tadpoles can compare with me. I am master of the water and lord of this
shallow well, What more can a fellow ask ? Why don't you come
" ? here more often to have a good time
Before the turtle from the Eastern Ocean could get his left foot into the well, however, he caught his
. right calw on something. So he halted and stepped back then began to describe the ocean to the frog
It's more than a thousand miles across and more than ten thousand feet deep. In ancient times there"
. were floods nine years out of ten yet the water in the ocean never increased
. And later there were droughts seven years out of eight yet the water in the ocean never grew less
" . It has remained quite constant throughtout the ages. That is why I like to live in the Eastern Ocean
. Then the frog in the shallow well was silent and felt a little abashed
.
.
.
.There was a frog that lived in a shallow well
Look how well off I am here ! " he told a big turtle from the Eastern Ocean "
I can hop along the coping of the well when I go out, and rest by a crevice in the bricks on my return "
I can wallow to my heart's content with only my head above water, or stroll ankle deep through soft mud. No crabs
or tadpoles can compare with me. I am master of the water and lord of this
shallow well, What more can a fellow ask ? Why don't you come
" ? here more often to have a good time
Before the turtle from the Eastern Ocean could get his left foot into the well, however, he caught his
. right calw on something. So he halted and stepped back then began to describe the ocean to the frog
It's more than a thousand miles across and more than ten thousand feet deep. In ancient times there"
. were floods nine years out of ten yet the water in the ocean never increased
. And later there were droughts seven years out of eight yet the water in the ocean never grew less
" . It has remained quite constant throughtout the ages. That is why I like to live in the Eastern Ocean
. Then the frog in the shallow well was silent and felt a little abashed
.
.
.
Antonio Andolini
23-07-2009, 00:23
one day an ant was crossing in front of a very beautiful painting which was drawing by someone
he says:Jesus, look at that beautiful fingers which are drawing that painting
another ant comes and says: No,look at that strong wrists which is painting .. another one comes and says that look at that arms and hands .. they are painting! ... but the wiser ant comes and says:" look at that guy which is drawing that painting.his mind and brain is telling him/her how to paint.he is the creator!"... but another ant which was wiser comes and says that:no it's not because of his brain .. it's because of his heart that he is creating such a thing
but again another ant comes and says that: yea you are right but above of all of them there is his/her love.. the love has grabbed the lover's heart and the heart tells the brain what to do.
and every beauty correlates to another bigger beauty
Notice:I heard this story from one of the Dr.Hossein Elaheye Ghomshe'ee speeches and as I found it beautiful I decided to share it with you summarily
... and on that speech The Dr wanted to mention every beauty is from God,the source of every beauties
he says:Jesus, look at that beautiful fingers which are drawing that painting
another ant comes and says: No,look at that strong wrists which is painting .. another one comes and says that look at that arms and hands .. they are painting! ... but the wiser ant comes and says:" look at that guy which is drawing that painting.his mind and brain is telling him/her how to paint.he is the creator!"... but another ant which was wiser comes and says that:no it's not because of his brain .. it's because of his heart that he is creating such a thing
but again another ant comes and says that: yea you are right but above of all of them there is his/her love.. the love has grabbed the lover's heart and the heart tells the brain what to do.
and every beauty correlates to another bigger beauty
Notice:I heard this story from one of the Dr.Hossein Elaheye Ghomshe'ee speeches and as I found it beautiful I decided to share it with you summarily
... and on that speech The Dr wanted to mention every beauty is from God,the source of every beauties
گاندول
25-07-2009, 14:41
"You don't have to be French to enjoy a decent red wine," Charles Jousselin de Gruse used to tell his foreign guests whenever he entertained them in Paris. "But you do have to be French to recognize one," he would add with a laugh.
After a lifetime in the French diplomatic corps, the Count de Gruse lived with his wife in an elegant townhouse on Quai Voltaire. He was a likeable man, cultivated of course, with a well deserved reputation as a generous host and an amusing raconteur.
This evening's guests were all European and all equally convinced that immigration was at the root of Europe's problems. Charles de Gruse said nothing. He had always concealed his contempt for such ideas. And, in any case, he had never much cared for these particular guests.
The first of the red Bordeaux was being served with the veal, and one of the guests turned to de Gruse.
"Come on, Charles, it's simple arithmetic. Nothing to do with race or colour. You must've had bags of experience of this sort of thing. What d'you say?"
"Yes, General. Bags!"
Without another word, de Gruse picked up his glass and introduced his bulbous, winey nose. After a moment he looked up with watery eyes.
"A truly full-bodied Bordeaux," he said warmly, "a wine among wines."
The four guests held their glasses to the light and studied their blood-red contents. They all agreed that it was the best wine they had ever tasted.
One by one the little white lights along the Seine were coming on, and from the first-floor windows you could see the brightly lit bateaux-mouches passing through the arches of the Pont du Carrousel. The party moved on to a dish of game served with a more vigorous claret.
"Can you imagine," asked de Gruse, as the claret was poured, "that there are people who actually serve wines they know nothing about?"
"Really?" said one of the guests, a German politician.
"Personally, before I uncork a bottle I like to know what's in it."
"But how? How can anyone be sure?"
"I like to hunt around the vineyards. Take this place I used to visit in Bordeaux. I got to know the winegrower there personally. That's the way to know what you're drinking."
"A matter of pedigree, Charles," said the other politician.
"This fellow," continued de Gruse as though the Dutchman had not spoken, "always gave you the story behind his wines. One of them was the most extraordinary story I ever heard. We were tasting, in his winery, and we came to a cask that made him frown. He asked if I agreed with him that red Bordeaux was the best wine in the world. Of course, I agreed. Then he made the strangest statement.
"'The wine in this cask,' he said, and there were tears in his eyes, 'is the best vintage in the world. But it started its life far from the country where it was grown.'"
De Gruse paused to check that his guests were being served.
"Well?" said the Dutchman.
De Gruse and his wife exchanged glances.
"Do tell them, mon chéri," she said.
De Gruse leaned forwards, took another sip of wine, and dabbed his lips with the corner of his napkin. This is the story he told them.
At the age of twenty-one, Pierre - that was the name he gave the winegrower - had been sent by his father to spend some time with his uncle in Madagascar. Within two weeks he had fallen for a local girl called Faniry, or "Desire" in Malagasy. You could not blame him. At seventeen she was ravishing. In the Malagasy sunlight her skin was golden. Her black, waist-length hair, which hung straight beside her cheeks, framed large, fathomless eyes. It was a genuine coup de foudre, for both of them. Within five months they were married. Faniry had no family, but Pierre's parents came out from France for the wedding, even though they did not strictly approve of it, and for three years the young couple lived very happily on the island of Madagascar. Then, one day, a telegram came from France. Pierre's parents and his only brother had been killed in a car crash. Pierre took the next flight home to attend the funeral and manage the vineyard left by his father.
Faniry followed two weeks later. Pierre was grief-stricken, but with Faniry he settled down to running the vineyard. His family, and the lazy, idyllic days under a tropical sun, were gone forever. But he was very happily married, and he was very well-off. Perhaps, he reasoned, life in Bordeaux would not be so bad.
But he was wrong. It soon became obvious that Faniry was jealous. In Madagascar she had no match. In France she was jealous of everyone. Of the maids. Of the secretary. Even of the peasant girls who picked the grapes and giggled at her funny accent. She convinced herself that Pierre made love to each of them in turn.
She started with insinuations, simple, artless ones that Pierre hardly even recognized. Then she tried blunt accusation in the privacy of their bedroom. When he denied that, she resorted to violent, humiliating denouncements in the kitchens, the winery, the plantations. The angel that Pierre had married in Madagascar had become a termagant, blinded by jealousy. Nothing he did or said could help. Often, she would refuse to speak for a week or more, and when at last she spoke it would only be to scream yet more abuse or swear again her intention to leave him. By the third vine-harvest it was obvious to everyone that they loathed each other.
One Friday evening, Pierre was down in the winery, working on a new electric winepress. He was alone. The grape-pickers had left. Suddenly the door opened and Faniry entered, excessively made up. She walked straight up to Pierre, flung her arms around his neck, and pressed herself against him. Even above the fumes from the pressed grapes he could smell that she had been drinking.
"Darling," she sighed, "what shall we do?"
He badly wanted her, but all the past insults and humiliating scenes welled up inside him. He pushed her away.
"But, darling, I'm going to have a baby."
"Don't be absurd. Go to bed! You're drunk. And take that paint off. It makes you look like a tart."
Faniry's face blackened, and she threw herself at him with new accusations. He had never cared for her. He cared only about ---. He was obsessed with it. And with white women. But the women in France, the white women, they were the tarts, and he was welcome to them. She snatched a knife from the wall and lunged at him with it. She was in tears, but it took all his strength to keep the knife from his throat. Eventually he pushed her off, and she stumbled towards the winepress. Pierre stood, breathing heavily, as the screw of the press caught at her hair and dragged her in. She screamed, struggling to free herself. The screw bit slowly into her shoulder and she screamed again. Then she fainted, though whether from the pain or the fumes he was not sure. He looked away until a sickening sound told him it was over. Then he raised his arm and switched the current off.
The guests shuddered visibly and de Gruse paused in his story.
"Well, I won't go into the details at table," he said. "Pierre fed the rest of the body into the press and tidied up. Then he went up to the house, had a bath, ate a meal, and went to bed. The next day, he told everyone Faniry had finally left him and gone back to Madagascar. No-one was surprised."
He paused again. His guests sat motionless, their eyes turned towards him.
"Of course," he continued, "Sixty-five was a bad year for red Bordeaux. Except for Pierre's. That was the extraordinary thing. It won award after award, and nobody could understand why."
The general's wife cleared her throat.
"But, surely," she said, "you didn't taste it?"
"No, I didn't taste it, though Pierre did assure me his wife had lent the wine an incomparable aroma."
"And you didn't, er, buy any?" asked the general.
"How could I refuse? It isn't every day that one finds such a pedigree."
There was a long silence. The Dutchman shifted awkwardly in his seat, his glass poised midway between the table and his open lips. The other guests looked around uneasily at each other. They did not understand.
"But look here, Gruse," said the general at last, "you don't mean to tell me we're drinking this damned woman now, d'you?"
De Gruse gazed impassively at the Englishman.
"Heaven forbid, General," he said slowly. "Everyone knows that the best vintage should always come first."
After a lifetime in the French diplomatic corps, the Count de Gruse lived with his wife in an elegant townhouse on Quai Voltaire. He was a likeable man, cultivated of course, with a well deserved reputation as a generous host and an amusing raconteur.
This evening's guests were all European and all equally convinced that immigration was at the root of Europe's problems. Charles de Gruse said nothing. He had always concealed his contempt for such ideas. And, in any case, he had never much cared for these particular guests.
The first of the red Bordeaux was being served with the veal, and one of the guests turned to de Gruse.
"Come on, Charles, it's simple arithmetic. Nothing to do with race or colour. You must've had bags of experience of this sort of thing. What d'you say?"
"Yes, General. Bags!"
Without another word, de Gruse picked up his glass and introduced his bulbous, winey nose. After a moment he looked up with watery eyes.
"A truly full-bodied Bordeaux," he said warmly, "a wine among wines."
The four guests held their glasses to the light and studied their blood-red contents. They all agreed that it was the best wine they had ever tasted.
One by one the little white lights along the Seine were coming on, and from the first-floor windows you could see the brightly lit bateaux-mouches passing through the arches of the Pont du Carrousel. The party moved on to a dish of game served with a more vigorous claret.
"Can you imagine," asked de Gruse, as the claret was poured, "that there are people who actually serve wines they know nothing about?"
"Really?" said one of the guests, a German politician.
"Personally, before I uncork a bottle I like to know what's in it."
"But how? How can anyone be sure?"
"I like to hunt around the vineyards. Take this place I used to visit in Bordeaux. I got to know the winegrower there personally. That's the way to know what you're drinking."
"A matter of pedigree, Charles," said the other politician.
"This fellow," continued de Gruse as though the Dutchman had not spoken, "always gave you the story behind his wines. One of them was the most extraordinary story I ever heard. We were tasting, in his winery, and we came to a cask that made him frown. He asked if I agreed with him that red Bordeaux was the best wine in the world. Of course, I agreed. Then he made the strangest statement.
"'The wine in this cask,' he said, and there were tears in his eyes, 'is the best vintage in the world. But it started its life far from the country where it was grown.'"
De Gruse paused to check that his guests were being served.
"Well?" said the Dutchman.
De Gruse and his wife exchanged glances.
"Do tell them, mon chéri," she said.
De Gruse leaned forwards, took another sip of wine, and dabbed his lips with the corner of his napkin. This is the story he told them.
At the age of twenty-one, Pierre - that was the name he gave the winegrower - had been sent by his father to spend some time with his uncle in Madagascar. Within two weeks he had fallen for a local girl called Faniry, or "Desire" in Malagasy. You could not blame him. At seventeen she was ravishing. In the Malagasy sunlight her skin was golden. Her black, waist-length hair, which hung straight beside her cheeks, framed large, fathomless eyes. It was a genuine coup de foudre, for both of them. Within five months they were married. Faniry had no family, but Pierre's parents came out from France for the wedding, even though they did not strictly approve of it, and for three years the young couple lived very happily on the island of Madagascar. Then, one day, a telegram came from France. Pierre's parents and his only brother had been killed in a car crash. Pierre took the next flight home to attend the funeral and manage the vineyard left by his father.
Faniry followed two weeks later. Pierre was grief-stricken, but with Faniry he settled down to running the vineyard. His family, and the lazy, idyllic days under a tropical sun, were gone forever. But he was very happily married, and he was very well-off. Perhaps, he reasoned, life in Bordeaux would not be so bad.
But he was wrong. It soon became obvious that Faniry was jealous. In Madagascar she had no match. In France she was jealous of everyone. Of the maids. Of the secretary. Even of the peasant girls who picked the grapes and giggled at her funny accent. She convinced herself that Pierre made love to each of them in turn.
She started with insinuations, simple, artless ones that Pierre hardly even recognized. Then she tried blunt accusation in the privacy of their bedroom. When he denied that, she resorted to violent, humiliating denouncements in the kitchens, the winery, the plantations. The angel that Pierre had married in Madagascar had become a termagant, blinded by jealousy. Nothing he did or said could help. Often, she would refuse to speak for a week or more, and when at last she spoke it would only be to scream yet more abuse or swear again her intention to leave him. By the third vine-harvest it was obvious to everyone that they loathed each other.
One Friday evening, Pierre was down in the winery, working on a new electric winepress. He was alone. The grape-pickers had left. Suddenly the door opened and Faniry entered, excessively made up. She walked straight up to Pierre, flung her arms around his neck, and pressed herself against him. Even above the fumes from the pressed grapes he could smell that she had been drinking.
"Darling," she sighed, "what shall we do?"
He badly wanted her, but all the past insults and humiliating scenes welled up inside him. He pushed her away.
"But, darling, I'm going to have a baby."
"Don't be absurd. Go to bed! You're drunk. And take that paint off. It makes you look like a tart."
Faniry's face blackened, and she threw herself at him with new accusations. He had never cared for her. He cared only about ---. He was obsessed with it. And with white women. But the women in France, the white women, they were the tarts, and he was welcome to them. She snatched a knife from the wall and lunged at him with it. She was in tears, but it took all his strength to keep the knife from his throat. Eventually he pushed her off, and she stumbled towards the winepress. Pierre stood, breathing heavily, as the screw of the press caught at her hair and dragged her in. She screamed, struggling to free herself. The screw bit slowly into her shoulder and she screamed again. Then she fainted, though whether from the pain or the fumes he was not sure. He looked away until a sickening sound told him it was over. Then he raised his arm and switched the current off.
The guests shuddered visibly and de Gruse paused in his story.
"Well, I won't go into the details at table," he said. "Pierre fed the rest of the body into the press and tidied up. Then he went up to the house, had a bath, ate a meal, and went to bed. The next day, he told everyone Faniry had finally left him and gone back to Madagascar. No-one was surprised."
He paused again. His guests sat motionless, their eyes turned towards him.
"Of course," he continued, "Sixty-five was a bad year for red Bordeaux. Except for Pierre's. That was the extraordinary thing. It won award after award, and nobody could understand why."
The general's wife cleared her throat.
"But, surely," she said, "you didn't taste it?"
"No, I didn't taste it, though Pierre did assure me his wife had lent the wine an incomparable aroma."
"And you didn't, er, buy any?" asked the general.
"How could I refuse? It isn't every day that one finds such a pedigree."
There was a long silence. The Dutchman shifted awkwardly in his seat, his glass poised midway between the table and his open lips. The other guests looked around uneasily at each other. They did not understand.
"But look here, Gruse," said the general at last, "you don't mean to tell me we're drinking this damned woman now, d'you?"
De Gruse gazed impassively at the Englishman.
"Heaven forbid, General," he said slowly. "Everyone knows that the best vintage should always come first."
گاندول
25-07-2009, 14:44
She was walking lazily, for the fierce April sun was directly overhead. Her umbrella blocked its rays but nothing blocked the heat - the sort of raw, wild heat that crushes you with its energy. A few buffalo were tethered under coconuts, browsing the parched verges. Occasionally a car went past, leaving its treads in the melting pitch like the wake of a ship at sea. Otherwise it was quiet, and she saw no-one.
In her long white Sunday dress you might have taken Ginnie Narine for fourteen or fifteen. In fact she was twelve, a happy, uncomplicated child with a nature as open as the red hibiscus that decorated her black, waist-length hair. Generations earlier her family had come to Trinidad from India as overseers on the sugar plantations. Her father had had some success through buying and clearing land around Rio Cristalino and planting it with coffee.
On the dusty verge twenty yards ahead of Ginnie a car pulled up. She had noticed it cruise by once before but she did not recognize it and could not make out the driver through its dark windows, themselves as black as its gleaming paintwork. As she walked past it, the driver's glass started to open.
"Hello, Ginnie," she heard behind her.
She paused and turned. A slight colour rose beneath her dusky skin. Ravi Kirjani was tall and lean, and always well-dressed. His black eyes and large, white teeth flashed in the sunlight as he spoke. Everyone in Rio Cristalino knew Ravi. Ginnie often heard her unmarried sisters talk ruefully of him, of how, if only their father were alive and they still had land, one of them might marry him. And then they would squabble over who it might be and laugh at Ginnie because she was too simple for any man to want.
"How do you know my name, Ravi?" she asked with a thrill.
"How do you know mine?"
"Everyone knows your name. You're Mr Kirjani's son."
"Right. And where're you going Ginnie?"
She hesitated and looked down at the ground again.
"To chapel," she said with a faint smile.
"But Ginnie, good Hindus go to the temple." His rich, cultured voice was gently mocking as he added with a laugh: "Or maybe the temple pundits aren't your taste in colour."
She blushed more deeply at the reference to Father Olivier. She did not know how to reply. It was true that she liked the young French priest, with his funny accent and blue eyes, but she had been going to the Catholic chapel for months before he arrived. She loved its cheerful hymns, and its simple creed of one god - so different from those miserable Hindu gods who squabbled with each other like her sisters at home. But, added to that, the vulgarity of Ravi's remark bewildered her because his family were known for their breeding. People always said that Ravi would be a man of honour, like his father.
Ravi looked suddenly grave. His dark skin seemed even darker. It may be that he regretted his words. Possibly he saw the confusion in Ginnie's wide brown eyes. In any case, he did not wait for an answer.
"Can I offer you a lift to chapel - in my twenty-first birthday present?" he asked, putting his sunglasses back on. She noticed how thick their frames were. Real gold, she thought, like the big, fat watch on his wrist.
"It's a Mercedes, from Papa. Do you like it?" he added nonchalantly.
From the shade of her umbrella Ginnie peered up at a small lone cloud that hung motionless above them. The sun was beating down mercilessly and there was an urge in the air and an overpowering sense of growth. With a handkerchief she wiped the sweat from her forehead. Ravi gave a tug at his collar.
"It's air-conditioned, Ginnie. And you won't be late for chapel," he continued, reading her mind.
But chapel must have been the last thing on Ravi's mind when Ginnie, after a moment's hesitation, accepted his offer. For he drove her instead to a quiet sugar field outside town and there, with the Mercedes concealed among the sugar canes, he introduced himself into her. Ginnie was in a daze. Young as she was, she barely understood what was happening to her. The beat of calypso filled her ears and the sugar canes towered over her as the cold draught from the air-conditioner played against her knees. Afterwards, clutching the ragged flower that had been torn from her hair, she lay among the tall, sweet-smelling canes and sobbed until the brief tropical twilight turned to starry night.
But she told no-one, not even Father Olivier.
Two weeks later the little market town of Rio Cristalino was alive with gossip. Ravi Kirjani had been promised the hand of Sunita Moorpalani. Like the Kirjanis, the Moorpalanis were an established Indian family, one of the wealthiest in the Caribbean. But while the Kirjanis were diplomats, the Moorpalanis were a commercial family. They had made their fortune in retailing long before the collapse in oil prices had emptied their customers' pockets; and now Moorpalani stores were scattered throughout Trinidad and some of the other islands. Prudently, they had diversified into banking and insurance, and as a result their influence was felt at the highest level. It was a benevolent influence, of course, never abused, for people always said the Moorpalanis were a respectable family, and well above reproach. They had houses in Port-of-Spain, Tobago and Barbados, as well as in England and India, but their main residence was a magnificent, sprawling, colonial-style mansion just to the north of Rio Cristalino. The arranged marriage would be the social event of the following year.
When Ginnie heard of Ravi's engagement the loathing she had conceived for him grew into a sort of numb hatred. She was soon haunted by a longing to repay that heartless, arrogant brute. She would give anything to humiliate him, to see that leering, conceited grin wiped from his face. But outwardly she was unmoved. On weekdays she went to school and on Sundays she went still to Father Olivier's afternoon service.
"Girl, you sure does have a lot to confess to that whitie," her mother would say to her each time she came home late from chapel.
"He's not a whitie, he's a man of God."
"That's as may be, child, but don't forget he does be a man first."
The months passed and she did not see Ravi again.
And then it rained. All through August the rain hardly stopped. It rattled persistently on the galvanized roofs until you thought you would go mad with the noise. And if it stopped the air was as sticky as treacle and you prayed for it to rain again.
Then one day in October, towards the end of the wet season, when Ginnie's family were celebrating her only brother's eighteenth birthday, something happened that she had been dreading for weeks. She was lying in the hammock on the balcony, playing with her six-year old nephew Pinni.
Suddenly, Pinni cried out: "Ginnie, why are you so fat?"
Throughout the little frame house all celebration stopped. On the balcony curious eyes were turned upon Ginnie. And you could see what the boy meant.
"Gods have mercy on you, Virginia! Watch the shape of your belly," cried Mrs Narine, exploding with indignation and pulling her daughter indoors, away from the prying neighbours' ears. Her voice was loud and hard and there was a blackness in her eyes like the blackness of the skies before thunder. How could she have been so blind? She cursed herself for it and harsh questions burst from her lips.
"How does you bring such shame upon us, girl? What worthless layabouts does you throw yourself upon? What man'll have you now? No decent man, that does be sure. And why does you blacken your father's name like this, at your age? The man as didn't even live to see you born. Thank the gods he didn't have to know of this. You sure got some explaining to your precious man of God, child."
At last her words were exhausted and she sat down heavily, her weak heart pounding dangerously and her chest heaving from the exertion of her outburst.
Then Ginnie told her mother of the afternoon that Ravi Kirjani had raped her. There was a long silence after that and all you could hear was Mrs Narine wheezing. When at last she spoke, her words were heavy and disjointed.
"If anybody have to get damnation that Kirjani boy'll get it," she said.
Ginnie's sisters were awestruck.
"Shall we take her over to the health centre, Ma?" asked Indra. "The midwife comes today."
"Is you crazy, girl? You all does know how that woman does run she mouth like a duck's bottom. You all leave this to me."
That night Mrs Narine took her young daughter to see Doctor Khan, an old friend of her husband whose discretion she could count on.
There was no doubt about it. The child was pregnant.
"And what can us do, Dr Khan?" asked Mrs Narine.
"Marry her off, quick as you can," the lean old doctor replied bluntly.
Mrs Narine scoffed.
"Who would take her now, Doctor? I does beg you. There's nothing? Nothing you can do for us?"
A welcome breeze came through the slats of the surgery windows. Outside you could hear the shrill, persistent sound of cicadas, while mosquitoes crowded at the screens, attracted by the bare bulb over the simple desk. Dr Khan sighed and peered over the frames of his glasses. Then he lowered his voice and spoke wearily, like a man who has said the same thing many times.
"I might arrange something for the baby once it's born. But it must be born, my dear. Your daughter is slimly built. She's young, a child herself. To you she looks barely three months pregnant. Don't fool yourself, if the dates she's given us are correct, in three months she'll be full term. Anything now would be too, too messy."
"And if it's born," asked Mrs Narine falteringly, "if it's born, what does happen then?"
"No, Ma, I want it anyway, I want to keep it," said Ginnie quietly.
"Don't be a fool, child."
"It's my baby. Ma. I want to have it. I want to keep it."
"And who's to look after you, and pay for the baby? Even if that Kirjani does agrees to pay, who does you hope to marry?"
"I'll marry, don't worry."
"You'll marry! You does be a fool. Who will you marry?"
"Kirjani, Ma. I's going to marry Ravi Kirjani."
Doctor Khan gave a chuckle.
"So, your daughter is not such a fool as you think," he said. "I told you to marry her off. And the Kirjani boy's worth a try. What does she have to lose? She's too, too clever!"
So Ravi Kirjani was confronted with the pregnant Ginnie and reminded of that Sunday afternoon in the dry season when the canes were ready for harvesting. To the surprise of the Narines he did not argue at all. He offered at once to marry Ginnie. It may be that for him it was a welcome opportunity to escape a connubial arrangement for which he had little appetite. Though Sunita Moorpalani indisputably had background, nobody ever pretended that she had looks. Or possibly he foresaw awkward police questions that might have been difficult to answer once the fruit of his desire saw the light of day. Mrs Narine was staggered. Even Ginnie was surprised at how little resistance he put up.
"Perhaps," she thought with a wry smile, "he's not really so bad."
Whatever his reasons, you had to admit Ravi acted honourably. And so did the jilted Moorpalani family. If privately they felt their humiliation keenly, publicly they bore it with composure, and people were amazed that they remained on speaking terms with the man who had insulted one of their women and broken her heart.
Sunita's five brothers even invited Ravi to spend a day with them at their seaside villa in Mayaro. And as Ravi had been a friend of the family all his life he saw no reason to refuse.
The Moorpalani brothers chose a Tuesday for the outing - there was little point, they said, in going at the weekend when the working people littered the beach - and one of their LandRovers for the twenty mile drive from Rio Cristalino. They were in high spirits and joked with Ravi while their servants stowed cold chicken and salad beneath the rear bench seats and packed the iceboxes with beer and puncheon rum. Then they scanned the sky for clouds and congratulated themselves on choosing such a fine day. Suraj, the oldest brother, looked at his watch and his feet shifted uneasily as he said:
"It's time to hit the road."
His brothers gave a laugh and clambered on board. It was an odd, sardonic laugh.
The hardtop LandRover cruised through Rio Cristalino to the cross roads at the town centre. Already the market traders were pitching their roadside stalls and erecting great canvas umbrellas to shield them from sun or rain. The promise of commerce was in the air and the traders looked about expectantly as they loaded their stalls with fresh mangos or put the finishing touches to displays of giant melons whose fleshy pink innards glistened succulently under cellophane.
The LandRover turned east towards Mayaro and moments later was passing the cemetery on the edge of town. The road to the coast was busy with traffic in both directions still carrying produce to market, and the frequent bends and potholes made the journey slow. At last, on an uphill straight about six miles from Mayaro, the LandRover was able to pick up speed. Its ribbed tyres beat on the reflector studs like a drumroll and the early morning sun flashed through the coconut palms. Suddenly a terrible thing happened. The rear door of the LandRover swung open and Ravi Kirjani tumbled out, falling helplessly beneath the wheels of a heavily laden truck.
At the inquest the coroner acknowledged that the nature and extent of Ravi's injuries made it impossible to determine whether he was killed instantly by the fall or subsequently by the truck. But it was clear at least, he felt, that Ravi had been alive when he fell from the LandRover. The verdict was death due to misadventure.
Three days later Ravi's remains were cremated according to Hindu rights. As usual, a crush of people from all over Trinidad - distant relatives, old classmates, anyone claiming even the most tenuous connection with the dead man - came to mourn at the riverside pyre outside Mayaro. Some of them were convinced that they could see in Ravi's death the hands of the gods - and they pointed for evidence to the grey sky and the unseasonal rain. But the flames defied the rain and the stench of burning flesh filled the air. A few spoke darkly of murder. Did not the Moorpalanis have a compelling motive? And not by chance did they have the opportunity, and the means. But mostly they agreed that it was a tragic accident. It made little difference that it was a Moorpalani truck that had finished Ravi off. Moorpalani trucks were everywhere.
Then they watched as the ashes were thrown into the muddy Otoire River, soon to be lost in the warm waters of the Atlantic.
"Anyway," said one old mourner with a shrug, "who are we to ask questions? The police closed their files on the case before the boy was cold." And he shook the last of the rain from his umbrella and slapped impatiently at a mosquito.
You might have thought that the shock of Ravi's death would have induced in Ginnie a premature delivery. But quite the reverse. She attended the inquest and she mourned at the funeral. The expected date came and went. Six more weeks elapsed before Ginnie, by now thirteen, gave birth to a son at the public maternity hospital in San Fernando. When they saw the baby, the nurses glanced anxiously at each other. Then they took him away without letting Ginnie see him.
Eventually they returned with one of the doctors, a big Creole, who assumed his most unruffled bedside manner to reassure Ginnie that the baby was well.
"It's true he's a little pasty, my dear," he said as a nurse placed the baby in Ginnie's arms, "but, you see, that'll be the late delivery. And don't forget, you're very young . . . and you've both had a rough time. Wait a day . . . three days . . . his eyes'll turn, he'll soon have a healthy colour."
Ginnie looked into her son's blue eyes and kissed them, and in doing so a tremendous feeling of tiredness suddenly came over her. They were so very, very blue, so like Father Olivier's. She sighed at the irony of it all, the waste of it all. Was the Creole doctor really so stupid? Surely he knew as well as she did that the pallid looks could never go.
In her long white Sunday dress you might have taken Ginnie Narine for fourteen or fifteen. In fact she was twelve, a happy, uncomplicated child with a nature as open as the red hibiscus that decorated her black, waist-length hair. Generations earlier her family had come to Trinidad from India as overseers on the sugar plantations. Her father had had some success through buying and clearing land around Rio Cristalino and planting it with coffee.
On the dusty verge twenty yards ahead of Ginnie a car pulled up. She had noticed it cruise by once before but she did not recognize it and could not make out the driver through its dark windows, themselves as black as its gleaming paintwork. As she walked past it, the driver's glass started to open.
"Hello, Ginnie," she heard behind her.
She paused and turned. A slight colour rose beneath her dusky skin. Ravi Kirjani was tall and lean, and always well-dressed. His black eyes and large, white teeth flashed in the sunlight as he spoke. Everyone in Rio Cristalino knew Ravi. Ginnie often heard her unmarried sisters talk ruefully of him, of how, if only their father were alive and they still had land, one of them might marry him. And then they would squabble over who it might be and laugh at Ginnie because she was too simple for any man to want.
"How do you know my name, Ravi?" she asked with a thrill.
"How do you know mine?"
"Everyone knows your name. You're Mr Kirjani's son."
"Right. And where're you going Ginnie?"
She hesitated and looked down at the ground again.
"To chapel," she said with a faint smile.
"But Ginnie, good Hindus go to the temple." His rich, cultured voice was gently mocking as he added with a laugh: "Or maybe the temple pundits aren't your taste in colour."
She blushed more deeply at the reference to Father Olivier. She did not know how to reply. It was true that she liked the young French priest, with his funny accent and blue eyes, but she had been going to the Catholic chapel for months before he arrived. She loved its cheerful hymns, and its simple creed of one god - so different from those miserable Hindu gods who squabbled with each other like her sisters at home. But, added to that, the vulgarity of Ravi's remark bewildered her because his family were known for their breeding. People always said that Ravi would be a man of honour, like his father.
Ravi looked suddenly grave. His dark skin seemed even darker. It may be that he regretted his words. Possibly he saw the confusion in Ginnie's wide brown eyes. In any case, he did not wait for an answer.
"Can I offer you a lift to chapel - in my twenty-first birthday present?" he asked, putting his sunglasses back on. She noticed how thick their frames were. Real gold, she thought, like the big, fat watch on his wrist.
"It's a Mercedes, from Papa. Do you like it?" he added nonchalantly.
From the shade of her umbrella Ginnie peered up at a small lone cloud that hung motionless above them. The sun was beating down mercilessly and there was an urge in the air and an overpowering sense of growth. With a handkerchief she wiped the sweat from her forehead. Ravi gave a tug at his collar.
"It's air-conditioned, Ginnie. And you won't be late for chapel," he continued, reading her mind.
But chapel must have been the last thing on Ravi's mind when Ginnie, after a moment's hesitation, accepted his offer. For he drove her instead to a quiet sugar field outside town and there, with the Mercedes concealed among the sugar canes, he introduced himself into her. Ginnie was in a daze. Young as she was, she barely understood what was happening to her. The beat of calypso filled her ears and the sugar canes towered over her as the cold draught from the air-conditioner played against her knees. Afterwards, clutching the ragged flower that had been torn from her hair, she lay among the tall, sweet-smelling canes and sobbed until the brief tropical twilight turned to starry night.
But she told no-one, not even Father Olivier.
Two weeks later the little market town of Rio Cristalino was alive with gossip. Ravi Kirjani had been promised the hand of Sunita Moorpalani. Like the Kirjanis, the Moorpalanis were an established Indian family, one of the wealthiest in the Caribbean. But while the Kirjanis were diplomats, the Moorpalanis were a commercial family. They had made their fortune in retailing long before the collapse in oil prices had emptied their customers' pockets; and now Moorpalani stores were scattered throughout Trinidad and some of the other islands. Prudently, they had diversified into banking and insurance, and as a result their influence was felt at the highest level. It was a benevolent influence, of course, never abused, for people always said the Moorpalanis were a respectable family, and well above reproach. They had houses in Port-of-Spain, Tobago and Barbados, as well as in England and India, but their main residence was a magnificent, sprawling, colonial-style mansion just to the north of Rio Cristalino. The arranged marriage would be the social event of the following year.
When Ginnie heard of Ravi's engagement the loathing she had conceived for him grew into a sort of numb hatred. She was soon haunted by a longing to repay that heartless, arrogant brute. She would give anything to humiliate him, to see that leering, conceited grin wiped from his face. But outwardly she was unmoved. On weekdays she went to school and on Sundays she went still to Father Olivier's afternoon service.
"Girl, you sure does have a lot to confess to that whitie," her mother would say to her each time she came home late from chapel.
"He's not a whitie, he's a man of God."
"That's as may be, child, but don't forget he does be a man first."
The months passed and she did not see Ravi again.
And then it rained. All through August the rain hardly stopped. It rattled persistently on the galvanized roofs until you thought you would go mad with the noise. And if it stopped the air was as sticky as treacle and you prayed for it to rain again.
Then one day in October, towards the end of the wet season, when Ginnie's family were celebrating her only brother's eighteenth birthday, something happened that she had been dreading for weeks. She was lying in the hammock on the balcony, playing with her six-year old nephew Pinni.
Suddenly, Pinni cried out: "Ginnie, why are you so fat?"
Throughout the little frame house all celebration stopped. On the balcony curious eyes were turned upon Ginnie. And you could see what the boy meant.
"Gods have mercy on you, Virginia! Watch the shape of your belly," cried Mrs Narine, exploding with indignation and pulling her daughter indoors, away from the prying neighbours' ears. Her voice was loud and hard and there was a blackness in her eyes like the blackness of the skies before thunder. How could she have been so blind? She cursed herself for it and harsh questions burst from her lips.
"How does you bring such shame upon us, girl? What worthless layabouts does you throw yourself upon? What man'll have you now? No decent man, that does be sure. And why does you blacken your father's name like this, at your age? The man as didn't even live to see you born. Thank the gods he didn't have to know of this. You sure got some explaining to your precious man of God, child."
At last her words were exhausted and she sat down heavily, her weak heart pounding dangerously and her chest heaving from the exertion of her outburst.
Then Ginnie told her mother of the afternoon that Ravi Kirjani had raped her. There was a long silence after that and all you could hear was Mrs Narine wheezing. When at last she spoke, her words were heavy and disjointed.
"If anybody have to get damnation that Kirjani boy'll get it," she said.
Ginnie's sisters were awestruck.
"Shall we take her over to the health centre, Ma?" asked Indra. "The midwife comes today."
"Is you crazy, girl? You all does know how that woman does run she mouth like a duck's bottom. You all leave this to me."
That night Mrs Narine took her young daughter to see Doctor Khan, an old friend of her husband whose discretion she could count on.
There was no doubt about it. The child was pregnant.
"And what can us do, Dr Khan?" asked Mrs Narine.
"Marry her off, quick as you can," the lean old doctor replied bluntly.
Mrs Narine scoffed.
"Who would take her now, Doctor? I does beg you. There's nothing? Nothing you can do for us?"
A welcome breeze came through the slats of the surgery windows. Outside you could hear the shrill, persistent sound of cicadas, while mosquitoes crowded at the screens, attracted by the bare bulb over the simple desk. Dr Khan sighed and peered over the frames of his glasses. Then he lowered his voice and spoke wearily, like a man who has said the same thing many times.
"I might arrange something for the baby once it's born. But it must be born, my dear. Your daughter is slimly built. She's young, a child herself. To you she looks barely three months pregnant. Don't fool yourself, if the dates she's given us are correct, in three months she'll be full term. Anything now would be too, too messy."
"And if it's born," asked Mrs Narine falteringly, "if it's born, what does happen then?"
"No, Ma, I want it anyway, I want to keep it," said Ginnie quietly.
"Don't be a fool, child."
"It's my baby. Ma. I want to have it. I want to keep it."
"And who's to look after you, and pay for the baby? Even if that Kirjani does agrees to pay, who does you hope to marry?"
"I'll marry, don't worry."
"You'll marry! You does be a fool. Who will you marry?"
"Kirjani, Ma. I's going to marry Ravi Kirjani."
Doctor Khan gave a chuckle.
"So, your daughter is not such a fool as you think," he said. "I told you to marry her off. And the Kirjani boy's worth a try. What does she have to lose? She's too, too clever!"
So Ravi Kirjani was confronted with the pregnant Ginnie and reminded of that Sunday afternoon in the dry season when the canes were ready for harvesting. To the surprise of the Narines he did not argue at all. He offered at once to marry Ginnie. It may be that for him it was a welcome opportunity to escape a connubial arrangement for which he had little appetite. Though Sunita Moorpalani indisputably had background, nobody ever pretended that she had looks. Or possibly he foresaw awkward police questions that might have been difficult to answer once the fruit of his desire saw the light of day. Mrs Narine was staggered. Even Ginnie was surprised at how little resistance he put up.
"Perhaps," she thought with a wry smile, "he's not really so bad."
Whatever his reasons, you had to admit Ravi acted honourably. And so did the jilted Moorpalani family. If privately they felt their humiliation keenly, publicly they bore it with composure, and people were amazed that they remained on speaking terms with the man who had insulted one of their women and broken her heart.
Sunita's five brothers even invited Ravi to spend a day with them at their seaside villa in Mayaro. And as Ravi had been a friend of the family all his life he saw no reason to refuse.
The Moorpalani brothers chose a Tuesday for the outing - there was little point, they said, in going at the weekend when the working people littered the beach - and one of their LandRovers for the twenty mile drive from Rio Cristalino. They were in high spirits and joked with Ravi while their servants stowed cold chicken and salad beneath the rear bench seats and packed the iceboxes with beer and puncheon rum. Then they scanned the sky for clouds and congratulated themselves on choosing such a fine day. Suraj, the oldest brother, looked at his watch and his feet shifted uneasily as he said:
"It's time to hit the road."
His brothers gave a laugh and clambered on board. It was an odd, sardonic laugh.
The hardtop LandRover cruised through Rio Cristalino to the cross roads at the town centre. Already the market traders were pitching their roadside stalls and erecting great canvas umbrellas to shield them from sun or rain. The promise of commerce was in the air and the traders looked about expectantly as they loaded their stalls with fresh mangos or put the finishing touches to displays of giant melons whose fleshy pink innards glistened succulently under cellophane.
The LandRover turned east towards Mayaro and moments later was passing the cemetery on the edge of town. The road to the coast was busy with traffic in both directions still carrying produce to market, and the frequent bends and potholes made the journey slow. At last, on an uphill straight about six miles from Mayaro, the LandRover was able to pick up speed. Its ribbed tyres beat on the reflector studs like a drumroll and the early morning sun flashed through the coconut palms. Suddenly a terrible thing happened. The rear door of the LandRover swung open and Ravi Kirjani tumbled out, falling helplessly beneath the wheels of a heavily laden truck.
At the inquest the coroner acknowledged that the nature and extent of Ravi's injuries made it impossible to determine whether he was killed instantly by the fall or subsequently by the truck. But it was clear at least, he felt, that Ravi had been alive when he fell from the LandRover. The verdict was death due to misadventure.
Three days later Ravi's remains were cremated according to Hindu rights. As usual, a crush of people from all over Trinidad - distant relatives, old classmates, anyone claiming even the most tenuous connection with the dead man - came to mourn at the riverside pyre outside Mayaro. Some of them were convinced that they could see in Ravi's death the hands of the gods - and they pointed for evidence to the grey sky and the unseasonal rain. But the flames defied the rain and the stench of burning flesh filled the air. A few spoke darkly of murder. Did not the Moorpalanis have a compelling motive? And not by chance did they have the opportunity, and the means. But mostly they agreed that it was a tragic accident. It made little difference that it was a Moorpalani truck that had finished Ravi off. Moorpalani trucks were everywhere.
Then they watched as the ashes were thrown into the muddy Otoire River, soon to be lost in the warm waters of the Atlantic.
"Anyway," said one old mourner with a shrug, "who are we to ask questions? The police closed their files on the case before the boy was cold." And he shook the last of the rain from his umbrella and slapped impatiently at a mosquito.
You might have thought that the shock of Ravi's death would have induced in Ginnie a premature delivery. But quite the reverse. She attended the inquest and she mourned at the funeral. The expected date came and went. Six more weeks elapsed before Ginnie, by now thirteen, gave birth to a son at the public maternity hospital in San Fernando. When they saw the baby, the nurses glanced anxiously at each other. Then they took him away without letting Ginnie see him.
Eventually they returned with one of the doctors, a big Creole, who assumed his most unruffled bedside manner to reassure Ginnie that the baby was well.
"It's true he's a little pasty, my dear," he said as a nurse placed the baby in Ginnie's arms, "but, you see, that'll be the late delivery. And don't forget, you're very young . . . and you've both had a rough time. Wait a day . . . three days . . . his eyes'll turn, he'll soon have a healthy colour."
Ginnie looked into her son's blue eyes and kissed them, and in doing so a tremendous feeling of tiredness suddenly came over her. They were so very, very blue, so like Father Olivier's. She sighed at the irony of it all, the waste of it all. Was the Creole doctor really so stupid? Surely he knew as well as she did that the pallid looks could never go.
گاندول
25-07-2009, 14:44
The discovery of a body in the Paris Metro early one morning was not particularly unusual. That it was headless sent a frisson through the sixth arrondissement, but the incident went unnoticed outside Paris.
Yet there was clearly something strange about the case. It was hardly as though the body had been decapitated to frustrate identification, for it was fully clothed and none of the owner's personal effects had been removed, save of course for his head. The Paris police soon tied up the contents of the dead man's wallet with forensic evidence from the body. Added to that, Madame Charente, the dead man's wife, could positively identify the body in the most intimate ways. (She had already reported her husband as missing.)
A few men were despatched to poke around in the warm, dark tunnels on either side of Odéon station, where the body had been found. Above ground another search was made, equally fruitlessly, and to Inspector Dutruelle it looked as though the case would linger on unsolved.
Two weeks later, four kilometres away in the west, a headless body was found at Courcelles station, again in the tunnel not far from the platform. As in the earlier case, the cause of death was apparently the severing of the head, which appeared to have been done with some precision. Again, the body was fully clothed and easily identified, and nothing but the head had apparently been removed.
"What can I tell these blessed reporters?" Inspector Dutruelle said as he handed his wife the two sticks of bread he usually bought on the way home. "They want answers for everything. And it's not just the papers now, the politicians are getting worried too. I'm reporting to the Préfet on this one."
"If there were instant answers for everything, mon petit chou, they'd have no need of you," said Madame Dutruelle. "And where would they be without you? Who cleared up that terrible Clichy case last year, and the acid bath at Reuilly Diderot?"
The little inspecteur divisionnaire-chef pulled in his stomach, puffed out his chest and rose to his full height. A smile spread across his round face. In his smart dark suit and gold-rimmed glasses you could have taken him for a provincial bank manager rather than one of Paris's most successful policemen.
"Just think," he said wryly, "they were actually about to close the file on Dr Gomes before I took charge of the investigation."
"They're fools, all of them."
"All the same, my dear, I don't know where to go on this one. There're no leads. There's no apparent motive. And it's a bizarre pattern. Assuming, of course, it is a pattern. We can't be sure of that until there's been another."
Inspector Dutruelle did not have long to wait for his pattern to emerge. A telephone call at half past five the next morning dragged him from his bed.
"It's another one, sir," said the voice at the other end.
"Another what?"
"It's identical. Another headless corpse, just like the others - male, middle-aged, white."
"Where?" asked Inspector Dutruelle fumbling for a cigarette.
"Château Rouge."
"In the Metro?"
"Yes sir, just inside the tunnel. In the anti-suicide well between the tracks."
"Close the line - if you haven't already. I'll be with you soon. And don't move it, d'you hear?"
Inspector Dutruelle replaced the receiver with a sigh as his wife padded into the room.
"I hate these early morning cases," he muttered. He lit his cigarette.
"Have a coffee before you go. Another dead body will keep."
"But we've closed the line. And it's the other side of town, my dear. North Paris."
"All the same."
He sat down heavily and watched his wife sullenly as she made the coffee. Madame Dutruelle was a simple woman of forty-six whose long, thin-lipped face was framed by stern grey hair. Her strong, practical hands were country hands, and she had never got used to city life. She lived for the day when she and her husband would retire to their home village in Les Pyrenées. Inspector Dutruelle sighed to himself again. Poor Agnes. She tried so hard to please him. How could she know that he longed to be free of her? How could she possibly know of Vololona, the young Malagasy he had met while on the Clichy case? For him it had been love at first sight.
"And for me too, my darling," Vololona had been quick to agree, her large brown eyes welling with tears as they gazed at him through the smoke of the Chatte et Lapin where she worked, "a veritable coup de foudre." She spoke French well, with a Malagasy accent and huskiness that left you with a sense of mystery and promise. Inspector Dutruelle was a happy man; but he was careful to tell no-one except Monsieur Chébaut, his closest friend, about the source of his happiness.
"I've never felt like this before, Pierre. I'm captivated by her," he said one evening when he took Monsieur Chébaut to see Vololona dancing.
It was a rare experience, even for the jaded Monsieur Chébaut. In the frantic coloured spotlights of the Chatte et Lapin Vololona danced solo and in her vitality you sensed the wildness of Madagascar. Her black limbs lashed the air to the music, which was raw and sensual.
"You know, Pierre, in thirty years of marriage I was never unfaithful. Well, you know that already. There was always my work, and the children, and I was happy enough at home. It never occured to me to look at another woman. But something happened when I met Vololona. She showed me how to live. She showed me what real ecstasy is. Look at her, Pierre. Isn't she the most exquisite thing you ever saw? And she adores me. She's crazy about me. But why, I ask you? What can she see in me - three times her age, pot-bellied, bald . . . married?"
Inspector Dutruelle leaned back in his chair and swung around to look at the other customers applauding Vololona from the shadows. He smiled proudly to himself. He knew exactly what was on their minds. Life was strange, he thought, and you could never tell. Some of them were young men, tall and handsome and virile, yet none of them knew Vololona as he knew her.
Monsieur Chébaut finished his whisky.
"I can see," he said, "that a man in your position might have certain attractions for an immigrant without papers working in one of the more dangerous quarters of Paris." Monsieur Chébaut was a lawyer.
"You're a cynic, Pierre."
"And after thirty years in the force you're not?"
"Personally, I believe her when she says she loves me. I just don't know why. Another whisky?"
"Well, one thing's for sure, Régis, it can't go on like that. One way or another things'll come to a head. But I must agree, she's exquisite all right. Like an exquisite Venus fly-trap. And at the germane moment, you know, those soft, succulent petals will close around you like a vice."
The normally placid Inspector was piqued by his friend's unreasonable attitude.
"How can you say that?" he snapped. "When you haven't even spoken to her."
"But all women are the same, Régis. Don't you know that? You should be a lawyer, then you'd know it. They can't help it, they're built that way. Believe me, it can't go on without something happening."
Inspector Dutruelle glowered at his old schoolfriend and said nothing. Monsieur Chébaut could see he had touched a raw nerve. He grinned amicably and leaned across to slap his friend playfully on the shoulder.
"Look Régis, all I'm saying is, be careful, you haven't got my experience."
Of course, that was true. When it came to women few men had Monsieur Chébaut's experience. Or his luck, for that matter. He was one of those people who go through life insulated from difficulties. He crossed roads without looking. He did not hurry for trains. He never reconciled bank accounts. Tall, slim, with boyish good looks and thick, black, wavy hair, he was the antithesis of Inspector Dutruelle.
"Look, you've got two women involved, Régis," Monsieur Chébaut continued, "and women aren't like us. Agnes isn't stupid. She must know something's going on."
"She hasn't said anything," said the Inspector brusquely. He lit another Gauloise.
"Of course she hasn't. She's cleverer than you are. She intends to keep you."
"Mind you," said Inspector Dutruelle grudgingly, "she has had some odd dreams recently - so she says. About me and another woman. But anyway, she just laughs and says she can't believe it."
"But Régis, you must know that what we say and what we think are seldom the same."
"Sometimes I wonder if I ought to tell her something, if only out of decency."
Monsieur Chébaut nearly choked on the fresh whisky he had just put to his lips.
"No," he cried with a passion that surprised the Inspector, "never, you must never tell her. Écoute Régis, even if she did mention it, you must deny everything. Even if she caught the two of you in the act, you must deny it. You can only tell a woman there's another when you've definitively made up your mind to leave her, and even then it may not be safe."
"So much for logic."
"It's no use looking for logic in women, Régis. I told you, they're not like men. In fact, I've come to the conclusion that they're not even the same species as men. Men and women aren't like dog and bitch, they're more like dog and cat. C'est bizarre, non? In any case, I do know you can't keep two women on the go without something happening. I don't know what, but something."
Now the European press had picked the story up and the little Inspector did not know how to deal with the international reporters who hung around like flies outside the old stone walls of the Préfecture de police. Their stories focussed on the bizarre nature of the killings, and the idea that there were three severed heads somewhere in Paris particularly excited them. They wanted constantly to know more. So of course did Inspector Dutruelle.
"I assure you, gentlemen," he told a press conference, "we are at least as anxious as you to recover the missing parts. We are doing everything possible. You can tell your readers that wherever they are, we'll find them."
"Can we have photographs of the victims for our readers?" asked one of the foreign reporters.
"So as we know which heads we're looking for," added a journalist from London.
It was a joke that was not shared by the people of Paris. Suddenly the normally carnival atmosphere of the Metro had evaporated. Buskers no longer worked the coaches between stations. Puppeteers and jugglers no longer entertained passengers with impromptu performances. Even the beggars, who habitually hung around the crowded stations or made impassioned speeches in the carriages, had gone. And the few passengers who remained sat more long-faced than ever, or walked more hastily down the long corridors between platforms.
Inspector Dutruelle despaired of ever clearing the case up. His mind, already excited over Vololona, was now in a turmoil. Vololona had suddenly, and tearfully, announced that she was pregnant. Then, having accepted his financial assistance to terminate the pregnancy - but refusing his offer to take her to the clinic - she told him one day on the telephone: "I thought you were going to ask me to marry you." Inspector Dutruelle was stunned.
"But you know I'm married, ma chérie," he said.
"I thought you'd leave Agnes," she replied. "I wanted to be with you. I wanted to share everything with you . . . my child . . . my life . . . my bed." Inspector Dutruelle could hear her sobbing.
"But darling, we can still see each other."
"No, it's too painful. I love you too much."
Inspector Dutruelle could not concentrate on his work at all. Day and night his thoughts were on Vololona; he longed to be with her. If only Agnes would leave him. And if only Vololona would be satisfied with what he gave her already - the dinners, the presents, the apartment. Why did women have to possess you? It seemed that the more you gave them the more they took, until there was nothing left to give but yourself. Perhaps Pierre was right after all, when you thought about it.
The investigation into the Metro murders was proceeding dismally. Inspector Dutruelle had no suspect, no leads, no motive. His superiors complained about his lack of progress and the press ridiculed him without pity. "It appears," commented France-Soir, "that the only thing Inspector Dutruelle can tell us with certainty is that with each fresh atrocity the Metro station name grows longer." The detectives under him could not understand what had happened to their normally astute Inspector, and they felt leaderless and demoralised. It was left to the security police of the Metro to point out one rather obvious fact: that the three stations where bodies had been found had one thing in common - their lines intersected at Metro Barbes Rochechouart, and it seemed that something might be learned by taking the Metro between them.
Inspector Dutruelle did not like public transport, and he especially did not like the Metro. It was cramped, smelly and claustrophobic at the best of times, and in the summer it was hot. You stood on the very edge of the platform just to feel the breeze as the blue and white trains pulled into the station. It was years since the Inspector had used the Metro.
"I can't take much more of this, Marc" he said to the young Detective Constable who was travelling with him, "it's too hot. We'll get off at the next stop."
"That's Barbes Rochechouart, sir. We can change there."
"No, Marc. We can get out there. Someone else can take a sauna, I've had enough. Anyway, we need to have a look around." Inspector Dutruelle wiped his brow. He sounded irritable. "God knows what it's like normally," he added.
When the train pulled in they took the exit for Boulevard de Rochechouart.
"At least we can get through now," said the Detective Constable as they walked up the passage towards the escalator.
"How d'you mean?" asked Inspector Dutruelle.
"Well, normally this station's packed - beggars, passengers, buskers, hawkers, plus all their tables and stalls. It's like a damn great fair and market rolled into one. You can get anything here, from Eiffel Towers to cabbages and potatoes - not to mention a spot of cannabis or heroin."
"Oh, yes," said Inspector Dutruelle, vaguely. "I remember." He passed a handkerchief across his brow again.
At the turnstyles a man was handing out publicity cards and he thrust one into Inspector Dutruelle's hand. Glancing down at it and squinting in the bright sunlight, the Inspector read aloud: "'Professor Dhiakobli, Grand Médium Voyant can help you succeed rapidly in all areas of life . . .'"
He broke off in mid-sentence with a snort.
"What a lot of mumbo-jumbo! Headless chickens and voodoo magic."
"It may be mumbo-jumbo to you, sir," said the Detective Constable with a laugh, "but round here they take that sort of thing seriously. And not only round here - after all, we use some of these techniques in the police, don't we?"
"Oh really? Such as?"
"Well, graphology for a start - you can hardly call basing a murder case on the size of someone's handwriting scientific, can you sir? Or what about astrology - employing people on the basis of the stars? Or numerology."
"Yes, Marc," said Inspector Dutruelle, pushing the card into his top pocket, "maybe you're right, and maybe when you're older you won't be so sure. Now get on the blower and call the car."
The hot July turned to hotter and more humid August. No more bodies were found in the sweltering tunnels of the Metro, and the media, bored with the lack of developments, left Inspector Dutruelle to his original obscurity. Paris, deserted by its citizens in the yearly exodus to the coast, was tolerable only to the tourists with backpacks who flocked to the cheap hotels and began again to crowd the Metro. Then, in September, the Parisiens came back and life returned to normal.
But Inspector Dutruelle's passion for Vololona did not cool with the season. Vololona had at last agreed to see him, occasionally; but she always managed (with tears in her eyes) to deflect his more amorous advances. For Inspector Dutruelle it was beneath him to observe that he continued to pay the rent on her apartment, but he was growing increasingly frustrated. The notion that she had another lover obsessed him, and in the evenings he took to prowling the broad Boulevard de Clichy between her apartment and the Chatte et Lapin. Sometimes he would stand for hours watching her door, as locals strolled past with their dogs or sat on the benches under the plane trees. Now, denied the one thing here he wanted, the scene filled him with dismay. Money and music were in the air. Lovers sipped coffee in the open and watched the whores in their doorways. Pigeons fluttered as girls in tight mini-skirts hurried to work. Tourists with their Deutschmarks arrived by the busload and the touts in dark glasses worked hard to coax them into the expensive --- shows and neon-lit video clubs. Somewhere deep below ran the Metro; but Inspector Dutruelle had no more interest in that. His superiors had given up hope of solving the Metro murders and had moved him on to other things. Sometimes he would stay all night, leaving to the tinkle of broken glass as workmen swept up after the night's revelries. Occasionally he would see Vololona leave her apartment to buy cigarettes, but he never once saw her on the arm of another man, or saw a male visitor take the lift to the seventh floor.
One night, late in October, he returned from the Boulevard de Clichy just after midnight. Madame Dutruelle, having been told that her husband was working on a case, and perhaps believing it, was already asleep. Had she been awake she would surely have been surprised to see him throw his jacket over a chair, for Inspector Dutruelle had always been meticulous with his clothes, the sort of man who irons his shoelaces. But the jacket missed and dropped to the floor. Muttering to himself, the Inspector bent and picked it up, and as he did so something fell from the top pocket. He gazed at it blankly for a moment. Then he realised it was the card he had been given at the metro station, a little the worse for having been once or twice to the cleaners, but still legible. He picked it up and slowly started to read:
PROFESSOR DHIAKOBLI
Grand Médium Voyant can help you succeed rapidly in all areas of life: luck, love, marriage, attraction of clients, examinations, sexual potency. If you desire to make another love you or if your loved one has left with another, this is his domain, you will be loved and your partner will return. Prof. Dhiakobli will come behind you like a dog. He will create between you a perfect rapport on the basis of love. All problems resolved, even desperate cases. Every day from 9am to 9pm. Payment after results.
13b, rue Beldamme, 75018 Paris
staircase B, 6th floor, door on left
Metro: Barbes Rochechouart
Inspector Dutruelle stood in his socks and braces reading the card over and over again. "All problems resolved . . ." It was preposterous. And yet, it was tempting. What harm could there be in a little hocus pocus when everything else had failed? After all, everyone knew that even the police used clairvoyants when they were really up against it.
Rue Beldamme was a backstreet of tenement buildings in Paris's eighteenth arrondissement, an area popular with immigrants from francophone Africa. It lay close to the busy crossroads straddled by Metro Barbes Rochechouart. Inspector Dutruelle parked in the next street and walked the rest of the way, cursing because he had not brought his umbrella. The door to number 13b was swinging in the wind, its dark paint peeling badly. He stepped through into a narrow courtyard and found his way to the sixth-floor door on which a brass plaque read: "Professor Dhiakobli Spécialiste des travaux occultes Please ring". He stood there, breathing heavily from the stairs, and before he could press the bell the door opened and a man appeared.
"Please enter, my dear sir," said the man with an elegant wave of the hand and exaggerated courtesy. "I am Dhiakobli. And I have the honour to meet . . . ?"
As Inspector Dutruelle had imagined, Professor Dhiakobli was black. He had a short yet commanding figure, and was dressed in a well tailored grey suit. A large, silk handkerchief fell from his top pocket.
"For the moment," said Inspector Dutruelle, "my name is hardly important. I've only come in response to your advertisement."
"Monsieur has perhaps some small problem with which I can help? A minor indiscretion? Please be seated, sir, and let us talk about the matter."
Inspector Dutruelle handed his coat and gloves to the Professor and sat in the large, well upholstered chair to which he had been directed. Professor Dhiakobli himself settled behind a large mahogany desk, on top of which a chihuahua hardly bigger than a mouse was lounging, its wide, moist eyes gazing disdainfully at the newcomer.
"Ah, I see that Zeus approves of you," said the Professor, stroking the tiny dog with the tips of his manicured fingers, his own unblinking eyes also fixed on Inspector Dutruelle. "Poor Zeus, mon petit papillon, he is devoted to me, but he must remain here whenever I leave France. And you are fortunate, monsieur. It is only now that I return from Côte d'Ivoire. It is my country you know, I return there for a few months each summer. Paris in summer is so disagreeable, don't you agree?"
Professor Dhiakobli glittered with success. The frames of his glasses, the heavy bracelet on his right wrist and the watch on his left, the gem-studded rings on his fingers - all were of gold. From his manner and cultured French accent it was evident that he was an educated man. Around him the large room was like a shrine. Heavy curtains excluded the daylight (the only illumination was a small brass desklamp) and the dark, red walls were festooned with spears, costumes, photographs and other African memorabilia. There was a sweet smell in the air, and in one corner of the room the feathers of a ceremonial African headgear lay draped inappropriately over an enormous American refrigerator. You could not help being struck by the incongruity of this bizarre scene in the roughest quarter of Paris.
"As I say," began Inspector Dutruelle, ignoring the Professor's question, "I saw your card and I wondered just how you work."
"And may one enquire as to monsieur's little difficulty?"
Inspector Dutruelle cleared his throat and tried to adopt as nonchalant an air as he could.
"Well," - he coughed again - "first of all, I wondered what sort of things you can help people with."
The Professor's eyebrows rose.
"Anything," he said slowly, his smile revealing a set of large white teeth that shone brilliantly in the dimness against his black skin. "My dear sir, anything at all."
"And then, I wondered, how do you operate? That's to say, what exactly do you do . . . and how do you charge?"
"Ah monsieur, let us not talk of money. First I must learn just how I can help you. And for that a consultation is in order."
Inspector Dutruelle shifted in his seat.
"And what would a consultation involve? What does it . . . cost?"
Professor Dhiakobli wrung his hands and shrugged amicably.
"Mon cher monsieur, I do understand how distasteful it is to you to discuss so vulgar a matter as money. I too recoil at the mere thought of it. It has been my mission in life to help those who have suffered misfortune. And if some donate a small token of their gratitude, who am I to refuse their offering? They pay according to their means, to assist those who have little to offer. But for a preliminary consultation, monsieur, a nominal sum, as a mark of good faith, is usually in order. For a gentleman of your obvious standing, a trifle, a mere two hundred francs. And let me assure you, monsieur, of my absolute discretion. Nothing you may choose to tell me will go beyond these walls." He paused. Then he threw out his hands and added with a grin: "They have the sanctity of the confessional."
"I'm glad to hear it," said the Inspector.
"But monsieur still has the advantage of me . . ." continued Professor Dhiakobli.
Inspector Dutruelle decided that he had nothing to lose by talking. He adopted the name of Monsieur Mazodier, a Parisien wine merchant, and began to tell the Professor of the dilemma that was tearing at his soul. He told him of the young Malagasy girl he had met while entertaining clients; of their instant and passionate love for one another; of her sudden irrational refusal any longer to give herself to him; and of the wife he now knew he should never have married but whom he had not the heart to leave. Monsieur Mazodier was at his wits' end and now even his business was suffering. He feared that if he did not find a resolution to his problem he might do something that he or others would regret. The Professor listened intently, asking appropriate questions at appropriate moments. Finally Inspector Dutruelle said: "Well, Professor Dhiakobli, I think that's all I can tell you. I don't think I can tell you any more. From what I have told you, do you believe you can help me?"
For a long time there was silence. The Professor appeared to be in another world. He stared at Inspector Dutruelle, but seemed to be looking through him.
"My dear Monsieur Mazodier," he said at last, very slowly, almost mechanically, "the story you have told me is most poignant. Each of us has a hidden corner in his life, a jardin secret. Yet it is rare indeed for men to come to me with problems such as yours. Perhaps it is natural that most of my lovelorn clients should be women. At the mercy of their complex physical structure, is it any wonder that women are such emotional creatures? I help them find their lost ones, their partners of many years, to recreate again the rapport of their youth. You will understand that it is not easy. But this is my work. My domain."
"So you can't help me?" said Inspector Dutruelle, adding despondently: "Perhaps what I really need is a head-shrink."
The Professor gave a start. Again, for a long time he did not answer. Then his teeth flashed in the dimness.
"Écoutez monsieur, this is my work, my domain," he repeated. "Certainly I can help you. But you must understand that it will not be easy. It calls for a special ceremony. In the first place, you are married, and I shall be required to work my influence on not one but two women. In the second, we are both men of the world, monsieur, and you will not be offended if I remark upon the extreme disparity in your ages. And finally, it is clear to me that this young girl has chained your heart with her magic. You know, the magic of Madagascar is very strong. No, monsieur, it will not be easy. Enduring love cannot be bought with money alone. Sometimes . . ." He hesitated and looked Inspector Dutruelle straight in the eye, his own eyes suddenly cold and vacant. "Sometimes," he said, "we must make sacrifices."
"What sort of sacrifices?" asked Inspector Dutruelle dully.
"Oh, my dear sir, you must leave that to me. But one cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs." His cold eyes remained fixed on the Inspector and he spoke in a monotone without pausing for breath. "You must not concern yourself with technicalities, monsieur. Your mind must be fixed on the future, on the life you have dreamed of. You must envisage your wife - happy in the arms of another. You must picture the fragile young child you so yearn for . . . secure in your arms . . . sharing your life . . . your days . . . your nights. The perfect solution to all your problems. Is it not worth a considerable sum?"
"It certainly would be worth a lot . . ." Inspector Dutruelle muttered as the Professor's words came to life in his mind.
"Shall we say thirty thousand francs?"
"I'm sorry?" muttered the Inspector.
"Let's say fifteen thousand before and fifteen afterwards," the Professor went on as though his visitor had not spoken. "Do you see, monsieur, how confident I am of success?"
Inspector Dutruelle did not reply. He was confused. He had not expected the Professor to be so blunt, or to propose quite so generous a token. But it did not seem to matter. After all, what was thirty thousand francs to achieve what he craved so desperately? And, in any case, at worst it was only fifteen thousand.
The Professor's eyes were still fixed on Inspector Dutruelle.
"Of course, monsieur, I have faith in your gratitude. I know that you will not forget, in your delight, that what I have done, I can undo. And now, monsieur, you must not allow me to detain you further. We have much work to do. In eight days you will return with photographs and details of Madame Mazodier and the Malagasy. And with some little articles of clothing, something close to their thoughts, say a scarf or a hat. You can arrange this?"
Inspector Dutruelle nodded blankly.
"Excellent, monsieur. I must know them in every detail - if I am to have a spiritual tête-à-tête with each of them. So, in fifteen days, you will return for the ceremony. It will take place beyond those curtains, in the space reserved for the ancestral spirits. Nobody but I and my assistants may enter there, but nevertheless it is imperative that you be present on the day. It must be at dawn, and you must come without fail - the ceremony cannot be deferred. Can you manage six in the morning, shall we say Monday the sixteenth?"
Inspector Dutruelle did not sleep well on the night of the fifteenth of December. At four o'clock in the morning he got out of bed. Though his wife stirred she did not wake. He showered and dressed. His nerves were on edge as he fiddled around in the kitchen, boiling water for his coffee. He drank two cups, strong and black, but he looked helplessly at the croissants he had spread clumsily with jam. He lit a Gauloise and paced the room. Then he pulled the windows open and leaned on the railing, finishing his cigarette. Below him the courtyard was dark and silent, and above him the sky was black. But away in the east, through the open end of the court, a violet hue was creeping over Paris. He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past five and time to fetch the car. It would seem strange, leaving at that time of the morning without an official car and driver. He wondered what the concierge would make of it all - she was bound to be polishing the brasses by the time he reached the ground floor. He gave a shiver and pushed the windows shut.
Then he put the keys of the Renault in his coat pocket and checked that he had everything. He looked into the bedroom. Gently, he drew the duvet back and looked at his wife as she slept, her arms clasped about her knees. He leaned over and touched his lips to her cheek. Then he closed the bedroom door silently behind him, switched the lights off in the living room and kitchen, and opened the front door. As he did so the telephone rang. It startled him and he cursed aloud. He closed the front door again and hurried to answer the phone so that his wife should not wake.
"Inspector Dutruelle?" said the voice at the other end.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Sorry to disturb you at this time of the morning, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. It's the Préfecture."
"Never mind the time," said Inspector Dutruelle with as much irritation as his whispering voice could convey. "I'm off duty today."
"Well, that's the point, Inspector. The Préfet's ordered us to call you specially. He appreciates you're not on duty, but he wants you anyway."
"It's quite impossible."
"I'm afraid he insists, sir."
"Why?"
"He insists you come on duty immediately, sir. We're sending a car round for you."
"Yes, yes, I understand, but why?"
"It's the Metro again, sir."
"The Metro?"
"Yes, sir. They've found another corpse on the line, decapitated again."
Inspector Dutruelle did not reply. He was cursing to himself. He was cursing the Préfet, the police, this homicidal maniac, his wife. Why today? Why ever today?
"Sir? Hello sir? The car'll be with you in five minutes."
"Yes, all right. I'll be ready in five minutes."
The big black Citroen was soon speeding away from Rue Dauphine and heading north across Pont Neuf. Inspector Dutruelle looked at the winter mists rising from the Seine. His dreams, it seemed, were evaporating just as surely.
"You'd better brief me on this as quick as you can," he said wearily to the Detective Sergeant he had found waiting for him in the car. "Where was the body found?"
"Barbes Rochechouart, sir."
A cold shiver passed through the Inspector.
"I presume it's the same as the others?" he asked.
"Well, in as much as there's nothing to go on, it's the same, sir. Otherwise it couldn't be more different. For a start, we've just heard they've found two of them now. And this time they're women. One white, in her forties, and one black. A young black girl - still in her teens, by the look of things."
But Inspector Dutruelle was not listening. He was staring blankly through the glass to his right, and as they turned at Place du Châtelet the empty streets were no more than a cold, grey blur to him. The car swung onto the broad Boulevard de Sébastopol and accelerated northwards to cover the three kilometres to Metro Barbes Rochechouart. It was the route he should have been taking in his own car.
Outside the station, now closed to passengers, people were standing around under the street lights with their collars up. Inspector Dutruelle got out of the car. He hesitated. He glanced towards Rue Beldamme (just a stone's throw away across the bleak Boulevard de Rochechouart) where the Professor would be waiting for him. He shrugged and went down the station steps.
Underground, on the number four line, there was an air of gloom. Both bodies lay where they had been spotted by the first train-drivers through that morning. Inspector Dutruelle looked impassively at the first one. It was the body of a middle-aged woman, quite unexceptional, coarse and wiry, like his wife.
"She's forty-seven, Monsieur l'Inspecteur," said somebody beside him. "French. Name of Madame Catherine Dubur. Not like the other one."
"The other one?" said the Inspector blankly.
"I told you in the car, sir," said the Detective Sergeant at his ear, "there's two of them."
"You'd better show me."
They strolled in their overcoats to the other end of the platform and went down the little steps that led to the track. A uniformed policeman pulled back the blanket that covered the second body, which lay on its back. Inspector Dutruelle stared dispassionately at the stiff, black limbs that stuck out awkwardly across the railway lines. Suddenly he shuddered in alarm. Even in the dim lights of the train that was pulled up beyond you could see the resemblance to Vololona.
"Identity?" he asked. He tried to control his voice.
"We don't know, sir - this is all we found," said a policeman, handing him a tattered greetings card. Inside, in large, green handwriting, were the words: "Happy Nineteenth Birthday, from Everyone in Antananarivo."
"D'you think she's Malagasy, sir?" asked the policeman. The Inspector shrugged his shoulders, then held out an open hand.
"Your torch, please," he said.
He played its beam over the body, up and down the long, slender legs, across the clothes. At least he did not recognise the clothes. Yet the body's size, its build, its colour, everything pointed to Vololona. He bent down and flashed the light onto the fingers of the left hand and laughed weakly to himself as he saw the tawdry rings that glinted back at him. He stood up in relief. That was certainly not Vololona. Yet it was uncanny how this body reminded him of her - and the other of Agnes, for that matter. Even the ages were the same.
He smoked as he stood staring at the headless corpse. He could not understand. Was the magic of Madagascar really so strong that now he saw Vololona everywhere? And what of Agnes? How would Professor Dhiakobli explain that? How could he explain it, when you came to think of it? When you came to think of it, he had explained very little. He had been happy enough to take the money, and free enough with his words - all those grandiose notions of mission and sacrifice and spiritual tête-à-têtes . . .
Inspector Dutruelle gasped.
"The devil," he muttered to himself. Suddenly he understood everything.
"The what, sir?" said somebody beside him.
"Never mind," he answered quietly, putting his hand to his breast pocket. His heart had started to pound with a sense of danger and his head suddenly ached with questions. He took out his cigarette case and lit another Gauloise. Through its curling blue smoke, back-lit by the lights of the train, the black limbs were splayed out in a grotesque dance, while beside him men's voices were thrumming in his ear. Why was there no time to think, to extricate himself from this nightmare? He cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? He cursed his wife and Vololona. And Professor Dhiakobli. What madness had driven him to this? Then he cursed himself again, and turned abruptly to one of the men babbling at his side.
"What time is it?"
"Six-fifteen, sir."
For a moment, he hesitated. Then he called for the Detective Sergeant who was with the photographer at the other body.
"Écoute Guy, when he's got his pictures they can move the bodies and fix things up," he said. "Now get me the Préfet."
The Préfet was beside himself with rage at this further disturbance to his sleep, and he exploded with indignation when Inspector Dutruelle offered his resignation.
"Are you insane, man? You're in the middle of an investigation!"
"The investigation is over, Monsieur le Préfet."
"So, you have the killer at last!"
"In fifteen minutes, monsieur, in fifteen minutes."
"Then why in the name of God are you asking to be relieved from duty?"
"Monsieur le Préfet, my position is impossible. On this occasion it was I that paid the killer," he answered calmly as he took another cigarette from his silver cigarette case.
Yet there was clearly something strange about the case. It was hardly as though the body had been decapitated to frustrate identification, for it was fully clothed and none of the owner's personal effects had been removed, save of course for his head. The Paris police soon tied up the contents of the dead man's wallet with forensic evidence from the body. Added to that, Madame Charente, the dead man's wife, could positively identify the body in the most intimate ways. (She had already reported her husband as missing.)
A few men were despatched to poke around in the warm, dark tunnels on either side of Odéon station, where the body had been found. Above ground another search was made, equally fruitlessly, and to Inspector Dutruelle it looked as though the case would linger on unsolved.
Two weeks later, four kilometres away in the west, a headless body was found at Courcelles station, again in the tunnel not far from the platform. As in the earlier case, the cause of death was apparently the severing of the head, which appeared to have been done with some precision. Again, the body was fully clothed and easily identified, and nothing but the head had apparently been removed.
"What can I tell these blessed reporters?" Inspector Dutruelle said as he handed his wife the two sticks of bread he usually bought on the way home. "They want answers for everything. And it's not just the papers now, the politicians are getting worried too. I'm reporting to the Préfet on this one."
"If there were instant answers for everything, mon petit chou, they'd have no need of you," said Madame Dutruelle. "And where would they be without you? Who cleared up that terrible Clichy case last year, and the acid bath at Reuilly Diderot?"
The little inspecteur divisionnaire-chef pulled in his stomach, puffed out his chest and rose to his full height. A smile spread across his round face. In his smart dark suit and gold-rimmed glasses you could have taken him for a provincial bank manager rather than one of Paris's most successful policemen.
"Just think," he said wryly, "they were actually about to close the file on Dr Gomes before I took charge of the investigation."
"They're fools, all of them."
"All the same, my dear, I don't know where to go on this one. There're no leads. There's no apparent motive. And it's a bizarre pattern. Assuming, of course, it is a pattern. We can't be sure of that until there's been another."
Inspector Dutruelle did not have long to wait for his pattern to emerge. A telephone call at half past five the next morning dragged him from his bed.
"It's another one, sir," said the voice at the other end.
"Another what?"
"It's identical. Another headless corpse, just like the others - male, middle-aged, white."
"Where?" asked Inspector Dutruelle fumbling for a cigarette.
"Château Rouge."
"In the Metro?"
"Yes sir, just inside the tunnel. In the anti-suicide well between the tracks."
"Close the line - if you haven't already. I'll be with you soon. And don't move it, d'you hear?"
Inspector Dutruelle replaced the receiver with a sigh as his wife padded into the room.
"I hate these early morning cases," he muttered. He lit his cigarette.
"Have a coffee before you go. Another dead body will keep."
"But we've closed the line. And it's the other side of town, my dear. North Paris."
"All the same."
He sat down heavily and watched his wife sullenly as she made the coffee. Madame Dutruelle was a simple woman of forty-six whose long, thin-lipped face was framed by stern grey hair. Her strong, practical hands were country hands, and she had never got used to city life. She lived for the day when she and her husband would retire to their home village in Les Pyrenées. Inspector Dutruelle sighed to himself again. Poor Agnes. She tried so hard to please him. How could she know that he longed to be free of her? How could she possibly know of Vololona, the young Malagasy he had met while on the Clichy case? For him it had been love at first sight.
"And for me too, my darling," Vololona had been quick to agree, her large brown eyes welling with tears as they gazed at him through the smoke of the Chatte et Lapin where she worked, "a veritable coup de foudre." She spoke French well, with a Malagasy accent and huskiness that left you with a sense of mystery and promise. Inspector Dutruelle was a happy man; but he was careful to tell no-one except Monsieur Chébaut, his closest friend, about the source of his happiness.
"I've never felt like this before, Pierre. I'm captivated by her," he said one evening when he took Monsieur Chébaut to see Vololona dancing.
It was a rare experience, even for the jaded Monsieur Chébaut. In the frantic coloured spotlights of the Chatte et Lapin Vololona danced solo and in her vitality you sensed the wildness of Madagascar. Her black limbs lashed the air to the music, which was raw and sensual.
"You know, Pierre, in thirty years of marriage I was never unfaithful. Well, you know that already. There was always my work, and the children, and I was happy enough at home. It never occured to me to look at another woman. But something happened when I met Vololona. She showed me how to live. She showed me what real ecstasy is. Look at her, Pierre. Isn't she the most exquisite thing you ever saw? And she adores me. She's crazy about me. But why, I ask you? What can she see in me - three times her age, pot-bellied, bald . . . married?"
Inspector Dutruelle leaned back in his chair and swung around to look at the other customers applauding Vololona from the shadows. He smiled proudly to himself. He knew exactly what was on their minds. Life was strange, he thought, and you could never tell. Some of them were young men, tall and handsome and virile, yet none of them knew Vololona as he knew her.
Monsieur Chébaut finished his whisky.
"I can see," he said, "that a man in your position might have certain attractions for an immigrant without papers working in one of the more dangerous quarters of Paris." Monsieur Chébaut was a lawyer.
"You're a cynic, Pierre."
"And after thirty years in the force you're not?"
"Personally, I believe her when she says she loves me. I just don't know why. Another whisky?"
"Well, one thing's for sure, Régis, it can't go on like that. One way or another things'll come to a head. But I must agree, she's exquisite all right. Like an exquisite Venus fly-trap. And at the germane moment, you know, those soft, succulent petals will close around you like a vice."
The normally placid Inspector was piqued by his friend's unreasonable attitude.
"How can you say that?" he snapped. "When you haven't even spoken to her."
"But all women are the same, Régis. Don't you know that? You should be a lawyer, then you'd know it. They can't help it, they're built that way. Believe me, it can't go on without something happening."
Inspector Dutruelle glowered at his old schoolfriend and said nothing. Monsieur Chébaut could see he had touched a raw nerve. He grinned amicably and leaned across to slap his friend playfully on the shoulder.
"Look Régis, all I'm saying is, be careful, you haven't got my experience."
Of course, that was true. When it came to women few men had Monsieur Chébaut's experience. Or his luck, for that matter. He was one of those people who go through life insulated from difficulties. He crossed roads without looking. He did not hurry for trains. He never reconciled bank accounts. Tall, slim, with boyish good looks and thick, black, wavy hair, he was the antithesis of Inspector Dutruelle.
"Look, you've got two women involved, Régis," Monsieur Chébaut continued, "and women aren't like us. Agnes isn't stupid. She must know something's going on."
"She hasn't said anything," said the Inspector brusquely. He lit another Gauloise.
"Of course she hasn't. She's cleverer than you are. She intends to keep you."
"Mind you," said Inspector Dutruelle grudgingly, "she has had some odd dreams recently - so she says. About me and another woman. But anyway, she just laughs and says she can't believe it."
"But Régis, you must know that what we say and what we think are seldom the same."
"Sometimes I wonder if I ought to tell her something, if only out of decency."
Monsieur Chébaut nearly choked on the fresh whisky he had just put to his lips.
"No," he cried with a passion that surprised the Inspector, "never, you must never tell her. Écoute Régis, even if she did mention it, you must deny everything. Even if she caught the two of you in the act, you must deny it. You can only tell a woman there's another when you've definitively made up your mind to leave her, and even then it may not be safe."
"So much for logic."
"It's no use looking for logic in women, Régis. I told you, they're not like men. In fact, I've come to the conclusion that they're not even the same species as men. Men and women aren't like dog and bitch, they're more like dog and cat. C'est bizarre, non? In any case, I do know you can't keep two women on the go without something happening. I don't know what, but something."
Now the European press had picked the story up and the little Inspector did not know how to deal with the international reporters who hung around like flies outside the old stone walls of the Préfecture de police. Their stories focussed on the bizarre nature of the killings, and the idea that there were three severed heads somewhere in Paris particularly excited them. They wanted constantly to know more. So of course did Inspector Dutruelle.
"I assure you, gentlemen," he told a press conference, "we are at least as anxious as you to recover the missing parts. We are doing everything possible. You can tell your readers that wherever they are, we'll find them."
"Can we have photographs of the victims for our readers?" asked one of the foreign reporters.
"So as we know which heads we're looking for," added a journalist from London.
It was a joke that was not shared by the people of Paris. Suddenly the normally carnival atmosphere of the Metro had evaporated. Buskers no longer worked the coaches between stations. Puppeteers and jugglers no longer entertained passengers with impromptu performances. Even the beggars, who habitually hung around the crowded stations or made impassioned speeches in the carriages, had gone. And the few passengers who remained sat more long-faced than ever, or walked more hastily down the long corridors between platforms.
Inspector Dutruelle despaired of ever clearing the case up. His mind, already excited over Vololona, was now in a turmoil. Vololona had suddenly, and tearfully, announced that she was pregnant. Then, having accepted his financial assistance to terminate the pregnancy - but refusing his offer to take her to the clinic - she told him one day on the telephone: "I thought you were going to ask me to marry you." Inspector Dutruelle was stunned.
"But you know I'm married, ma chérie," he said.
"I thought you'd leave Agnes," she replied. "I wanted to be with you. I wanted to share everything with you . . . my child . . . my life . . . my bed." Inspector Dutruelle could hear her sobbing.
"But darling, we can still see each other."
"No, it's too painful. I love you too much."
Inspector Dutruelle could not concentrate on his work at all. Day and night his thoughts were on Vololona; he longed to be with her. If only Agnes would leave him. And if only Vololona would be satisfied with what he gave her already - the dinners, the presents, the apartment. Why did women have to possess you? It seemed that the more you gave them the more they took, until there was nothing left to give but yourself. Perhaps Pierre was right after all, when you thought about it.
The investigation into the Metro murders was proceeding dismally. Inspector Dutruelle had no suspect, no leads, no motive. His superiors complained about his lack of progress and the press ridiculed him without pity. "It appears," commented France-Soir, "that the only thing Inspector Dutruelle can tell us with certainty is that with each fresh atrocity the Metro station name grows longer." The detectives under him could not understand what had happened to their normally astute Inspector, and they felt leaderless and demoralised. It was left to the security police of the Metro to point out one rather obvious fact: that the three stations where bodies had been found had one thing in common - their lines intersected at Metro Barbes Rochechouart, and it seemed that something might be learned by taking the Metro between them.
Inspector Dutruelle did not like public transport, and he especially did not like the Metro. It was cramped, smelly and claustrophobic at the best of times, and in the summer it was hot. You stood on the very edge of the platform just to feel the breeze as the blue and white trains pulled into the station. It was years since the Inspector had used the Metro.
"I can't take much more of this, Marc" he said to the young Detective Constable who was travelling with him, "it's too hot. We'll get off at the next stop."
"That's Barbes Rochechouart, sir. We can change there."
"No, Marc. We can get out there. Someone else can take a sauna, I've had enough. Anyway, we need to have a look around." Inspector Dutruelle wiped his brow. He sounded irritable. "God knows what it's like normally," he added.
When the train pulled in they took the exit for Boulevard de Rochechouart.
"At least we can get through now," said the Detective Constable as they walked up the passage towards the escalator.
"How d'you mean?" asked Inspector Dutruelle.
"Well, normally this station's packed - beggars, passengers, buskers, hawkers, plus all their tables and stalls. It's like a damn great fair and market rolled into one. You can get anything here, from Eiffel Towers to cabbages and potatoes - not to mention a spot of cannabis or heroin."
"Oh, yes," said Inspector Dutruelle, vaguely. "I remember." He passed a handkerchief across his brow again.
At the turnstyles a man was handing out publicity cards and he thrust one into Inspector Dutruelle's hand. Glancing down at it and squinting in the bright sunlight, the Inspector read aloud: "'Professor Dhiakobli, Grand Médium Voyant can help you succeed rapidly in all areas of life . . .'"
He broke off in mid-sentence with a snort.
"What a lot of mumbo-jumbo! Headless chickens and voodoo magic."
"It may be mumbo-jumbo to you, sir," said the Detective Constable with a laugh, "but round here they take that sort of thing seriously. And not only round here - after all, we use some of these techniques in the police, don't we?"
"Oh really? Such as?"
"Well, graphology for a start - you can hardly call basing a murder case on the size of someone's handwriting scientific, can you sir? Or what about astrology - employing people on the basis of the stars? Or numerology."
"Yes, Marc," said Inspector Dutruelle, pushing the card into his top pocket, "maybe you're right, and maybe when you're older you won't be so sure. Now get on the blower and call the car."
The hot July turned to hotter and more humid August. No more bodies were found in the sweltering tunnels of the Metro, and the media, bored with the lack of developments, left Inspector Dutruelle to his original obscurity. Paris, deserted by its citizens in the yearly exodus to the coast, was tolerable only to the tourists with backpacks who flocked to the cheap hotels and began again to crowd the Metro. Then, in September, the Parisiens came back and life returned to normal.
But Inspector Dutruelle's passion for Vololona did not cool with the season. Vololona had at last agreed to see him, occasionally; but she always managed (with tears in her eyes) to deflect his more amorous advances. For Inspector Dutruelle it was beneath him to observe that he continued to pay the rent on her apartment, but he was growing increasingly frustrated. The notion that she had another lover obsessed him, and in the evenings he took to prowling the broad Boulevard de Clichy between her apartment and the Chatte et Lapin. Sometimes he would stand for hours watching her door, as locals strolled past with their dogs or sat on the benches under the plane trees. Now, denied the one thing here he wanted, the scene filled him with dismay. Money and music were in the air. Lovers sipped coffee in the open and watched the whores in their doorways. Pigeons fluttered as girls in tight mini-skirts hurried to work. Tourists with their Deutschmarks arrived by the busload and the touts in dark glasses worked hard to coax them into the expensive --- shows and neon-lit video clubs. Somewhere deep below ran the Metro; but Inspector Dutruelle had no more interest in that. His superiors had given up hope of solving the Metro murders and had moved him on to other things. Sometimes he would stay all night, leaving to the tinkle of broken glass as workmen swept up after the night's revelries. Occasionally he would see Vololona leave her apartment to buy cigarettes, but he never once saw her on the arm of another man, or saw a male visitor take the lift to the seventh floor.
One night, late in October, he returned from the Boulevard de Clichy just after midnight. Madame Dutruelle, having been told that her husband was working on a case, and perhaps believing it, was already asleep. Had she been awake she would surely have been surprised to see him throw his jacket over a chair, for Inspector Dutruelle had always been meticulous with his clothes, the sort of man who irons his shoelaces. But the jacket missed and dropped to the floor. Muttering to himself, the Inspector bent and picked it up, and as he did so something fell from the top pocket. He gazed at it blankly for a moment. Then he realised it was the card he had been given at the metro station, a little the worse for having been once or twice to the cleaners, but still legible. He picked it up and slowly started to read:
PROFESSOR DHIAKOBLI
Grand Médium Voyant can help you succeed rapidly in all areas of life: luck, love, marriage, attraction of clients, examinations, sexual potency. If you desire to make another love you or if your loved one has left with another, this is his domain, you will be loved and your partner will return. Prof. Dhiakobli will come behind you like a dog. He will create between you a perfect rapport on the basis of love. All problems resolved, even desperate cases. Every day from 9am to 9pm. Payment after results.
13b, rue Beldamme, 75018 Paris
staircase B, 6th floor, door on left
Metro: Barbes Rochechouart
Inspector Dutruelle stood in his socks and braces reading the card over and over again. "All problems resolved . . ." It was preposterous. And yet, it was tempting. What harm could there be in a little hocus pocus when everything else had failed? After all, everyone knew that even the police used clairvoyants when they were really up against it.
Rue Beldamme was a backstreet of tenement buildings in Paris's eighteenth arrondissement, an area popular with immigrants from francophone Africa. It lay close to the busy crossroads straddled by Metro Barbes Rochechouart. Inspector Dutruelle parked in the next street and walked the rest of the way, cursing because he had not brought his umbrella. The door to number 13b was swinging in the wind, its dark paint peeling badly. He stepped through into a narrow courtyard and found his way to the sixth-floor door on which a brass plaque read: "Professor Dhiakobli Spécialiste des travaux occultes Please ring". He stood there, breathing heavily from the stairs, and before he could press the bell the door opened and a man appeared.
"Please enter, my dear sir," said the man with an elegant wave of the hand and exaggerated courtesy. "I am Dhiakobli. And I have the honour to meet . . . ?"
As Inspector Dutruelle had imagined, Professor Dhiakobli was black. He had a short yet commanding figure, and was dressed in a well tailored grey suit. A large, silk handkerchief fell from his top pocket.
"For the moment," said Inspector Dutruelle, "my name is hardly important. I've only come in response to your advertisement."
"Monsieur has perhaps some small problem with which I can help? A minor indiscretion? Please be seated, sir, and let us talk about the matter."
Inspector Dutruelle handed his coat and gloves to the Professor and sat in the large, well upholstered chair to which he had been directed. Professor Dhiakobli himself settled behind a large mahogany desk, on top of which a chihuahua hardly bigger than a mouse was lounging, its wide, moist eyes gazing disdainfully at the newcomer.
"Ah, I see that Zeus approves of you," said the Professor, stroking the tiny dog with the tips of his manicured fingers, his own unblinking eyes also fixed on Inspector Dutruelle. "Poor Zeus, mon petit papillon, he is devoted to me, but he must remain here whenever I leave France. And you are fortunate, monsieur. It is only now that I return from Côte d'Ivoire. It is my country you know, I return there for a few months each summer. Paris in summer is so disagreeable, don't you agree?"
Professor Dhiakobli glittered with success. The frames of his glasses, the heavy bracelet on his right wrist and the watch on his left, the gem-studded rings on his fingers - all were of gold. From his manner and cultured French accent it was evident that he was an educated man. Around him the large room was like a shrine. Heavy curtains excluded the daylight (the only illumination was a small brass desklamp) and the dark, red walls were festooned with spears, costumes, photographs and other African memorabilia. There was a sweet smell in the air, and in one corner of the room the feathers of a ceremonial African headgear lay draped inappropriately over an enormous American refrigerator. You could not help being struck by the incongruity of this bizarre scene in the roughest quarter of Paris.
"As I say," began Inspector Dutruelle, ignoring the Professor's question, "I saw your card and I wondered just how you work."
"And may one enquire as to monsieur's little difficulty?"
Inspector Dutruelle cleared his throat and tried to adopt as nonchalant an air as he could.
"Well," - he coughed again - "first of all, I wondered what sort of things you can help people with."
The Professor's eyebrows rose.
"Anything," he said slowly, his smile revealing a set of large white teeth that shone brilliantly in the dimness against his black skin. "My dear sir, anything at all."
"And then, I wondered, how do you operate? That's to say, what exactly do you do . . . and how do you charge?"
"Ah monsieur, let us not talk of money. First I must learn just how I can help you. And for that a consultation is in order."
Inspector Dutruelle shifted in his seat.
"And what would a consultation involve? What does it . . . cost?"
Professor Dhiakobli wrung his hands and shrugged amicably.
"Mon cher monsieur, I do understand how distasteful it is to you to discuss so vulgar a matter as money. I too recoil at the mere thought of it. It has been my mission in life to help those who have suffered misfortune. And if some donate a small token of their gratitude, who am I to refuse their offering? They pay according to their means, to assist those who have little to offer. But for a preliminary consultation, monsieur, a nominal sum, as a mark of good faith, is usually in order. For a gentleman of your obvious standing, a trifle, a mere two hundred francs. And let me assure you, monsieur, of my absolute discretion. Nothing you may choose to tell me will go beyond these walls." He paused. Then he threw out his hands and added with a grin: "They have the sanctity of the confessional."
"I'm glad to hear it," said the Inspector.
"But monsieur still has the advantage of me . . ." continued Professor Dhiakobli.
Inspector Dutruelle decided that he had nothing to lose by talking. He adopted the name of Monsieur Mazodier, a Parisien wine merchant, and began to tell the Professor of the dilemma that was tearing at his soul. He told him of the young Malagasy girl he had met while entertaining clients; of their instant and passionate love for one another; of her sudden irrational refusal any longer to give herself to him; and of the wife he now knew he should never have married but whom he had not the heart to leave. Monsieur Mazodier was at his wits' end and now even his business was suffering. He feared that if he did not find a resolution to his problem he might do something that he or others would regret. The Professor listened intently, asking appropriate questions at appropriate moments. Finally Inspector Dutruelle said: "Well, Professor Dhiakobli, I think that's all I can tell you. I don't think I can tell you any more. From what I have told you, do you believe you can help me?"
For a long time there was silence. The Professor appeared to be in another world. He stared at Inspector Dutruelle, but seemed to be looking through him.
"My dear Monsieur Mazodier," he said at last, very slowly, almost mechanically, "the story you have told me is most poignant. Each of us has a hidden corner in his life, a jardin secret. Yet it is rare indeed for men to come to me with problems such as yours. Perhaps it is natural that most of my lovelorn clients should be women. At the mercy of their complex physical structure, is it any wonder that women are such emotional creatures? I help them find their lost ones, their partners of many years, to recreate again the rapport of their youth. You will understand that it is not easy. But this is my work. My domain."
"So you can't help me?" said Inspector Dutruelle, adding despondently: "Perhaps what I really need is a head-shrink."
The Professor gave a start. Again, for a long time he did not answer. Then his teeth flashed in the dimness.
"Écoutez monsieur, this is my work, my domain," he repeated. "Certainly I can help you. But you must understand that it will not be easy. It calls for a special ceremony. In the first place, you are married, and I shall be required to work my influence on not one but two women. In the second, we are both men of the world, monsieur, and you will not be offended if I remark upon the extreme disparity in your ages. And finally, it is clear to me that this young girl has chained your heart with her magic. You know, the magic of Madagascar is very strong. No, monsieur, it will not be easy. Enduring love cannot be bought with money alone. Sometimes . . ." He hesitated and looked Inspector Dutruelle straight in the eye, his own eyes suddenly cold and vacant. "Sometimes," he said, "we must make sacrifices."
"What sort of sacrifices?" asked Inspector Dutruelle dully.
"Oh, my dear sir, you must leave that to me. But one cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs." His cold eyes remained fixed on the Inspector and he spoke in a monotone without pausing for breath. "You must not concern yourself with technicalities, monsieur. Your mind must be fixed on the future, on the life you have dreamed of. You must envisage your wife - happy in the arms of another. You must picture the fragile young child you so yearn for . . . secure in your arms . . . sharing your life . . . your days . . . your nights. The perfect solution to all your problems. Is it not worth a considerable sum?"
"It certainly would be worth a lot . . ." Inspector Dutruelle muttered as the Professor's words came to life in his mind.
"Shall we say thirty thousand francs?"
"I'm sorry?" muttered the Inspector.
"Let's say fifteen thousand before and fifteen afterwards," the Professor went on as though his visitor had not spoken. "Do you see, monsieur, how confident I am of success?"
Inspector Dutruelle did not reply. He was confused. He had not expected the Professor to be so blunt, or to propose quite so generous a token. But it did not seem to matter. After all, what was thirty thousand francs to achieve what he craved so desperately? And, in any case, at worst it was only fifteen thousand.
The Professor's eyes were still fixed on Inspector Dutruelle.
"Of course, monsieur, I have faith in your gratitude. I know that you will not forget, in your delight, that what I have done, I can undo. And now, monsieur, you must not allow me to detain you further. We have much work to do. In eight days you will return with photographs and details of Madame Mazodier and the Malagasy. And with some little articles of clothing, something close to their thoughts, say a scarf or a hat. You can arrange this?"
Inspector Dutruelle nodded blankly.
"Excellent, monsieur. I must know them in every detail - if I am to have a spiritual tête-à-tête with each of them. So, in fifteen days, you will return for the ceremony. It will take place beyond those curtains, in the space reserved for the ancestral spirits. Nobody but I and my assistants may enter there, but nevertheless it is imperative that you be present on the day. It must be at dawn, and you must come without fail - the ceremony cannot be deferred. Can you manage six in the morning, shall we say Monday the sixteenth?"
Inspector Dutruelle did not sleep well on the night of the fifteenth of December. At four o'clock in the morning he got out of bed. Though his wife stirred she did not wake. He showered and dressed. His nerves were on edge as he fiddled around in the kitchen, boiling water for his coffee. He drank two cups, strong and black, but he looked helplessly at the croissants he had spread clumsily with jam. He lit a Gauloise and paced the room. Then he pulled the windows open and leaned on the railing, finishing his cigarette. Below him the courtyard was dark and silent, and above him the sky was black. But away in the east, through the open end of the court, a violet hue was creeping over Paris. He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past five and time to fetch the car. It would seem strange, leaving at that time of the morning without an official car and driver. He wondered what the concierge would make of it all - she was bound to be polishing the brasses by the time he reached the ground floor. He gave a shiver and pushed the windows shut.
Then he put the keys of the Renault in his coat pocket and checked that he had everything. He looked into the bedroom. Gently, he drew the duvet back and looked at his wife as she slept, her arms clasped about her knees. He leaned over and touched his lips to her cheek. Then he closed the bedroom door silently behind him, switched the lights off in the living room and kitchen, and opened the front door. As he did so the telephone rang. It startled him and he cursed aloud. He closed the front door again and hurried to answer the phone so that his wife should not wake.
"Inspector Dutruelle?" said the voice at the other end.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Sorry to disturb you at this time of the morning, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. It's the Préfecture."
"Never mind the time," said Inspector Dutruelle with as much irritation as his whispering voice could convey. "I'm off duty today."
"Well, that's the point, Inspector. The Préfet's ordered us to call you specially. He appreciates you're not on duty, but he wants you anyway."
"It's quite impossible."
"I'm afraid he insists, sir."
"Why?"
"He insists you come on duty immediately, sir. We're sending a car round for you."
"Yes, yes, I understand, but why?"
"It's the Metro again, sir."
"The Metro?"
"Yes, sir. They've found another corpse on the line, decapitated again."
Inspector Dutruelle did not reply. He was cursing to himself. He was cursing the Préfet, the police, this homicidal maniac, his wife. Why today? Why ever today?
"Sir? Hello sir? The car'll be with you in five minutes."
"Yes, all right. I'll be ready in five minutes."
The big black Citroen was soon speeding away from Rue Dauphine and heading north across Pont Neuf. Inspector Dutruelle looked at the winter mists rising from the Seine. His dreams, it seemed, were evaporating just as surely.
"You'd better brief me on this as quick as you can," he said wearily to the Detective Sergeant he had found waiting for him in the car. "Where was the body found?"
"Barbes Rochechouart, sir."
A cold shiver passed through the Inspector.
"I presume it's the same as the others?" he asked.
"Well, in as much as there's nothing to go on, it's the same, sir. Otherwise it couldn't be more different. For a start, we've just heard they've found two of them now. And this time they're women. One white, in her forties, and one black. A young black girl - still in her teens, by the look of things."
But Inspector Dutruelle was not listening. He was staring blankly through the glass to his right, and as they turned at Place du Châtelet the empty streets were no more than a cold, grey blur to him. The car swung onto the broad Boulevard de Sébastopol and accelerated northwards to cover the three kilometres to Metro Barbes Rochechouart. It was the route he should have been taking in his own car.
Outside the station, now closed to passengers, people were standing around under the street lights with their collars up. Inspector Dutruelle got out of the car. He hesitated. He glanced towards Rue Beldamme (just a stone's throw away across the bleak Boulevard de Rochechouart) where the Professor would be waiting for him. He shrugged and went down the station steps.
Underground, on the number four line, there was an air of gloom. Both bodies lay where they had been spotted by the first train-drivers through that morning. Inspector Dutruelle looked impassively at the first one. It was the body of a middle-aged woman, quite unexceptional, coarse and wiry, like his wife.
"She's forty-seven, Monsieur l'Inspecteur," said somebody beside him. "French. Name of Madame Catherine Dubur. Not like the other one."
"The other one?" said the Inspector blankly.
"I told you in the car, sir," said the Detective Sergeant at his ear, "there's two of them."
"You'd better show me."
They strolled in their overcoats to the other end of the platform and went down the little steps that led to the track. A uniformed policeman pulled back the blanket that covered the second body, which lay on its back. Inspector Dutruelle stared dispassionately at the stiff, black limbs that stuck out awkwardly across the railway lines. Suddenly he shuddered in alarm. Even in the dim lights of the train that was pulled up beyond you could see the resemblance to Vololona.
"Identity?" he asked. He tried to control his voice.
"We don't know, sir - this is all we found," said a policeman, handing him a tattered greetings card. Inside, in large, green handwriting, were the words: "Happy Nineteenth Birthday, from Everyone in Antananarivo."
"D'you think she's Malagasy, sir?" asked the policeman. The Inspector shrugged his shoulders, then held out an open hand.
"Your torch, please," he said.
He played its beam over the body, up and down the long, slender legs, across the clothes. At least he did not recognise the clothes. Yet the body's size, its build, its colour, everything pointed to Vololona. He bent down and flashed the light onto the fingers of the left hand and laughed weakly to himself as he saw the tawdry rings that glinted back at him. He stood up in relief. That was certainly not Vololona. Yet it was uncanny how this body reminded him of her - and the other of Agnes, for that matter. Even the ages were the same.
He smoked as he stood staring at the headless corpse. He could not understand. Was the magic of Madagascar really so strong that now he saw Vololona everywhere? And what of Agnes? How would Professor Dhiakobli explain that? How could he explain it, when you came to think of it? When you came to think of it, he had explained very little. He had been happy enough to take the money, and free enough with his words - all those grandiose notions of mission and sacrifice and spiritual tête-à-têtes . . .
Inspector Dutruelle gasped.
"The devil," he muttered to himself. Suddenly he understood everything.
"The what, sir?" said somebody beside him.
"Never mind," he answered quietly, putting his hand to his breast pocket. His heart had started to pound with a sense of danger and his head suddenly ached with questions. He took out his cigarette case and lit another Gauloise. Through its curling blue smoke, back-lit by the lights of the train, the black limbs were splayed out in a grotesque dance, while beside him men's voices were thrumming in his ear. Why was there no time to think, to extricate himself from this nightmare? He cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? He cursed his wife and Vololona. And Professor Dhiakobli. What madness had driven him to this? Then he cursed himself again, and turned abruptly to one of the men babbling at his side.
"What time is it?"
"Six-fifteen, sir."
For a moment, he hesitated. Then he called for the Detective Sergeant who was with the photographer at the other body.
"Écoute Guy, when he's got his pictures they can move the bodies and fix things up," he said. "Now get me the Préfet."
The Préfet was beside himself with rage at this further disturbance to his sleep, and he exploded with indignation when Inspector Dutruelle offered his resignation.
"Are you insane, man? You're in the middle of an investigation!"
"The investigation is over, Monsieur le Préfet."
"So, you have the killer at last!"
"In fifteen minutes, monsieur, in fifteen minutes."
"Then why in the name of God are you asking to be relieved from duty?"
"Monsieur le Préfet, my position is impossible. On this occasion it was I that paid the killer," he answered calmly as he took another cigarette from his silver cigarette case.
elima
04-08-2009, 00:19
Oscar Wilde
The Happy Prince
High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed.'He is as beautiful as a weathercock,' remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic taste; 'only not quite so useful,' he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
'Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?' asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. 'The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.'
'I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy', muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
'He looks just like an angel,' said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks, and their clean white pinafores.
'How do you know?' said the Mathematical Master, 'you have never seen one.'
'Ah! but we have, in our dreams,' answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
'Shall I love you said the Swallow', who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
'It is a ridiculous attachment,' twittered the other Swallows, 'she has no money, and far too many relations;' and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came, they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. 'She has no conversation,' he said, 'and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.' And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtsies. I admit that she is domestic,' he continued, 'but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.'
'Will you come away with me?' he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
'You have been trifling with me,' he cried, 'I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!' and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. 'Where shall I put up?' he said 'I hope the town has made preparations.'
Then he saw the statue on the tall column. 'I will put up there,' he cried; 'it is a fine position with plenty of fresh air.' So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
'I have a golden bedroom,' he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing, a large drop of water fell on him.'What a curious thing!' he cried, 'there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.'
Then another drop fell.
'What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?' he said; 'I must look for a good chimney-pot,' and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw - Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
'Who are you?' he said.
'I am the Happy Prince.'
'Why are you weeping then?' asked the Swallow; 'you have quite drenched me.'
'When I was alive and had a human heart,' answered the statue, 'I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep.'
'What, is he not solid gold?' said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
'Far away,' continued the statue in a low musical voice,'far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-fowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.'
'I am waited for in Egypt,' said the Swallow. 'My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.'
'Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince,'will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.
'I don't think I like boys,' answered the Swallow. 'Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.'
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. 'It is very cold here,' he said 'but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger.'
'Thank you, little Swallow,' said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. 'How wonderful the stars are,' he said to her,'and how wonderful is the power of love!' 'I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,' she answered; 'I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.'
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. 'How cool I feel,' said the boy, 'I must be getting better;' and he sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. 'It is curious,' he remarked, 'but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.'
'That is because you have done a good action,' said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath.
'What a remarkable phenomenon,' said the Professor of Omithology as he was passing over the bridge. 'A swallow in winter!' And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.
'To-night I go to Egypt,' said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, 'What a distinguished stranger!' so he enjoyed himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. 'Have you any commissions for Egypt?' he cried; 'I am just starting.'
'Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, 'will you not stay with me one night longer?'
'I am waited for in Egypt,' answered the Swallow. To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.'
'Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince,'far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.'
'I will wait with you one night longer,' said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. 'Shall I take him another ruby?'
'Alas! I have no ruby now,' said the Prince; 'my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.'
'Dear Prince,' said the Swallow,'I cannot do that;' and he began to weep.
'Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, 'do as I command you.'
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
'I am beginning to be appreciated,' he cried; 'this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,' and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. 'Heave a-hoy!' they shouted as each chest came up. 'I am going to Egypt!' cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
'I am come to bid you good-bye,' he cried.
'Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince,'will you not stay with me one night longer?'
'It is winter,' answered the Swallow, and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.
'In the square below,' said the Happy Prince, 'there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.
'I will stay with you one night longer,' said the Swallow,'but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.'
'Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, 'do as I command you.'
So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. 'What a lovely bit of glass,' cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. 'You are blind now,' he said, 'so I will stay with you always.'
'No, little Swallow,' said the poor Prince, 'you must go away to Egypt.'
'I will stay with you always,' said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
'Dear little Swallow,' said the Prince, 'you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.'
So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. 'How hungry we are' they said. 'You must not lie here,' shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
'I am covered with fine gold,' said the Prince, 'you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy.'
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. 'We have bread nod' they cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more.'Good-bye, dear Prince!' he murmured, 'will you let me kiss your hand?'
'I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,' said the Prince, 'you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.'
'It is not to Egypt that I am going,' said the Swallow. I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?'
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: 'Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!' he said.
'How shabby indeed!' cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor, and they went up to look at it.
'The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,' said the Mayor; 'in fact, he is little better than a beggar!'
'Little better than a beggar,' said the Town Councillors.
'And there is actually a dead bird at his feet,' continued the Mayor. 'We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here.' And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. 'As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,' said the Art Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. 'We must have another statue, of course,' he said, 'and it shall be a statue of myself.'
'Of myself,' said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
'What a strange thing!' said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry.'This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away.' So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.
'Bring me the two most precious things in the city,' said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.
'You have rightly chosen,' said God,'for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.'
The Happy Prince
High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed.'He is as beautiful as a weathercock,' remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic taste; 'only not quite so useful,' he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
'Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?' asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. 'The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.'
'I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy', muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
'He looks just like an angel,' said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks, and their clean white pinafores.
'How do you know?' said the Mathematical Master, 'you have never seen one.'
'Ah! but we have, in our dreams,' answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
'Shall I love you said the Swallow', who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
'It is a ridiculous attachment,' twittered the other Swallows, 'she has no money, and far too many relations;' and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came, they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. 'She has no conversation,' he said, 'and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.' And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtsies. I admit that she is domestic,' he continued, 'but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.'
'Will you come away with me?' he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
'You have been trifling with me,' he cried, 'I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!' and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. 'Where shall I put up?' he said 'I hope the town has made preparations.'
Then he saw the statue on the tall column. 'I will put up there,' he cried; 'it is a fine position with plenty of fresh air.' So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
'I have a golden bedroom,' he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing, a large drop of water fell on him.'What a curious thing!' he cried, 'there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.'
Then another drop fell.
'What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?' he said; 'I must look for a good chimney-pot,' and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw - Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
'Who are you?' he said.
'I am the Happy Prince.'
'Why are you weeping then?' asked the Swallow; 'you have quite drenched me.'
'When I was alive and had a human heart,' answered the statue, 'I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep.'
'What, is he not solid gold?' said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
'Far away,' continued the statue in a low musical voice,'far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-fowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.'
'I am waited for in Egypt,' said the Swallow. 'My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.'
'Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince,'will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.
'I don't think I like boys,' answered the Swallow. 'Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.'
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. 'It is very cold here,' he said 'but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger.'
'Thank you, little Swallow,' said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. 'How wonderful the stars are,' he said to her,'and how wonderful is the power of love!' 'I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,' she answered; 'I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.'
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. 'How cool I feel,' said the boy, 'I must be getting better;' and he sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. 'It is curious,' he remarked, 'but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.'
'That is because you have done a good action,' said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath.
'What a remarkable phenomenon,' said the Professor of Omithology as he was passing over the bridge. 'A swallow in winter!' And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.
'To-night I go to Egypt,' said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, 'What a distinguished stranger!' so he enjoyed himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. 'Have you any commissions for Egypt?' he cried; 'I am just starting.'
'Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, 'will you not stay with me one night longer?'
'I am waited for in Egypt,' answered the Swallow. To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.'
'Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince,'far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.'
'I will wait with you one night longer,' said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. 'Shall I take him another ruby?'
'Alas! I have no ruby now,' said the Prince; 'my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.'
'Dear Prince,' said the Swallow,'I cannot do that;' and he began to weep.
'Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, 'do as I command you.'
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
'I am beginning to be appreciated,' he cried; 'this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,' and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. 'Heave a-hoy!' they shouted as each chest came up. 'I am going to Egypt!' cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
'I am come to bid you good-bye,' he cried.
'Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince,'will you not stay with me one night longer?'
'It is winter,' answered the Swallow, and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.
'In the square below,' said the Happy Prince, 'there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.
'I will stay with you one night longer,' said the Swallow,'but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.'
'Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, 'do as I command you.'
So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. 'What a lovely bit of glass,' cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. 'You are blind now,' he said, 'so I will stay with you always.'
'No, little Swallow,' said the poor Prince, 'you must go away to Egypt.'
'I will stay with you always,' said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
'Dear little Swallow,' said the Prince, 'you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.'
So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. 'How hungry we are' they said. 'You must not lie here,' shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
'I am covered with fine gold,' said the Prince, 'you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy.'
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. 'We have bread nod' they cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more.'Good-bye, dear Prince!' he murmured, 'will you let me kiss your hand?'
'I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,' said the Prince, 'you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.'
'It is not to Egypt that I am going,' said the Swallow. I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?'
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: 'Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!' he said.
'How shabby indeed!' cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor, and they went up to look at it.
'The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,' said the Mayor; 'in fact, he is little better than a beggar!'
'Little better than a beggar,' said the Town Councillors.
'And there is actually a dead bird at his feet,' continued the Mayor. 'We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here.' And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. 'As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,' said the Art Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. 'We must have another statue, of course,' he said, 'and it shall be a statue of myself.'
'Of myself,' said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
'What a strange thing!' said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry.'This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away.' So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.
'Bring me the two most precious things in the city,' said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.
'You have rightly chosen,' said God,'for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.'
elima
04-08-2009, 00:31
"A Valentine for Laura"
Ann, a friend of mine, disliked Valentine's Day as a girl. She was plain – not ugly, but not beautiful. Valentine's Day is not kind to plain girls. It wasn't so bad in elementary school, when the obligatory thirty valentines arrived: one from each classmate. She overlooked the fact that her cards were not oversized like those of the popular girls, and did not contain the love notes like those of the pretty girls. But later, in middle school, the valentine exchange was no longer mandatory. Just when the yearning for romance budded, when the desire for admiration and flirtation became imperative, and a valentine was needed most, no card arrived. Not for Ann. Not for plain girls anywhere. Only for the pretty and the popular. At such a time, stories of ugly ducklings that will one day turn into beautiful swans do not assuage the hurt and rejection.
As fate would have it (and often does), in subsequent years Ann did become pretty and turned many a boy's head. As she received more attention and flirtations, she came to feel – and therefore to be – very beautiful. But even years later, grown and with a family of her own, she did not forget those long-ago days of rejection and dejection.
Today, Ann's family includes two boys in middle school. For a dollar, their Student Council will deliver a Valentine's Day carnation. Ann gives a dollar to each of her boys to buy flowers for their girlfriends. Then she adds another dollar apiece with the instruction: "Pick another girl, one who is nice but plain – someone who probably won't get a flower. Send her a flower anonymously. That way she will know that someone cares, and she will feel special."
Ann has done this for several years, spreading Valentine's Day a little beyond her own world.
One year, Laura, who was plain to behold but beautiful to know, received one of these gifts. Ann's son reported that Laura was so happy and surprised, she cried. All day long, she carried the flower on her books and chattered with the other girls about who her admirer could be. As Ann heard the account, she too had to dry her eyes -–for she remembered.
Ann, a friend of mine, disliked Valentine's Day as a girl. She was plain – not ugly, but not beautiful. Valentine's Day is not kind to plain girls. It wasn't so bad in elementary school, when the obligatory thirty valentines arrived: one from each classmate. She overlooked the fact that her cards were not oversized like those of the popular girls, and did not contain the love notes like those of the pretty girls. But later, in middle school, the valentine exchange was no longer mandatory. Just when the yearning for romance budded, when the desire for admiration and flirtation became imperative, and a valentine was needed most, no card arrived. Not for Ann. Not for plain girls anywhere. Only for the pretty and the popular. At such a time, stories of ugly ducklings that will one day turn into beautiful swans do not assuage the hurt and rejection.
As fate would have it (and often does), in subsequent years Ann did become pretty and turned many a boy's head. As she received more attention and flirtations, she came to feel – and therefore to be – very beautiful. But even years later, grown and with a family of her own, she did not forget those long-ago days of rejection and dejection.
Today, Ann's family includes two boys in middle school. For a dollar, their Student Council will deliver a Valentine's Day carnation. Ann gives a dollar to each of her boys to buy flowers for their girlfriends. Then she adds another dollar apiece with the instruction: "Pick another girl, one who is nice but plain – someone who probably won't get a flower. Send her a flower anonymously. That way she will know that someone cares, and she will feel special."
Ann has done this for several years, spreading Valentine's Day a little beyond her own world.
One year, Laura, who was plain to behold but beautiful to know, received one of these gifts. Ann's son reported that Laura was so happy and surprised, she cried. All day long, she carried the flower on her books and chattered with the other girls about who her admirer could be. As Ann heard the account, she too had to dry her eyes -–for she remembered.
music6808
04-08-2009, 01:23
> A Teacher teaching Maths to a seven year-old Arnav asked him, “If I give
> you one apple and one apple and one more apple, how many apples will you
> have?”
>
>
> Within a few seconds Arnav replied confidently, “Four!”
>
>
> The dismayed teacher was expecting an effortless correct answer (three).
> She was disappointed. “Maybe the child did not listen properly”, she
> thought. She repeated, “Arnav, listen carefully. It is very simple. You
> will be able to do it right if you listen carefully. If I give you one
> apple and one apple and one more apple, how many apples will you have?”
>
>
> Arnav had seen the disappointment on his teacher’s face. He calculated
> again on his fingers. But within him he was also searching for the answer
> that will make the teacher happy. His search for the answer was not for the
> correct one, but the one that will make his teacher happy. This time
> hesitatingly he replied. “Four…..”
>
>
> The disappointed stayed on the teacher’s face. She remembered Arnav loves
> Strawberries. She thought maybe he doesn’t like apples and that is making
> him lose focus. This time with exaggerated excitement and twinkling eyes
> she asked, “If I give you one strawberry and one strawberry and one more
> strawberry, they how many will Arnav have?”
>
>
> Seeing the teacher happy, young Arnav calculated on his fingers again.
> There was no pressure on him, but a little on the teacher. She wanted her
> new approach to succeed. With a hesitating smile young Arnav enquired,
> “Three”?
>
>
> The teacher now had victorious smile. Her approach had succeeded. She
> wanted to congratulate herself. But one last thing remained. Once again she
> asked him, “Now if I give you one apple and one apple and one more apple,
> how many will you have?”
>
>
> Promptly Arnav answered, “Four!”
>
>
> The teacher was aghast. ”How Arnav, How?” she demanded in a little stern
> and irritated voice.
>
>
> In a voice that was law and hesitating young Arnav replied, “Because I
> already have on apple in my bag”
>
>
> Morale of the Story: When someone gives us an answer that is different from
> what we are expecting, not necessarily they are wrong. There maybe an angle
> that we have not understood at all
> you one apple and one apple and one more apple, how many apples will you
> have?”
>
>
> Within a few seconds Arnav replied confidently, “Four!”
>
>
> The dismayed teacher was expecting an effortless correct answer (three).
> She was disappointed. “Maybe the child did not listen properly”, she
> thought. She repeated, “Arnav, listen carefully. It is very simple. You
> will be able to do it right if you listen carefully. If I give you one
> apple and one apple and one more apple, how many apples will you have?”
>
>
> Arnav had seen the disappointment on his teacher’s face. He calculated
> again on his fingers. But within him he was also searching for the answer
> that will make the teacher happy. His search for the answer was not for the
> correct one, but the one that will make his teacher happy. This time
> hesitatingly he replied. “Four…..”
>
>
> The disappointed stayed on the teacher’s face. She remembered Arnav loves
> Strawberries. She thought maybe he doesn’t like apples and that is making
> him lose focus. This time with exaggerated excitement and twinkling eyes
> she asked, “If I give you one strawberry and one strawberry and one more
> strawberry, they how many will Arnav have?”
>
>
> Seeing the teacher happy, young Arnav calculated on his fingers again.
> There was no pressure on him, but a little on the teacher. She wanted her
> new approach to succeed. With a hesitating smile young Arnav enquired,
> “Three”?
>
>
> The teacher now had victorious smile. Her approach had succeeded. She
> wanted to congratulate herself. But one last thing remained. Once again she
> asked him, “Now if I give you one apple and one apple and one more apple,
> how many will you have?”
>
>
> Promptly Arnav answered, “Four!”
>
>
> The teacher was aghast. ”How Arnav, How?” she demanded in a little stern
> and irritated voice.
>
>
> In a voice that was law and hesitating young Arnav replied, “Because I
> already have on apple in my bag”
>
>
> Morale of the Story: When someone gives us an answer that is different from
> what we are expecting, not necessarily they are wrong. There maybe an angle
> that we have not understood at all
SA3EDLORD
15-10-2009, 19:35
سلام.اینجا میتونید داستانهاتون رو بذارید البته به زبان انگلیسی.:46::46:
برای یادگیری کلمات انگلیسی خوبه به نظر من.:40::40::40:
برای یادگیری کلمات انگلیسی خوبه به نظر من.:40::40::40:
SA3EDLORD
15-10-2009, 19:37
The Blanket
Petey hadn’t really believed that Dad would be doing it ـ sending Granddad away.”Away” was what they were calling it. Not until now could he believe it of Dad.
But here was the blanket that Dad had that day bought for him, and in the morning he’d be going away. And this was be last evening they’d be having together .Dad was off seeing that girl he was to marry. He’d not be back till late, and they could sit up and talk.
It was a fine september night, with a thin white moon riding high over the gully. When they’d washed up the supper dishes they went out on the shanty porch, the old man the bit of a boy, talking their chairs.”I’ll get me fiddle,” said the old man, ”play ye some of the old tunes.” But instead of the fiddle he brought our the blanket. It was a big, double blanket, red, with black cross stripes.
“ Now, isn’t that a fine blanket!” said the old man, smoothing it over his knees. “And isn’t your father a kind man to be giving the old fellow a blanket like that to go away with? It cost something, it did –look at the wool of it! And warm it will be these cold winter nights to come. There’ll be few blankets there the equal of this one!”
It was like granddad to be saying that. He was trying to make it easier .He’d pretended all along it was he that was wanting to go away to the great brick building-the government place, where he’d be with so many other old fellows having the best of everything…….But Petey hadn’t believed Dad would really do it, until this night when he brought home the blanket.
“Oh, yes , its fine blanket, “ said Petey, and got up and went into the shanty. He wasn’t the kind to cry , and besides, he was too old for that, being eleven. He’d just come in to fetch Granddad’s fiddle.
The blanket slid to the floor as the old man took the fiddle and stood up. It the last night they’d be having together . There wasn’t any need to say, “Play all the old tunes.” Granddad tuned up for a minute, and then said, “This is one you’ll like to remember.”
The thin moon was high overhead, and there was a gentle breeze playing down the gully. He’d never
be hearing Granddad play like this again. It was as well Dad was moving into that new house, away from here. He’d not want, Petey wouldn’t, to sit here on the old porch of fine evenings, with Granddad gone.
The tune changed. “Here’s something gayer.” Petey sat and stared out over the gully. Dad would marry that girl. Yes, that girl who’d kissed him and slobbered over him, saying she’d try to be a good mother to him, and all…..His chair creaked as he involuntarily gave his body a painful twist.
The tune stopped suddenly, and Granddad said: “It’s a poor tune, except to be dancing to.” And then: “It’s a fine girl your father’s going to marry. He’ll be feeling young again, with a pretty wife like that. And what would an old fellow like me be doing around their house, getting in the way, an old nuisance, what with my talk of aches and pains! And then there’ll be babies coming, and I’d not want to be there to hear them crying at all hours.
It’s best that I take myself off, like I’m doing. One more tune or two, and then we’ll be going to bed to get some sleep against the morning, when I’ll pack up my fine blanket and take my leave. Listen to this, will you? It’s a bit sad, but a fine tune for a night like this.”
They didn’t hear the two people coming down the gully path, Dad and the pretty girl with the hard, bright face like a china doll’s. But they heard her laugh, right by the porch, and the tune stopped on a wrong, high, startled note. Dad didn’t say anything, but the girl came forward and spoke to Granddad prettily: “I’ll not be seeing you leave in the morning, so I came over to say good-bye.”
“It’s kind of you,” said Granddad, with his eyes cast down; and then, seeing the blanket at his feet, he stooped to pick it up. “And will you look at this,” he said in embarrassment, “the fine blanket my son has given me to go away with!”
“Yes,” she said, “it’s a fine blanket.”
She felt of the wool, and repeated in surprise, “A fine blanket-I’ll say it is!” She turned to Dad, and said to him coldly, “It cost something, that.”
He cleared his throat, and said defensively , “I wanted him to have the best…..”
The girl stood there, still intent on the blanket. “It’s double, too,” she said reproachfully to Dad.
“Yes,” said Granddad, “it’s double a fine blanket for an old fellow to be going away with.”
The boy went abruptly into the shanty. He was looking for something. He could hear that girl reproaching Dad, and Dad becoming angry in his slow way. And now she was suddenly going away in the half…….As Petey came out, she turned and called back, “All the same, he doesn’t need a double blanket!” And she ran up the gully path.
Dad was looking after her uncertainly . “Oh, she’s right,” said the boy coldly. “Here, Dad”-and he held out a pair of scissors. “Cut the blanket in two.”
Both of them stared at the boy, stared. “Cut it in two, I tell you, Dad!” he cried out. “And keep the other half!”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Granddad gently. “I don’t need so much of a blanket.”
“Yes,” said the boy harshly, “a single blanket’s enough for an old man when he’s send away. We’ll save the other half, Dad; it will coming handy later.”
“Now, what do you mean by that?” asked Dad.
“I mean,” said the boy slowly, “that I’ll give it to you, Dad-when you’re old and I’m sending you-away.”
There was a silence , and then Dad went over to Granddad and stood before him, not speaking. But Granddad understood , for he put out a hand and laid it of Dad’s shoulder.
Petey was watching them. And heard Granddad whisper, “It’s all right, son- I khew you didn’t mean it...”
And then Petey cried.
But it didn’t matter-because they were all three crying together.
Petey hadn’t really believed that Dad would be doing it ـ sending Granddad away.”Away” was what they were calling it. Not until now could he believe it of Dad.
But here was the blanket that Dad had that day bought for him, and in the morning he’d be going away. And this was be last evening they’d be having together .Dad was off seeing that girl he was to marry. He’d not be back till late, and they could sit up and talk.
It was a fine september night, with a thin white moon riding high over the gully. When they’d washed up the supper dishes they went out on the shanty porch, the old man the bit of a boy, talking their chairs.”I’ll get me fiddle,” said the old man, ”play ye some of the old tunes.” But instead of the fiddle he brought our the blanket. It was a big, double blanket, red, with black cross stripes.
“ Now, isn’t that a fine blanket!” said the old man, smoothing it over his knees. “And isn’t your father a kind man to be giving the old fellow a blanket like that to go away with? It cost something, it did –look at the wool of it! And warm it will be these cold winter nights to come. There’ll be few blankets there the equal of this one!”
It was like granddad to be saying that. He was trying to make it easier .He’d pretended all along it was he that was wanting to go away to the great brick building-the government place, where he’d be with so many other old fellows having the best of everything…….But Petey hadn’t believed Dad would really do it, until this night when he brought home the blanket.
“Oh, yes , its fine blanket, “ said Petey, and got up and went into the shanty. He wasn’t the kind to cry , and besides, he was too old for that, being eleven. He’d just come in to fetch Granddad’s fiddle.
The blanket slid to the floor as the old man took the fiddle and stood up. It the last night they’d be having together . There wasn’t any need to say, “Play all the old tunes.” Granddad tuned up for a minute, and then said, “This is one you’ll like to remember.”
The thin moon was high overhead, and there was a gentle breeze playing down the gully. He’d never
be hearing Granddad play like this again. It was as well Dad was moving into that new house, away from here. He’d not want, Petey wouldn’t, to sit here on the old porch of fine evenings, with Granddad gone.
The tune changed. “Here’s something gayer.” Petey sat and stared out over the gully. Dad would marry that girl. Yes, that girl who’d kissed him and slobbered over him, saying she’d try to be a good mother to him, and all…..His chair creaked as he involuntarily gave his body a painful twist.
The tune stopped suddenly, and Granddad said: “It’s a poor tune, except to be dancing to.” And then: “It’s a fine girl your father’s going to marry. He’ll be feeling young again, with a pretty wife like that. And what would an old fellow like me be doing around their house, getting in the way, an old nuisance, what with my talk of aches and pains! And then there’ll be babies coming, and I’d not want to be there to hear them crying at all hours.
It’s best that I take myself off, like I’m doing. One more tune or two, and then we’ll be going to bed to get some sleep against the morning, when I’ll pack up my fine blanket and take my leave. Listen to this, will you? It’s a bit sad, but a fine tune for a night like this.”
They didn’t hear the two people coming down the gully path, Dad and the pretty girl with the hard, bright face like a china doll’s. But they heard her laugh, right by the porch, and the tune stopped on a wrong, high, startled note. Dad didn’t say anything, but the girl came forward and spoke to Granddad prettily: “I’ll not be seeing you leave in the morning, so I came over to say good-bye.”
“It’s kind of you,” said Granddad, with his eyes cast down; and then, seeing the blanket at his feet, he stooped to pick it up. “And will you look at this,” he said in embarrassment, “the fine blanket my son has given me to go away with!”
“Yes,” she said, “it’s a fine blanket.”
She felt of the wool, and repeated in surprise, “A fine blanket-I’ll say it is!” She turned to Dad, and said to him coldly, “It cost something, that.”
He cleared his throat, and said defensively , “I wanted him to have the best…..”
The girl stood there, still intent on the blanket. “It’s double, too,” she said reproachfully to Dad.
“Yes,” said Granddad, “it’s double a fine blanket for an old fellow to be going away with.”
The boy went abruptly into the shanty. He was looking for something. He could hear that girl reproaching Dad, and Dad becoming angry in his slow way. And now she was suddenly going away in the half…….As Petey came out, she turned and called back, “All the same, he doesn’t need a double blanket!” And she ran up the gully path.
Dad was looking after her uncertainly . “Oh, she’s right,” said the boy coldly. “Here, Dad”-and he held out a pair of scissors. “Cut the blanket in two.”
Both of them stared at the boy, stared. “Cut it in two, I tell you, Dad!” he cried out. “And keep the other half!”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Granddad gently. “I don’t need so much of a blanket.”
“Yes,” said the boy harshly, “a single blanket’s enough for an old man when he’s send away. We’ll save the other half, Dad; it will coming handy later.”
“Now, what do you mean by that?” asked Dad.
“I mean,” said the boy slowly, “that I’ll give it to you, Dad-when you’re old and I’m sending you-away.”
There was a silence , and then Dad went over to Granddad and stood before him, not speaking. But Granddad understood , for he put out a hand and laid it of Dad’s shoulder.
Petey was watching them. And heard Granddad whisper, “It’s all right, son- I khew you didn’t mean it...”
And then Petey cried.
But it didn’t matter-because they were all three crying together.
seymour
16-10-2009, 18:27
hmmm .. we have a kinda similar ([ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ])topic...is this one something different?
محمد88
24-11-2009, 14:26
USED vs. LOVED
While a man was polishing his new car, his 4 yr old son picked up a stone and scratched lines on the side of the car
In anger, the man took the child's hand and hit it many times; not realizing he was using a wrench.
At the hospital, the child lost all his fingers due to multiple fractures. When the child saw his father with painful eyes he asked, 'Dad when will my fingers grow back?'
The man was so hurt and speechless; he went back to his car and kicked it a lot of times..
Devastated by his own actions, sitting in front of that car he looked at the scratches; the child had written 'LOVE YOU DAD'.
. The next day that man committed suicide
=======
.Anger and Love have no limits; choose the latter to have a beautiful, lovely life
Things are to be used and people are to be loved, but the problem in today's world is that, People are used and things are loved.
While a man was polishing his new car, his 4 yr old son picked up a stone and scratched lines on the side of the car
In anger, the man took the child's hand and hit it many times; not realizing he was using a wrench.
At the hospital, the child lost all his fingers due to multiple fractures. When the child saw his father with painful eyes he asked, 'Dad when will my fingers grow back?'
The man was so hurt and speechless; he went back to his car and kicked it a lot of times..
Devastated by his own actions, sitting in front of that car he looked at the scratches; the child had written 'LOVE YOU DAD'.
. The next day that man committed suicide
=======
.Anger and Love have no limits; choose the latter to have a beautiful, lovely life
Things are to be used and people are to be loved, but the problem in today's world is that, People are used and things are loved.
محمد88
02-12-2009, 13:32
. Boy Liked A Girl Working In A CD Shop Very Much. But He Did Not Told Her About His Love
Everyday He Was Going To The CD Shop, And Buying A CD Just For Talking To Her.After A Month He Died. When The Girl Went To His House And
Asked About Him, Boy's Mom Said That He Died, And Then Mother Took The Girl To Boy's Room. She Saw All The CDs Unopened
The Girl Cried And Cried And Finally Died. You Know Why She Cried? Because She Had Kept Her Own Love Letters Inside The CD Packs
. She Also Loved Him
. If You Love Someone, Say To Him/her Directly. Don't Wait For The Destiny To Play The Role
Everyday He Was Going To The CD Shop, And Buying A CD Just For Talking To Her.After A Month He Died. When The Girl Went To His House And
Asked About Him, Boy's Mom Said That He Died, And Then Mother Took The Girl To Boy's Room. She Saw All The CDs Unopened
The Girl Cried And Cried And Finally Died. You Know Why She Cried? Because She Had Kept Her Own Love Letters Inside The CD Packs
. She Also Loved Him
. If You Love Someone, Say To Him/her Directly. Don't Wait For The Destiny To Play The Role
nafare_aval
02-12-2009, 14:08
. Boy Liked A Girl Working In A CD Shop Very Much. But He Did Not Told Her About His Love
Everyday He Was Going To The CD Shop, And Buying A CD Just For Talking To Her.After A Month He Died. When The Girl Went To His House And
Asked About Him, Boy's Mom Said That He Died, And Then Mother Took The Girl To Boy's Room. She Saw All The CDs Unopened
The Girl Cried And Cried And Finally Died. You Know Why She Cried? Because She Had Kept Her Own Love Letters Inside The CD Packs
. She Also Loved Him
. If You Love Someone, Say To Him/her Directly. Don't Wait For The Destiny To Play The Role
very nice...i was really affected...but there is a grammatical problem mate...i know you know...just for amateurs...he did not tell him
Everyday He Was Going To The CD Shop, And Buying A CD Just For Talking To Her.After A Month He Died. When The Girl Went To His House And
Asked About Him, Boy's Mom Said That He Died, And Then Mother Took The Girl To Boy's Room. She Saw All The CDs Unopened
The Girl Cried And Cried And Finally Died. You Know Why She Cried? Because She Had Kept Her Own Love Letters Inside The CD Packs
. She Also Loved Him
. If You Love Someone, Say To Him/her Directly. Don't Wait For The Destiny To Play The Role
very nice...i was really affected...but there is a grammatical problem mate...i know you know...just for amateurs...he did not tell him
Ramana
25-12-2009, 00:57
this topic made for your stories
plz the first read the rules
plz the first read the rules
Ramana
25-12-2009, 00:58
A small crack appeared On a cocoon.
A man sat for hours and watched
Carefully the struggle of the butterfly
To get out of that small crack of cacoon.
Then the butterfly stopped striving .
It seemed that she was exhausted and couidnot go on trying.
The man decided to help the poor creature.
He widened the crack by scissors.
The butterfly came out of cocoon easily, but her body was
Tiny and her wings were wrinkled.
The man continued watching the butterfly.
He expected to see her wings become her body.
But it did not happen!
As a matter of fact,the butterfly to crawl on
The ground for the rest of her life,
For she could never fly.
The kind man did not realize that God had arranged the limitation of cocoon.
And also the struggle for butterfly to get out of it,
so that a certain fluid could be discharged from her
body to enable her to fly afterward.
Sometimes struggling is the only thing we need to do .
If God had provided us with n easy life to live without any difficulties,
Then we become strong,and could not fly.
A man sat for hours and watched
Carefully the struggle of the butterfly
To get out of that small crack of cacoon.
Then the butterfly stopped striving .
It seemed that she was exhausted and couidnot go on trying.
The man decided to help the poor creature.
He widened the crack by scissors.
The butterfly came out of cocoon easily, but her body was
Tiny and her wings were wrinkled.
The man continued watching the butterfly.
He expected to see her wings become her body.
But it did not happen!
As a matter of fact,the butterfly to crawl on
The ground for the rest of her life,
For she could never fly.
The kind man did not realize that God had arranged the limitation of cocoon.
And also the struggle for butterfly to get out of it,
so that a certain fluid could be discharged from her
body to enable her to fly afterward.
Sometimes struggling is the only thing we need to do .
If God had provided us with n easy life to live without any difficulties,
Then we become strong,and could not fly.
Ramana
25-12-2009, 00:58
Times are Changing ...
People are changing too ...
clouds and winds come and go ...
nobody stays forever ...
but there are some constant truths in the world ...
like:
LOVE, FRIENDSHIP, LOYALTY, HUMANITY, TRUTHFULNESS, HONESTY and
People are changing too ...
clouds and winds come and go ...
nobody stays forever ...
but there are some constant truths in the world ...
like:
LOVE, FRIENDSHIP, LOYALTY, HUMANITY, TRUTHFULNESS, HONESTY and
Ramana
25-12-2009, 00:59
A group of frogs were traveling through the woods, and two of them
fell into a deep pit. When the other frogs saw how deep the pit
was, they told the two frogs that they were as good as dead. The
two frogs ignored the comments and tried to jump up out of the pit
with all their might. The other frogs kept telling them to stop,
that they were as good as dead. Finally, one of the frogs took
heed to what the other frogs were saying and gave up. He fell down
and died.
The other frog continued to jump as hard as he could. Once again,
the crowd of frogs yelled at him to stop the pain and just die. He
jumped even harder and finally made it out. When he got out, the
other frogs said, "Did you not hear us?" The frog explained to
them that he was deaf. He thought they were encouraging him the
entire time.
This story teaches two lessons:
1. There is power of life and death in the tongue. An encouraging
word to someone who is down can lift them up and help them make it
through the day.
2. A destructive word to someone who is down can be what it takes
to kill them.
Be careful of what you say. Speak life to those who cross your
path. The power of words... it is sometimes hard to understand
that an encouraging word can go such a long way. Anyone can speak
words that tend to rob another of the spirit to continue in
difficult times. Special is the individual who will take the time
to encourage another
fell into a deep pit. When the other frogs saw how deep the pit
was, they told the two frogs that they were as good as dead. The
two frogs ignored the comments and tried to jump up out of the pit
with all their might. The other frogs kept telling them to stop,
that they were as good as dead. Finally, one of the frogs took
heed to what the other frogs were saying and gave up. He fell down
and died.
The other frog continued to jump as hard as he could. Once again,
the crowd of frogs yelled at him to stop the pain and just die. He
jumped even harder and finally made it out. When he got out, the
other frogs said, "Did you not hear us?" The frog explained to
them that he was deaf. He thought they were encouraging him the
entire time.
This story teaches two lessons:
1. There is power of life and death in the tongue. An encouraging
word to someone who is down can lift them up and help them make it
through the day.
2. A destructive word to someone who is down can be what it takes
to kill them.
Be careful of what you say. Speak life to those who cross your
path. The power of words... it is sometimes hard to understand
that an encouraging word can go such a long way. Anyone can speak
words that tend to rob another of the spirit to continue in
difficult times. Special is the individual who will take the time
to encourage another
Ramana
25-12-2009, 00:59
Reading between the lines
In many reading comprehension tests, you are asked to read a passage and choose the best answer to some questions about it. Often these questions ask you to make an inference about the reading. Remember that an inference is a true idea that is not stated directly but you can be inferred (concluded or deduced) from what is stated. In English, this is often called "Reading Between the Lines." Look at the first question of the following exercise. In order to choose the correct inference, you must decide why three of the ideas are not correct inferences. The test is trying to fool you, so be careful! First, one of the choices is false. Another is true, but we don’t have enough information to decide. Another of the choices may be true but is already directly stated in the passage in different words. So it is not an inference. Now, through the process of elimination, we have cut out three choices and are left with the one correct answer. So circle the letter for that answer.
Good luck
In many reading comprehension tests, you are asked to read a passage and choose the best answer to some questions about it. Often these questions ask you to make an inference about the reading. Remember that an inference is a true idea that is not stated directly but you can be inferred (concluded or deduced) from what is stated. In English, this is often called "Reading Between the Lines." Look at the first question of the following exercise. In order to choose the correct inference, you must decide why three of the ideas are not correct inferences. The test is trying to fool you, so be careful! First, one of the choices is false. Another is true, but we don’t have enough information to decide. Another of the choices may be true but is already directly stated in the passage in different words. So it is not an inference. Now, through the process of elimination, we have cut out three choices and are left with the one correct answer. So circle the letter for that answer.
Good luck
Ramana
25-12-2009, 01:00
When Mary Smith was a student, she always wanted to become a teacher, because she liked children. When she was twenty-one years old, she began teaching in a small school. She was a good teacher, and she laughed a lot with the children in her class. They enjoyed her teaching.
One day one of the girls in her class said to her, "Miss Smith, why does a man's hair become gray before his mustache and beard do?"
Mary laughed and answered, "I don't know, Helen. Why does it become gray before his mustaches and beard do?"
"I don't know either, Miss Smith," answered Helen,"but it happened to my father." The other children in her class laughed when they heard this.
Then one of the boys said, "I know, Miss Smith! Men's hair becomes gray first because it's sixteen years older than their mustaches and beards:icon_pf2 (41):." ;-)
One day one of the girls in her class said to her, "Miss Smith, why does a man's hair become gray before his mustache and beard do?"
Mary laughed and answered, "I don't know, Helen. Why does it become gray before his mustaches and beard do?"
"I don't know either, Miss Smith," answered Helen,"but it happened to my father." The other children in her class laughed when they heard this.
Then one of the boys said, "I know, Miss Smith! Men's hair becomes gray first because it's sixteen years older than their mustaches and beards:icon_pf2 (41):." ;-)
Ramana
25-12-2009, 01:01
Kate and Jenny went to school together for several years and were friends . Kate had a younger sister , but Jenny didn't have any brothers or sisters . Then Kate and Jenny left school , and after a few years both of them got married and had children .
They didn't live near each other now . Both of them were busy with their families , so they didn't see each other , until Kate's sister got married.
One day Kate and Jenny met in the city while they were shopping . They talked for some time , and then Jenny said to Kate , " How's your sister getting along with her new husband?"
"Oh , fine , Jenny ," Kate answered quickly. " There's only one little thing."
" Oh, what's that?" asked Jenny.
"Well, she hates him, " said Kate. " But there's always some thing wrong with everything , isn't there? Nothing's ever perfect
They didn't live near each other now . Both of them were busy with their families , so they didn't see each other , until Kate's sister got married.
One day Kate and Jenny met in the city while they were shopping . They talked for some time , and then Jenny said to Kate , " How's your sister getting along with her new husband?"
"Oh , fine , Jenny ," Kate answered quickly. " There's only one little thing."
" Oh, what's that?" asked Jenny.
"Well, she hates him, " said Kate. " But there's always some thing wrong with everything , isn't there? Nothing's ever perfect
Ramana
25-12-2009, 01:02
Al Brown was very good at fixing things around the house when they broke. One day he went to another city to do some work there, and his wife was alone in the house. While Mr.Brown was away, one of the faucets on the bathtub broke.Mrs.Brown didn't know much about fixing broken faucets, so she telephoned a plumber.
The plumber came to the house that afternoon and fixed the faucet in a few minutes. When , he gave Mrs.Brown his bill for the work.
She looked at it for several second and then said," your prices are very high, aren't they? Do you know, the doctor costs less than this when he comes to the house?"
"Yes, I know," answered the plumber. "I know that very well, because I was a doctor until I was lucky enough to find this job a few months ago
The plumber came to the house that afternoon and fixed the faucet in a few minutes. When , he gave Mrs.Brown his bill for the work.
She looked at it for several second and then said," your prices are very high, aren't they? Do you know, the doctor costs less than this when he comes to the house?"
"Yes, I know," answered the plumber. "I know that very well, because I was a doctor until I was lucky enough to find this job a few months ago
Ramana
25-12-2009, 01:16
Bill and Fred were students at university and they were friends. they didn't have much money ,so when it was time for their summer vacation,Bill said,"Let's take our vacation in a trailer,
,Fred.It's cheaper than a hotel. I can borrow my father's trailer."
Fred was very happy,so they got into the trailer and began their vacation .
They wanted to get up early the next day to go fishing,but they didn't have an alarm clock.
"That's all right,Bill,"Fred said."I'll put these small pieces of bread on the roof of the trailer tonight and they'll wake us up in the morning."
Bill was very surprised,but he didn't say anything.
Fred was right. As soon as it began to get night, small birds came down to eat the bread, and their noise on the roof of the trailer work Bill and Fred up very quickly
,Fred.It's cheaper than a hotel. I can borrow my father's trailer."
Fred was very happy,so they got into the trailer and began their vacation .
They wanted to get up early the next day to go fishing,but they didn't have an alarm clock.
"That's all right,Bill,"Fred said."I'll put these small pieces of bread on the roof of the trailer tonight and they'll wake us up in the morning."
Bill was very surprised,but he didn't say anything.
Fred was right. As soon as it began to get night, small birds came down to eat the bread, and their noise on the roof of the trailer work Bill and Fred up very quickly
Ramana
25-12-2009, 01:17
When George was thirty-five,he bought a small plane and learned to fly it. He soon became very good and made his plane do all kinds of tricks.
George had a friend . His name was Mark . One day George offered to take Mark up in his plane . Mark thought, " I've traveled in a big plane several times, but I've never been in a small one, so I'll go."
They went up, George flew around for half an hour and did all kinds of tricks in the air.
When they come down again , Mark was very glad to be back safely , and he said to his friend in a shaking voice, " Well, George thank you very much for those two trips in your plane."
George was very surprised and said , " Two trips?"
" Yes my first and my last," answered Mark
George had a friend . His name was Mark . One day George offered to take Mark up in his plane . Mark thought, " I've traveled in a big plane several times, but I've never been in a small one, so I'll go."
They went up, George flew around for half an hour and did all kinds of tricks in the air.
When they come down again , Mark was very glad to be back safely , and he said to his friend in a shaking voice, " Well, George thank you very much for those two trips in your plane."
George was very surprised and said , " Two trips?"
" Yes my first and my last," answered Mark
Ramana
25-12-2009, 01:17
Jean was traveling around New England by car.One day ,she stopped in a small village to look at a beautiful old church.There was a cemetery in front of it,and an old man was raking the grass around the graves.
Jean got out of her car, went into the cemetery , and looked at some of the graves. Then she went over to the old man , and said to him,"Goodmorning, Do people often die in this village?"
The old man stopped working for a few secands ,looked at Jean carefully,and said "No, thay die once."
Jean laughed when she heard this, and she said,"I'm Sorry, I did'nt say that correctly"I'll ask it differently." Do a lot of people die in this village?"
The old man stopped her work againe, "yes" he said "All of them do."
Than he began raking the grass againe
Jean got out of her car, went into the cemetery , and looked at some of the graves. Then she went over to the old man , and said to him,"Goodmorning, Do people often die in this village?"
The old man stopped working for a few secands ,looked at Jean carefully,and said "No, thay die once."
Jean laughed when she heard this, and she said,"I'm Sorry, I did'nt say that correctly"I'll ask it differently." Do a lot of people die in this village?"
The old man stopped her work againe, "yes" he said "All of them do."
Than he began raking the grass againe
Ramana
25-12-2009, 01:18
Polly went to school,when she was six years old.she liked her first day very much.her teacher,Miss Yates was very nice,and the other children IN her classroom were nice,too.But at the end of the second day,when the other children left the classroom,Polly stayed behind and waited.
Miss Yates had some work to do.she did not SEE Polly,at first.But then she looked up and saw her,"Why didn't you go with the others,Polly?" she asked kindly, "did you WANT TO ask me a question"
"Yes Miss Yates"Polly said
"What is it?"Miss Yates asked
"What DID I do in school today?"Polly said
Miss Yates laughed, What DID you do in school today? she asked"why did YOU ask me that,Polly?"
Because,I'M GOING TO GO home now" Polly ANSWERED."AND my mother's GOING TO ask me
Miss Yates had some work to do.she did not SEE Polly,at first.But then she looked up and saw her,"Why didn't you go with the others,Polly?" she asked kindly, "did you WANT TO ask me a question"
"Yes Miss Yates"Polly said
"What is it?"Miss Yates asked
"What DID I do in school today?"Polly said
Miss Yates laughed, What DID you do in school today? she asked"why did YOU ask me that,Polly?"
Because,I'M GOING TO GO home now" Polly ANSWERED."AND my mother's GOING TO ask me
Ramana
25-12-2009, 01:30
Mrs, Green was an old lady. she traveled often ,she wasn't afraid of flying. one day she was going from Chicago to San Francisco in a big plan. there were a lot of empty seats on it. Mrs Green's seat near a window
there waz a young man on the other side of the aisle . he was near a window,too . Mrs Green looked at the young man several time. he's always looking at the engine outside his window.she thought Mrs Green got up and walked around in the plan for a few minutes. Then she sat down and looked at the young man again. Yes she thought," he's looking at that engine all the time."
After half an hour Mrs. Green went over to him and said,"Take a walk around the plan , young man . I'm going to watch that engine for you for a few minutes
there waz a young man on the other side of the aisle . he was near a window,too . Mrs Green looked at the young man several time. he's always looking at the engine outside his window.she thought Mrs Green got up and walked around in the plan for a few minutes. Then she sat down and looked at the young man again. Yes she thought," he's looking at that engine all the time."
After half an hour Mrs. Green went over to him and said,"Take a walk around the plan , young man . I'm going to watch that engine for you for a few minutes
Ramana
25-12-2009, 01:31
Jimmey lived in the country.he love playing a very shallow river near his house. but his father got a job in a big city.he moved there with his family. their new house had a garden, but the garden was very small .Jimmy wasn't very happy . he asked his mother on the first morning,"Is there a river near our house mommy" his mother said,"No,there isn't Jimmy " But there's a beautiful park near hear and there was a pool in it .
we'll go there this morning.Jimmy was very happy now.
after lunch Jimmy and his mother went to the park.Jimmy wanted to walk near the pool. but there was a sing at front of the pool. his mother read it to him. WARNING:this pool is very dangerous. 367 people have fallen in to it.
Jimmy looked in to the pool carefully .Then he said,"I can't see them
we'll go there this morning.Jimmy was very happy now.
after lunch Jimmy and his mother went to the park.Jimmy wanted to walk near the pool. but there was a sing at front of the pool. his mother read it to him. WARNING:this pool is very dangerous. 367 people have fallen in to it.
Jimmy looked in to the pool carefully .Then he said,"I can't see them
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:20
يك داستان كوتاه انگليسي (با ترجمه ي فارسي)
Mr Robinson never went to a dentist, because he was afraid:'
but then his teeth began hurting a lot, and he went to a dentist. The dentist did a lot of work in his mouth for a long time. On the last day Mr Robinson said to him, 'How much is all this work going to cost?' The dentist said, 'Twenty-five pounds,' but he did not ask him for the money.
After a month Mr Robinson phoned the dentist and said, 'You haven't asked me for any money for your work last month.'
'Oh,' the dentist answered, 'I never ask a gentleman for money.'
'Then how do you live?' Mr Robinson asked.
'Most gentlemen pay me quickly,' the dentist said, 'but some don't. I wait for my money for two months, and then I say, "That man isn't a gentleman," and then I ask him for my money.
آقاي رابينسون هرگز به دندانپزشكي نرفته بود، براي اينكه ميترسيد.
اما بعد دندانش شروع به درد كرد، و به دندانپزشكي رفت. دندانپزشك بر روي دهان او وقت زيادي گذاشت و كلي كار كرد. در آخرين روز دكتر رابينسون به او گفت: هزينهي تمام اين كارها چقدر ميشود؟ دندانپزشك گفت: بيست و پنج پوند. اما از او درخواست پول نكرد.
بعد از يك ماه آقاي رابينسون به دندانپزشك زنگ زد و گفت: ماه گذشته شما از من تقاضاي هيچ پولي براي كارتان نكرديد.
دندانپزشك پاسخ داد: آه، من هرگز از انسانهاي نجيب تقاضاي پول نميكنم.
آقاي رابينسون پرسيد: پس چگونه زندگي ميكنيد.
دندانپزشك گفت: بيشتر انسانهاي شريف به سرعت پول مرا ميدهند، اما بعضيها نه. من براي پولم دو ماه صبر ميكنم، و بعد ميگويم «وي مرد شريفي نيست» و بعد از وي پولم را ميخواهم.
Mr Robinson never went to a dentist, because he was afraid:'
but then his teeth began hurting a lot, and he went to a dentist. The dentist did a lot of work in his mouth for a long time. On the last day Mr Robinson said to him, 'How much is all this work going to cost?' The dentist said, 'Twenty-five pounds,' but he did not ask him for the money.
After a month Mr Robinson phoned the dentist and said, 'You haven't asked me for any money for your work last month.'
'Oh,' the dentist answered, 'I never ask a gentleman for money.'
'Then how do you live?' Mr Robinson asked.
'Most gentlemen pay me quickly,' the dentist said, 'but some don't. I wait for my money for two months, and then I say, "That man isn't a gentleman," and then I ask him for my money.
آقاي رابينسون هرگز به دندانپزشكي نرفته بود، براي اينكه ميترسيد.
اما بعد دندانش شروع به درد كرد، و به دندانپزشكي رفت. دندانپزشك بر روي دهان او وقت زيادي گذاشت و كلي كار كرد. در آخرين روز دكتر رابينسون به او گفت: هزينهي تمام اين كارها چقدر ميشود؟ دندانپزشك گفت: بيست و پنج پوند. اما از او درخواست پول نكرد.
بعد از يك ماه آقاي رابينسون به دندانپزشك زنگ زد و گفت: ماه گذشته شما از من تقاضاي هيچ پولي براي كارتان نكرديد.
دندانپزشك پاسخ داد: آه، من هرگز از انسانهاي نجيب تقاضاي پول نميكنم.
آقاي رابينسون پرسيد: پس چگونه زندگي ميكنيد.
دندانپزشك گفت: بيشتر انسانهاي شريف به سرعت پول مرا ميدهند، اما بعضيها نه. من براي پولم دو ماه صبر ميكنم، و بعد ميگويم «وي مرد شريفي نيست» و بعد از وي پولم را ميخواهم.
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:21
Mrs Harris lives in a small village. Her husband is dead, but she has one son. He is twenty-one,
and his name is Geoff. He worked in the shop in the village and lived with his mother, but then he got work in a town and went and lived there. Its name was Greensea. It was quite a long way from his mother's village, and she was not happy about this, but Geoff said, 'There isn't any good work for me in the country, Mother, and I can get a lot of money in Greensea and send you some every week.'
Mrs Harris was very angry last Sunday. She got in a train and went to her son's house in Grcensea. Then she said to him, 'Geoff, why do you never phone me?'
Geoff laughed. 'But, Mother,' he said, 'you haven't got a phone.'
'No,' she answered, 'I haven't, but you've got one!'
خانم هريس در روستاي كوچكي زندگي ميكند. شوهرش مرده است، اما يك پسر دارد. او (پسرش) بيست و يك ساله است و نامش جف است. او در يك فروشگاه در داخل روستا كار و با مادرش زندگي ميكرد، اما پس از آن در شهر كاري به دست آورد و رفت و در آنجا زندگي ميكرد. نام آن (شهر) گرينسي بود. آنجا كاملا از روستاي مادرش دور بود. و او (مادرش) از اين وضع خوشحال نبود، اما جف ميگفت: مادر، در روستا كار خوبي براي من وجود ندارد، و من ميتوانم پول خوبي در گرينسي به دست بياورم و مقداري از آن را هر هفته براي شما بفرستم.
يكشنبهي قبل خانم هريس خيلي عصباني بود. او سوار قطار شد و به سمت خانهي پسرش در گرينسي رفت. سپس به او گفت: جف، چرا تو هرگز به من زنگ نميزني؟
جف خنديد و گفت: اما مادر، شما كه تلفن نداريد.
او (مادرش) پاسخ داد: نه، من ندارم، اما تو كه داري!.
and his name is Geoff. He worked in the shop in the village and lived with his mother, but then he got work in a town and went and lived there. Its name was Greensea. It was quite a long way from his mother's village, and she was not happy about this, but Geoff said, 'There isn't any good work for me in the country, Mother, and I can get a lot of money in Greensea and send you some every week.'
Mrs Harris was very angry last Sunday. She got in a train and went to her son's house in Grcensea. Then she said to him, 'Geoff, why do you never phone me?'
Geoff laughed. 'But, Mother,' he said, 'you haven't got a phone.'
'No,' she answered, 'I haven't, but you've got one!'
خانم هريس در روستاي كوچكي زندگي ميكند. شوهرش مرده است، اما يك پسر دارد. او (پسرش) بيست و يك ساله است و نامش جف است. او در يك فروشگاه در داخل روستا كار و با مادرش زندگي ميكرد، اما پس از آن در شهر كاري به دست آورد و رفت و در آنجا زندگي ميكرد. نام آن (شهر) گرينسي بود. آنجا كاملا از روستاي مادرش دور بود. و او (مادرش) از اين وضع خوشحال نبود، اما جف ميگفت: مادر، در روستا كار خوبي براي من وجود ندارد، و من ميتوانم پول خوبي در گرينسي به دست بياورم و مقداري از آن را هر هفته براي شما بفرستم.
يكشنبهي قبل خانم هريس خيلي عصباني بود. او سوار قطار شد و به سمت خانهي پسرش در گرينسي رفت. سپس به او گفت: جف، چرا تو هرگز به من زنگ نميزني؟
جف خنديد و گفت: اما مادر، شما كه تلفن نداريد.
او (مادرش) پاسخ داد: نه، من ندارم، اما تو كه داري!.
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:22
agroup of frogs were traveling through the woods, and two of them fell into a deep pit When the other frogs saw how deep the pit was, they told the two frogs that they were as good as dead The two frogs ignored the comments and tried to jump up out of the pit with all their migh The other frogs kept telling them to stop, that they were as good as dead Finally, one of the frogs took heed to what the other frogs were saying and gave up. He fell down and died The other frog continued to jump as hard as he could. Once again, the crowd of frogs yelled at him to stop the pain and just die He jumped even harder and finally made it out When he got out, the other frogs said, "Did you not hear us?" The frog explained to them that he was deaf. He thought they were encouraging him the entire time.
This story teaches two lessons
There is power of life and death in the tongue An encouraging word to someone who is down can lift them up and help them make it through the day
A destructive word to someone who is down can be what it takes to kill them
So, be careful of what you say
گروهی از قورباغه ها از بیشه ای عبور می کردند . دو قورباغه از بین آنها درون گودال عمیقی افتادند. وقتی دیگر قورباغه ها دیدند که گودال چقدر عمیق است ،به دو قورباغه گفتند آنها دیگر می میرند. دو قورباغه نصایح آنها را نادیده گرفتند و سعی کردند با تمام توانشان از گودال بیرون بپرند. سرانجام یکی از آنها به آنچه دیگر قورباغه ها می گفتند، اعتنا کرد و دست از تلاش برداشت. به زمین افتاد و مرد. قورباغه دیگر به تلاش ادامه داد تا جایی که توان داشت. بار دیگر قورباغه ها سرش فریاد کشیدند که دست از رنج کشیدن بردارد و بمیرد. او سخت تر شروع به پریدن کرد و سرانجام بیرون آمد. وقتی او از آنجا خارج شد. قورباغه های دیگر به او گفتند :آیا صدای ما را نشنیدی؟ قورباغه به آنها توضیح داد که او ناشنوا است.او فکر کرد که قورباغه ها، تمام مدت او را تشویق می کردند.
این داستان دو درس به ما می آموزد:
1- قدرت زندگی و مرگ در زبان است. یک واژه دلگرم کننده به کسی که غمگین است می تواند باعث پیشرفت او شود و کمک کند در طول روز سرزنده باشند.
2- یک واژه مخرب به کسی که غمگین است می تواند موجب مرگ او شود.
پس مراقب آنجه می گویی باش.
This story teaches two lessons
There is power of life and death in the tongue An encouraging word to someone who is down can lift them up and help them make it through the day
A destructive word to someone who is down can be what it takes to kill them
So, be careful of what you say
گروهی از قورباغه ها از بیشه ای عبور می کردند . دو قورباغه از بین آنها درون گودال عمیقی افتادند. وقتی دیگر قورباغه ها دیدند که گودال چقدر عمیق است ،به دو قورباغه گفتند آنها دیگر می میرند. دو قورباغه نصایح آنها را نادیده گرفتند و سعی کردند با تمام توانشان از گودال بیرون بپرند. سرانجام یکی از آنها به آنچه دیگر قورباغه ها می گفتند، اعتنا کرد و دست از تلاش برداشت. به زمین افتاد و مرد. قورباغه دیگر به تلاش ادامه داد تا جایی که توان داشت. بار دیگر قورباغه ها سرش فریاد کشیدند که دست از رنج کشیدن بردارد و بمیرد. او سخت تر شروع به پریدن کرد و سرانجام بیرون آمد. وقتی او از آنجا خارج شد. قورباغه های دیگر به او گفتند :آیا صدای ما را نشنیدی؟ قورباغه به آنها توضیح داد که او ناشنوا است.او فکر کرد که قورباغه ها، تمام مدت او را تشویق می کردند.
این داستان دو درس به ما می آموزد:
1- قدرت زندگی و مرگ در زبان است. یک واژه دلگرم کننده به کسی که غمگین است می تواند باعث پیشرفت او شود و کمک کند در طول روز سرزنده باشند.
2- یک واژه مخرب به کسی که غمگین است می تواند موجب مرگ او شود.
پس مراقب آنجه می گویی باش.
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:22
استان طاووس و لاک پشت (با ترجمه ی فارسی)
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
The Peacock and the Tortoise
ONCE upon a time a peacock and a tortoise became great friends. The peacock lived on a tree by the banks of the stream in which the tortoise had his home. Everyday, after he had a drink of water, the peacock will dance near the stream to the amusement of his tortoise friend.
One unfortunate day, a bird-catcher caught the peacock and was about to take him away to the market. The unhappy bird begged his captor to allow him to bid his friend, the tortoise good-bye.
The bird-catcher allowed him his request and took him to the tortoise. The tortoise was greatly disturbed to see his friend a captive.
The tortoise asked the bird-catcher to let the peacock go in return for an expensive present. The bird-catcher agreed. The tortoise then, dived into the water and in a few seconds came up with a handsome pearl, to the great astonishment of the bird-catcher. As this was beyond his exceptions, he let the peacock go immediately.
A short time after, the greedy man came back and told the tortoise that he had not paid enough for the release of his friend, and threatened to catch the peacock again unless an exact match of the pearl is given to him. The tortoise, who had already advised his friend, the peacock, to leave the place to a distant jungle upon being set free, was greatly enraged at the greed of this man.
“Well,” said the tortoise, “if you insist on having another pearl like it, give it to me and I will fish you out an exact match for it.” Due to his greed, the bird-catcher gave the pearl to the tortoise, who swam away with it saying, “I am no fool to take one and give two!” The tortoise then disappeared into the water, leaving the bird-catcher without a single pearl.
طاووس و لاک پشت
روزی روزگاری،طاووس و لاک پشتی بودن که دوستای خوبی برای هم بودن.طاووس نزدیک درخت کنار رودی که لاک پشت زندگی می کرد، خونه داشت.. هر روز پس از اینکه طاووس نزدیک رودخانه آبی می خورد ، برای سرگرم کردن دوستش می رقصید.
یک روز بدشانس، یک شکارچی پرنده، طاووس را به دام انداخت و خواست که اونو به بازار ببره. پرنده غمگین، از شکارچی اش خواهش کرد که بهش اجازه بده از لاک پشت خداحافظی کنه.
شکارچی خواهش طاووس رو قبول کرد و اونو پیش لاک پشت برد. لاک پشت از این که میدید دوستش اسیر شده خیلی ناراحت شد.اون از شکارچی خواهش کرد که طاووس رو در عوض دادن هدیه ای باارزش رها کنه. شکارچی قبول کرد.بعد، لاکپشت داخل آب شیرجه زد و بعد از لحظه ای با مرواریدی زیبا بیرون اومد. شکارچی که از دیدن این کار لاک پشت متحیر شده بود فوری اجازه داد که طاووس بره. مدت کوتاهی بعد از این ماجرا، مرد حریص برگشت و به لاک پشت گفت که برای آزادی پرنده ، چیز کمی گرفته و تهدید کرد که دوباره طاووس رو اسیر میکنه مگه اینکه مروارید دیگه ای شبیه مروارید قبلی بگیره. لاک پشت که قبلا به دوستش نصیحت کرده بود برای آزاد بودن ، به جنگل دوردستی بره ،خیلی از دست مرد حریص، عصبانی شد.
لاک پشت گفت:بسیار خوب، اگه اصرار داری مروارید دیگه ای شبیه قبلی داشته باشی، مروارید رو به من بده تا عین اونو برات پیدا کنم. شکارچی به خاطر طمعش ،مروارید رو به لاک پشت داد. لاک پشت درحالیکه با شنا کردن از مرد دور می شد گفت: من نادان نیستم که یکی بگیرم و دوتا بدم. بعد بدون اینکه حتی یه مروارید به شکارجی بده، در آب ناپدید شد.
[ برای مشاهده لینک ، لطفا با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]
The Peacock and the Tortoise
ONCE upon a time a peacock and a tortoise became great friends. The peacock lived on a tree by the banks of the stream in which the tortoise had his home. Everyday, after he had a drink of water, the peacock will dance near the stream to the amusement of his tortoise friend.
One unfortunate day, a bird-catcher caught the peacock and was about to take him away to the market. The unhappy bird begged his captor to allow him to bid his friend, the tortoise good-bye.
The bird-catcher allowed him his request and took him to the tortoise. The tortoise was greatly disturbed to see his friend a captive.
The tortoise asked the bird-catcher to let the peacock go in return for an expensive present. The bird-catcher agreed. The tortoise then, dived into the water and in a few seconds came up with a handsome pearl, to the great astonishment of the bird-catcher. As this was beyond his exceptions, he let the peacock go immediately.
A short time after, the greedy man came back and told the tortoise that he had not paid enough for the release of his friend, and threatened to catch the peacock again unless an exact match of the pearl is given to him. The tortoise, who had already advised his friend, the peacock, to leave the place to a distant jungle upon being set free, was greatly enraged at the greed of this man.
“Well,” said the tortoise, “if you insist on having another pearl like it, give it to me and I will fish you out an exact match for it.” Due to his greed, the bird-catcher gave the pearl to the tortoise, who swam away with it saying, “I am no fool to take one and give two!” The tortoise then disappeared into the water, leaving the bird-catcher without a single pearl.
طاووس و لاک پشت
روزی روزگاری،طاووس و لاک پشتی بودن که دوستای خوبی برای هم بودن.طاووس نزدیک درخت کنار رودی که لاک پشت زندگی می کرد، خونه داشت.. هر روز پس از اینکه طاووس نزدیک رودخانه آبی می خورد ، برای سرگرم کردن دوستش می رقصید.
یک روز بدشانس، یک شکارچی پرنده، طاووس را به دام انداخت و خواست که اونو به بازار ببره. پرنده غمگین، از شکارچی اش خواهش کرد که بهش اجازه بده از لاک پشت خداحافظی کنه.
شکارچی خواهش طاووس رو قبول کرد و اونو پیش لاک پشت برد. لاک پشت از این که میدید دوستش اسیر شده خیلی ناراحت شد.اون از شکارچی خواهش کرد که طاووس رو در عوض دادن هدیه ای باارزش رها کنه. شکارچی قبول کرد.بعد، لاکپشت داخل آب شیرجه زد و بعد از لحظه ای با مرواریدی زیبا بیرون اومد. شکارچی که از دیدن این کار لاک پشت متحیر شده بود فوری اجازه داد که طاووس بره. مدت کوتاهی بعد از این ماجرا، مرد حریص برگشت و به لاک پشت گفت که برای آزادی پرنده ، چیز کمی گرفته و تهدید کرد که دوباره طاووس رو اسیر میکنه مگه اینکه مروارید دیگه ای شبیه مروارید قبلی بگیره. لاک پشت که قبلا به دوستش نصیحت کرده بود برای آزاد بودن ، به جنگل دوردستی بره ،خیلی از دست مرد حریص، عصبانی شد.
لاک پشت گفت:بسیار خوب، اگه اصرار داری مروارید دیگه ای شبیه قبلی داشته باشی، مروارید رو به من بده تا عین اونو برات پیدا کنم. شکارچی به خاطر طمعش ،مروارید رو به لاک پشت داد. لاک پشت درحالیکه با شنا کردن از مرد دور می شد گفت: من نادان نیستم که یکی بگیرم و دوتا بدم. بعد بدون اینکه حتی یه مروارید به شکارجی بده، در آب ناپدید شد.
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:23
هدایایی برای مادر (با ترجمه)
GIFTS FOR MOTHER
Four brothers left home for college, and they became successful doctors and lawyers and prospered. Some years later, they chatted after having dinner together. They discussed the gifts that they were able to give to their elderly mother, who lived far away in another city.
The first said, “I had a big house built for Mama. The second said, “I had a hundred thousand dollar theater built in the house. The third said, “I had my Mercedes dealer deliver her an SL600 with a chauffeur. The fourth said, “Listen to this. You know how Mama loved reading the Bible and you know she can’t read it anymore because she can’t see very well. I met this monk who told me about a parrot that can recite the entire Bible. It took 20 monks 12 years to teach him. I had to pledge them $100,000 a year for 20 years to the church, but it was worth it. Mama just has to name the chapter and verse and the parrot will recite it.” The other brothers were impressed.
After the holidays Mama sent out her Thank You notes. She wrote: Dear Milton, the house you built is so huge. I live in only one room, but I have to clean the whole house. Thanks anyway.
Dear Mike, you gave me an expensive theater with Dolby sound, it could hold 50 people, but all my friends are dead, I’ve lost my hearing and I’m nearly blind. I’ll never use it. But thank you for the gesture just the same.
Dear Marvin, I am too old to travel. I stay home, I have my groceries delivered, so I never use the Mercedes … and the driver you hired is a big jerk. But the thought was good. Thanks.
Dearest Melvin, you were the only son to have the good sense to give a little thought to your gift. The chicken was delicious. Thank you.”
چهار برادر ، خانه شان را به قصد تحصیل ترک کردند و دکتر،قاضی و آدمهای موفقی شدند. چند سال بعد،آنها بعد از شامی که باهم داشتند حرف زدند.اونا درمورد هدایایی که تونستن به مادر پیرشون که دور از اونها در شهر دیگه ای زندگی می کرد ،صحبت کردن.
اولی گفت: من خونه بزرگی برای مادرم ساختم . دومی گفت: من تماشاخانه(سالن تئاتر) یکصد هزار دلاری در خانه ساختم. سومی گفت : من ماشین مرسدسی با راننده کرایه کردم که مادرم به سفر بره.
چهارمی گفت: گوش کنید، همتون می دونید که مادر چقدر خوندن کتاب مقدس رو دوست داره، و میدونین که نمی تونه هیچ چیزی رو خوب بخونه چون جشماش نمیتونه خوب ببینه . شماها میدونید که مادر چقدر خوندن کتاب مقدس را دوست داشت و میدونین هیچ وقت نمی تونه بخونه ، چون چشماش خوب نمی بینه. من ، راهبی رو دیدم که به من گفت یه طوطی هست که میتونه تمام کتاب مقدس رو حفظ بخونه . این طوطی با کمک بیست راهب و در طول دوازده سال اینو یاد گرفت. من ناچارا تعهد کردم به مدت بیست سال و هر سال صد هزار دلار به کلیسا بپردازم. مادر فقط باید اسم فصل ها و آیه ها رو بگه و طوطی از حفظ براش می خونه. برادرای دیگه تحت تاثیر قرار گرفتن.
پس از ایام تعطیل، مادر یادداشت تشکری فرستاد. اون نوشت: میلتون عزیز، خونه ای که برام ساختی خیلی بزرگه .من فقط تو یک اتاق زندگی می کنم ولی مجبورم تمام خونه رو تمییز کنم.به هر حال ممنونم.
مایک عزیز،تو به من تماشاخانه ای گرونقیمت با صدای دالبی دادی.اون ،میتونه پنجاه نفرو جا بده ولی من همه دوستامو از دست دادم ، من شنوایییم رو از دست دادم و تقریبا ناشنوام .هیچ وقت از اون استفاده نمی کنم ولی از این کارت ممنونم.
ماروین عزیز، من خیلی پیرم که به سفر برم.من تو خونه می مونم ،مغازه بقالی ام رو دارم پس هیچ وقت از مرسدس استفاده نمی کنم. این ماشین خیلی تند تکون می خوره. اما فکرت خوب بود ممنونم
ملوین عزیز ترینم ،تو تنها پسری هستی که با فکر کوچیکت بعنوان هدیه ات منو خوشحال کردی. جوجه ، خیلی خوشمزه بود!! ممنونم
GIFTS FOR MOTHER
Four brothers left home for college, and they became successful doctors and lawyers and prospered. Some years later, they chatted after having dinner together. They discussed the gifts that they were able to give to their elderly mother, who lived far away in another city.
The first said, “I had a big house built for Mama. The second said, “I had a hundred thousand dollar theater built in the house. The third said, “I had my Mercedes dealer deliver her an SL600 with a chauffeur. The fourth said, “Listen to this. You know how Mama loved reading the Bible and you know she can’t read it anymore because she can’t see very well. I met this monk who told me about a parrot that can recite the entire Bible. It took 20 monks 12 years to teach him. I had to pledge them $100,000 a year for 20 years to the church, but it was worth it. Mama just has to name the chapter and verse and the parrot will recite it.” The other brothers were impressed.
After the holidays Mama sent out her Thank You notes. She wrote: Dear Milton, the house you built is so huge. I live in only one room, but I have to clean the whole house. Thanks anyway.
Dear Mike, you gave me an expensive theater with Dolby sound, it could hold 50 people, but all my friends are dead, I’ve lost my hearing and I’m nearly blind. I’ll never use it. But thank you for the gesture just the same.
Dear Marvin, I am too old to travel. I stay home, I have my groceries delivered, so I never use the Mercedes … and the driver you hired is a big jerk. But the thought was good. Thanks.
Dearest Melvin, you were the only son to have the good sense to give a little thought to your gift. The chicken was delicious. Thank you.”
چهار برادر ، خانه شان را به قصد تحصیل ترک کردند و دکتر،قاضی و آدمهای موفقی شدند. چند سال بعد،آنها بعد از شامی که باهم داشتند حرف زدند.اونا درمورد هدایایی که تونستن به مادر پیرشون که دور از اونها در شهر دیگه ای زندگی می کرد ،صحبت کردن.
اولی گفت: من خونه بزرگی برای مادرم ساختم . دومی گفت: من تماشاخانه(سالن تئاتر) یکصد هزار دلاری در خانه ساختم. سومی گفت : من ماشین مرسدسی با راننده کرایه کردم که مادرم به سفر بره.
چهارمی گفت: گوش کنید، همتون می دونید که مادر چقدر خوندن کتاب مقدس رو دوست داره، و میدونین که نمی تونه هیچ چیزی رو خوب بخونه چون جشماش نمیتونه خوب ببینه . شماها میدونید که مادر چقدر خوندن کتاب مقدس را دوست داشت و میدونین هیچ وقت نمی تونه بخونه ، چون چشماش خوب نمی بینه. من ، راهبی رو دیدم که به من گفت یه طوطی هست که میتونه تمام کتاب مقدس رو حفظ بخونه . این طوطی با کمک بیست راهب و در طول دوازده سال اینو یاد گرفت. من ناچارا تعهد کردم به مدت بیست سال و هر سال صد هزار دلار به کلیسا بپردازم. مادر فقط باید اسم فصل ها و آیه ها رو بگه و طوطی از حفظ براش می خونه. برادرای دیگه تحت تاثیر قرار گرفتن.
پس از ایام تعطیل، مادر یادداشت تشکری فرستاد. اون نوشت: میلتون عزیز، خونه ای که برام ساختی خیلی بزرگه .من فقط تو یک اتاق زندگی می کنم ولی مجبورم تمام خونه رو تمییز کنم.به هر حال ممنونم.
مایک عزیز،تو به من تماشاخانه ای گرونقیمت با صدای دالبی دادی.اون ،میتونه پنجاه نفرو جا بده ولی من همه دوستامو از دست دادم ، من شنوایییم رو از دست دادم و تقریبا ناشنوام .هیچ وقت از اون استفاده نمی کنم ولی از این کارت ممنونم.
ماروین عزیز، من خیلی پیرم که به سفر برم.من تو خونه می مونم ،مغازه بقالی ام رو دارم پس هیچ وقت از مرسدس استفاده نمی کنم. این ماشین خیلی تند تکون می خوره. اما فکرت خوب بود ممنونم
ملوین عزیز ترینم ،تو تنها پسری هستی که با فکر کوچیکت بعنوان هدیه ات منو خوشحال کردی. جوجه ، خیلی خوشمزه بود!! ممنونم
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:23
A cowboy rode into town and stopped at a saloon for a drink. Unfortunately, the locals always had a habit of picking on strangers. When he finished his drink, he found his horse had been stolen.
He went back into the bar, handily flipped his gun into the air, caught it above his head without even looking and fired a shot into the ceiling. "Which one of you sidewinders stole my horse?!?!? " he yelled with surprising forcefulness. No one answered. "Alright, I’m gonna have another beer, and if my horse ain’t back outside by the time I finish, I’m gonna do what I dun in Texas! And I don’t like to have to do what I dun in Texas! “. Some of the locals shifted restlessly. The man, true to his word, had another beer, walked outside, and his horse had been returned to the post. He saddled up and started to ride out of town. The bartender wandered out of the bar and asked, “Say partner, before you go... what happened in Texas?” The cowboy turned back and said, “I had to walk home.”
گاوچرانی وارد شهر شد و برای نوشیدن چیزی، کنار یک مهمانخانه ایستاد. بدبختانه، کسانی که در آن شهر زندگی میکردند عادت بدی داشتند که سر به سر غریبهها میگذاشتند. وقتی او (گاوچران) نوشیدنیاش را تمام کرد، متوجه شد که اسبش دزدیده شده است.
او به کافه برگشت، و ماهرانه اسلحهاش را در آورد و سمت بالا گرفت و بالای سرش گرفت بدون هیچ نگاهی به سقف یه گلوله شلیک کرد. او با تعجب و خیلی مقتدرانه فریاد زد: «کدام یک از شما آدمهای بد اسب منو دزدیده؟!؟!» کسی پاسخی نداد. «بسیار خوب، من یک آب جو دیگه میخورم، و تا وقتی آن را تمام میکنم اسبم برنگردد، کاری را که در تگزاس انجام دادم انجام میدهم! و دوست ندارم آن کاری رو که در تگزاس انجام دادم رو انجام بدم!» بعضی از افراد خودشون جمع و جور کردن. آن مرد، بر طبق حرفش، آب جو دیگری نوشید، بیرون رفت، و اسبش به سرجایش برگشته بود. اسبش رو زین کرد و به سمت خارج از شهر رفت. کافه چی به آرامی از کافه بیرون آمد و پرسید: هی رفیق قبل از اینکه بری بگو، در تگزاس چه اتفاقی افتاد؟ گاوچران برگشت و گفت: مجبور شدم برم خونه.
He went back into the bar, handily flipped his gun into the air, caught it above his head without even looking and fired a shot into the ceiling. "Which one of you sidewinders stole my horse?!?!? " he yelled with surprising forcefulness. No one answered. "Alright, I’m gonna have another beer, and if my horse ain’t back outside by the time I finish, I’m gonna do what I dun in Texas! And I don’t like to have to do what I dun in Texas! “. Some of the locals shifted restlessly. The man, true to his word, had another beer, walked outside, and his horse had been returned to the post. He saddled up and started to ride out of town. The bartender wandered out of the bar and asked, “Say partner, before you go... what happened in Texas?” The cowboy turned back and said, “I had to walk home.”
گاوچرانی وارد شهر شد و برای نوشیدن چیزی، کنار یک مهمانخانه ایستاد. بدبختانه، کسانی که در آن شهر زندگی میکردند عادت بدی داشتند که سر به سر غریبهها میگذاشتند. وقتی او (گاوچران) نوشیدنیاش را تمام کرد، متوجه شد که اسبش دزدیده شده است.
او به کافه برگشت، و ماهرانه اسلحهاش را در آورد و سمت بالا گرفت و بالای سرش گرفت بدون هیچ نگاهی به سقف یه گلوله شلیک کرد. او با تعجب و خیلی مقتدرانه فریاد زد: «کدام یک از شما آدمهای بد اسب منو دزدیده؟!؟!» کسی پاسخی نداد. «بسیار خوب، من یک آب جو دیگه میخورم، و تا وقتی آن را تمام میکنم اسبم برنگردد، کاری را که در تگزاس انجام دادم انجام میدهم! و دوست ندارم آن کاری رو که در تگزاس انجام دادم رو انجام بدم!» بعضی از افراد خودشون جمع و جور کردن. آن مرد، بر طبق حرفش، آب جو دیگری نوشید، بیرون رفت، و اسبش به سرجایش برگشته بود. اسبش رو زین کرد و به سمت خارج از شهر رفت. کافه چی به آرامی از کافه بیرون آمد و پرسید: هی رفیق قبل از اینکه بری بگو، در تگزاس چه اتفاقی افتاد؟ گاوچران برگشت و گفت: مجبور شدم برم خونه.
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:24
A man called home to his wife and said, "Honey I have been asked to go fishing up in Canada with my boss & several of his Friends.
We'll be gone for a week. This is a good opportunity for me to get that Promotion I'v been wanting, so could you please pack enough Clothes for a week and set out
my rod and fishing box, we're Leaving From the office & I will swing by the house to pick my things up" "Oh! Please pack my new blue silk pajamas."
The wife thinks this sounds a bit fishy but being the good wife she is, did exactly what her husband asked.
The following Weekend he came home a little tired but otherwise looking good.
The wife welcomed him home and asked if he caught many fish?
He said, "Yes! Lots of Salmon, some Bluegill, and a few Swordfish. But why didn't you pack my new blue silk pajamas like I asked you to Do?"
You'll love the answer...
The wife replied, "I did. They're in your fishing box....."
مردی باهمسرش در خانه تماس گرفت و گفت:"عزیزم ازمن خواسته شده که با رئیس و چند تا از دوستانش برای ماهیگیری به کانادابرویم"
ما به مدت یک هفته آنجا خواهیم بود.این فرصت خوبی است تا ارتقائ شغلی که منتظرش بودم بگیرم بنابراین لطفا لباس های کافی برای یک هفته برایم بردار و وسایل ماهیگیری مرا هم آماده کن
ما از اداره حرکت خواهیم کرد و من سر راه وسایلم را از خانه برخواهم داشت ، راستی اون لباس های راحتی ابریشمی آبی رنگم را هم بردار
زن با خودش فکر کرد که این مساله یک کمی غیرطبیعی است اما بخاطر این که نشان دهد همسر خوبی است دقیقا کارهایی را که همسرش خواسته بود انجام داد..
هفته بعد مرد به خانه آمد ، یک کمی خسته به نظر می رسید اما ظاهرش خوب ومرتب بود.
همسرش به او خوش آمد گفت و از او پرسید که آیا او ماهی گرفته است یا نه؟
مرد گفت :"بله تعداد زیادی ماهی قزل آلا،چند تایی ماهی فلس آبی و چند تا هم اره ماهی گرفتیم . اما چرا اون لباس راحتی هایی که گفته بودم برایم نگذاشتی؟"
جواب زن خیلی جالب بود...
زن جواب داد: لباس های راحتی رو توی جعبه وسایل ماهیگیریت گذاشته بودم.
We'll be gone for a week. This is a good opportunity for me to get that Promotion I'v been wanting, so could you please pack enough Clothes for a week and set out
my rod and fishing box, we're Leaving From the office & I will swing by the house to pick my things up" "Oh! Please pack my new blue silk pajamas."
The wife thinks this sounds a bit fishy but being the good wife she is, did exactly what her husband asked.
The following Weekend he came home a little tired but otherwise looking good.
The wife welcomed him home and asked if he caught many fish?
He said, "Yes! Lots of Salmon, some Bluegill, and a few Swordfish. But why didn't you pack my new blue silk pajamas like I asked you to Do?"
You'll love the answer...
The wife replied, "I did. They're in your fishing box....."
مردی باهمسرش در خانه تماس گرفت و گفت:"عزیزم ازمن خواسته شده که با رئیس و چند تا از دوستانش برای ماهیگیری به کانادابرویم"
ما به مدت یک هفته آنجا خواهیم بود.این فرصت خوبی است تا ارتقائ شغلی که منتظرش بودم بگیرم بنابراین لطفا لباس های کافی برای یک هفته برایم بردار و وسایل ماهیگیری مرا هم آماده کن
ما از اداره حرکت خواهیم کرد و من سر راه وسایلم را از خانه برخواهم داشت ، راستی اون لباس های راحتی ابریشمی آبی رنگم را هم بردار
زن با خودش فکر کرد که این مساله یک کمی غیرطبیعی است اما بخاطر این که نشان دهد همسر خوبی است دقیقا کارهایی را که همسرش خواسته بود انجام داد..
هفته بعد مرد به خانه آمد ، یک کمی خسته به نظر می رسید اما ظاهرش خوب ومرتب بود.
همسرش به او خوش آمد گفت و از او پرسید که آیا او ماهی گرفته است یا نه؟
مرد گفت :"بله تعداد زیادی ماهی قزل آلا،چند تایی ماهی فلس آبی و چند تا هم اره ماهی گرفتیم . اما چرا اون لباس راحتی هایی که گفته بودم برایم نگذاشتی؟"
جواب زن خیلی جالب بود...
زن جواب داد: لباس های راحتی رو توی جعبه وسایل ماهیگیریت گذاشته بودم.
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:25
A man checked into a hotel. There was a computer in his room* so he decided to send an e-mail to his wife. However* he accidentally typed a wrong e-mail address* and without realizing his error he sent the e-mail.
Meanwhile….Somewhere in Houston * a widow had just returned from her husband’s funeral. The widow decided to check her e-mail* expecting condolence messages from relatives and friends.After reading the first message* she fainted. The widow’s son rushed into the room* found his mother on the floor* and saw the computer screen which read:
To: My Loving Wife
Subject: I’ve Reached
Date: 2 May 2006
I know you’re surprised to hear from me. They have computers here* and we are allowed to send e-mails to loved ones. I’ve just reached and have been checked in. I see that everything has been prepared for your arrival tomorrow. Looking forward to seeing you TOMORROW!
Your loving hubby.
مردی اتاق هتلی را تحویل گرفت .در اتاقش کامپیوتری بود،بنابراین تصمیم گرفت ایمیلی به همسرش بفرستد.ولی بطور تصادفی ایمیل را به آدرس اشتباه فرستاد و بدون اینکه متوجه اشتباهش شود،ایمیل را فرستاد.
با این وجود..جایی در هوستون ،بیوه ای از مراسم خاکسپاری شوهرش بازگشته بود.زن بیوه تصمیم گرفت ایمیلش را به این خاطر که پیامهای همدردی اقوام و دوستانش را بخواند،چک کند. پس از خواندن اولین پیام،از هوش رفت.پسرش به اتاق آمد و مادرش را کف اتاق دید و از صفحه کامپیوتر این را خواند:
به: همسر دوست داشتنی ام
موضوع: من رسیدم
تاریخ: دوم می 2006
میدانم از اینکه خبری از من داشته باشی خوشحال می شوی.آنها اینجا کامپیوتر داشتند و ما اجازه داریم به آنهایی که دوستشان داریم ایمیل بدهیم.من تازه رسیدم و اتاق را تحویل گرفته ام.می بینم که همه چیز آماده شده که فردا برسی.به امید دیدنت، فرد
Meanwhile….Somewhere in Houston * a widow had just returned from her husband’s funeral. The widow decided to check her e-mail* expecting condolence messages from relatives and friends.After reading the first message* she fainted. The widow’s son rushed into the room* found his mother on the floor* and saw the computer screen which read:
To: My Loving Wife
Subject: I’ve Reached
Date: 2 May 2006
I know you’re surprised to hear from me. They have computers here* and we are allowed to send e-mails to loved ones. I’ve just reached and have been checked in. I see that everything has been prepared for your arrival tomorrow. Looking forward to seeing you TOMORROW!
Your loving hubby.
مردی اتاق هتلی را تحویل گرفت .در اتاقش کامپیوتری بود،بنابراین تصمیم گرفت ایمیلی به همسرش بفرستد.ولی بطور تصادفی ایمیل را به آدرس اشتباه فرستاد و بدون اینکه متوجه اشتباهش شود،ایمیل را فرستاد.
با این وجود..جایی در هوستون ،بیوه ای از مراسم خاکسپاری شوهرش بازگشته بود.زن بیوه تصمیم گرفت ایمیلش را به این خاطر که پیامهای همدردی اقوام و دوستانش را بخواند،چک کند. پس از خواندن اولین پیام،از هوش رفت.پسرش به اتاق آمد و مادرش را کف اتاق دید و از صفحه کامپیوتر این را خواند:
به: همسر دوست داشتنی ام
موضوع: من رسیدم
تاریخ: دوم می 2006
میدانم از اینکه خبری از من داشته باشی خوشحال می شوی.آنها اینجا کامپیوتر داشتند و ما اجازه داریم به آنهایی که دوستشان داریم ایمیل بدهیم.من تازه رسیدم و اتاق را تحویل گرفته ام.می بینم که همه چیز آماده شده که فردا برسی.به امید دیدنت، فرد
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:25
A blonde and a lawyer sit next to each other on a plane
یک خانم بلوند و یک وکیل در هواپیما کنار هم نشسته بودند.
The lawyer asks her to play a game.
وکیل پیشنهاد یک بازی را بهش داد.
If he asked her a question that she didn't know the answer to, she would have to pay him five dollars; And every time the blonde asked the lawyer a question that he didn't know the answer to, the lawyer had to pay the blonde 50 dollars.
چنانچه وکیل از خانم سوالی بپرسد و او جواب را نداند، خانم باید 5 دلار به وکیل بپردازد و هر بار که خانم سوالی کند که وکیل نتواند جواب دهد، وکیل به او 50 دلار بپردازد.
So the lawyer asked the blonde his first question, "What is the distance between the Earth and the nearest star?" Without a word the blonde pays the lawyer five dollars.
سپس وکیل اولین سوال را پرسید:" فاصله ی زمین تا نزدیکترین ستاره چقدر است؟ " خانم بی تامل 5 دلار به وکیل پرداخت.
The blonde then asks him, "What goes up a hill with four legs and down a hill with three?" The lawyer thinks about it, but finally gives up and pays the blonde 50 dollars
سپس خانم از وکیل پرسید" آن چیست که با چهار پا از تپه بالا می رود و با سه پا به پایین باز می گردد؟" وکیل در این باره فکر کرد اما در انتها تسلیم شده و 50 دلار به خانم پرداخت.
سپس از او پرسید که جواب چی بوده و خانم بی معطلی 5 دلار به او پرداخت کرد!!!!
یک خانم بلوند و یک وکیل در هواپیما کنار هم نشسته بودند.
The lawyer asks her to play a game.
وکیل پیشنهاد یک بازی را بهش داد.
If he asked her a question that she didn't know the answer to, she would have to pay him five dollars; And every time the blonde asked the lawyer a question that he didn't know the answer to, the lawyer had to pay the blonde 50 dollars.
چنانچه وکیل از خانم سوالی بپرسد و او جواب را نداند، خانم باید 5 دلار به وکیل بپردازد و هر بار که خانم سوالی کند که وکیل نتواند جواب دهد، وکیل به او 50 دلار بپردازد.
So the lawyer asked the blonde his first question, "What is the distance between the Earth and the nearest star?" Without a word the blonde pays the lawyer five dollars.
سپس وکیل اولین سوال را پرسید:" فاصله ی زمین تا نزدیکترین ستاره چقدر است؟ " خانم بی تامل 5 دلار به وکیل پرداخت.
The blonde then asks him, "What goes up a hill with four legs and down a hill with three?" The lawyer thinks about it, but finally gives up and pays the blonde 50 dollars
سپس خانم از وکیل پرسید" آن چیست که با چهار پا از تپه بالا می رود و با سه پا به پایین باز می گردد؟" وکیل در این باره فکر کرد اما در انتها تسلیم شده و 50 دلار به خانم پرداخت.
سپس از او پرسید که جواب چی بوده و خانم بی معطلی 5 دلار به او پرداخت کرد!!!!
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:26
A man checked into a hotel. There was a computer in his room* so he decided to send an e-mail to his wife. However* he accidentally typed a wrong e-mail address* and without realizing his error he sent the e-mail.
Meanwhile….Somewhere in Houston * a widow had just returned from her husband’s funeral. The widow decided to check her e-mail* expecting condolence messages from relatives and friends.After reading the first message* she fainted. The widow’s son rushed into the room* found his mother on the floor* and saw the computer screen which read:
To: My Loving Wife
Subject: I’ve Reached
Date: 2 May 2006
I know you’re surprised to hear from me. They have computers here* and we are allowed to send e-mails to loved ones. I’ve just reached and have been checked in. I see that everything has been prepared for your arrival tomorrow. Looking forward to seeing you TOMORROW!
Your loving hubby.
مردی اتاق هتلی را تحویل گرفت .در اتاقش کامپیوتری بود،بنابراین تصمیم گرفت ایمیلی به همسرش بفرستد.ولی بطور تصادفی ایمیل را به آدرس اشتباه فرستاد و بدون اینکه متوجه اشتباهش شود،ایمیل را فرستاد.
با این وجود..جایی در هوستون ،بیوه ای از مراسم خاکسپاری شوهرش بازگشته بود.زن بیوه تصمیم گرفت ایمیلش را به این خاطر که پیامهای همدردی اقوام و دوستانش را بخواند،چک کند. پس از خواندن اولین پیام،از هوش رفت.پسرش به اتاق آمد و مادرش را کف اتاق دید و از صفحه کامپیوتر این را خواند:
به: همسر دوست داشتنی ام
موضوع: من رسیدم
تاریخ: دوم می 2006
میدانم از اینکه خبری از من داشته باشی خوشحال می شوی.آنها اینجا کامپیوتر داشتند و ما اجازه داریم به آنهایی که دوستشان داریم ایمیل بدهیم.من تازه رسیدم و اتاق را تحویل گرفته ام.می بینم که همه چیز آماده شده که فردا برسی.به امید دیدنت، فردا
Meanwhile….Somewhere in Houston * a widow had just returned from her husband’s funeral. The widow decided to check her e-mail* expecting condolence messages from relatives and friends.After reading the first message* she fainted. The widow’s son rushed into the room* found his mother on the floor* and saw the computer screen which read:
To: My Loving Wife
Subject: I’ve Reached
Date: 2 May 2006
I know you’re surprised to hear from me. They have computers here* and we are allowed to send e-mails to loved ones. I’ve just reached and have been checked in. I see that everything has been prepared for your arrival tomorrow. Looking forward to seeing you TOMORROW!
Your loving hubby.
مردی اتاق هتلی را تحویل گرفت .در اتاقش کامپیوتری بود،بنابراین تصمیم گرفت ایمیلی به همسرش بفرستد.ولی بطور تصادفی ایمیل را به آدرس اشتباه فرستاد و بدون اینکه متوجه اشتباهش شود،ایمیل را فرستاد.
با این وجود..جایی در هوستون ،بیوه ای از مراسم خاکسپاری شوهرش بازگشته بود.زن بیوه تصمیم گرفت ایمیلش را به این خاطر که پیامهای همدردی اقوام و دوستانش را بخواند،چک کند. پس از خواندن اولین پیام،از هوش رفت.پسرش به اتاق آمد و مادرش را کف اتاق دید و از صفحه کامپیوتر این را خواند:
به: همسر دوست داشتنی ام
موضوع: من رسیدم
تاریخ: دوم می 2006
میدانم از اینکه خبری از من داشته باشی خوشحال می شوی.آنها اینجا کامپیوتر داشتند و ما اجازه داریم به آنهایی که دوستشان داریم ایمیل بدهیم.من تازه رسیدم و اتاق را تحویل گرفته ام.می بینم که همه چیز آماده شده که فردا برسی.به امید دیدنت، فردا
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:26
General Pershing was a famous American officer. He was in the American army, and fought in Europe in the First World War.
After he died, some people in his home town wanted to remember him, so they' put up a big statue of him on a horse.
There was a school near the statue, and some of the boys passed it every day on their way to school and again on their way home. After a few months some of them began to say, 'Good morning, Pershing', whenever they passed the statue, and soon all the boys at the school were doing this.
One Saturday one of the smallest of these boys was walking to the shops with his mother when he passed the statue. He said, 'Good morning, Pershing' to it, but then he stopped and said to his mother, 'I like Pershing very much, Ma, but who's that funny man on his back?'
ژنرال پرشينگ يكي از يكي از افسرهاي مشهور آمريكا بود. او در ارتش آمريكا بود، و در جنگ جهاني اول در اروپا جنگيد.
بعد از مرگ او، بعضي از مردم زادگاهش ميخواستند ياد او را گرامي بدارند، بنابراين آنها مجسمهي بزرگي از او كه بر روي اسبي قرار داشت ساختند.
يك مدرسه در نزديكي مجسمه قرار داشت، و بعضي از پسربچهها هر روز در مسير مدرسه و برگشت به خانه از كنار آن ميگذشتند. بعد از چند ماه بعضي از آنها هر وقت كه از كنار مجسمه ميگذشتند شروع به گفتن «صبح به خير پرشينگ» كردند، و به زودي همهي پسرهاي مدرسه اين كار (سلام كردن به مجسمه) را انجام ميداند.
در يك روز شنبه يكي از كوچكترين اين پسرها با مادرش به فروشگاه ميرفت. وقتي كه از كنار مجسمه گذشت گفت: صبح به خير پرشينگ، اما ايستاد و به مادرش گفت: مامان، من پرشينگ را خيلي دوست دارم، اما آن مرد خندهدار كه بر پشتش سواره كيه؟
After he died, some people in his home town wanted to remember him, so they' put up a big statue of him on a horse.
There was a school near the statue, and some of the boys passed it every day on their way to school and again on their way home. After a few months some of them began to say, 'Good morning, Pershing', whenever they passed the statue, and soon all the boys at the school were doing this.
One Saturday one of the smallest of these boys was walking to the shops with his mother when he passed the statue. He said, 'Good morning, Pershing' to it, but then he stopped and said to his mother, 'I like Pershing very much, Ma, but who's that funny man on his back?'
ژنرال پرشينگ يكي از يكي از افسرهاي مشهور آمريكا بود. او در ارتش آمريكا بود، و در جنگ جهاني اول در اروپا جنگيد.
بعد از مرگ او، بعضي از مردم زادگاهش ميخواستند ياد او را گرامي بدارند، بنابراين آنها مجسمهي بزرگي از او كه بر روي اسبي قرار داشت ساختند.
يك مدرسه در نزديكي مجسمه قرار داشت، و بعضي از پسربچهها هر روز در مسير مدرسه و برگشت به خانه از كنار آن ميگذشتند. بعد از چند ماه بعضي از آنها هر وقت كه از كنار مجسمه ميگذشتند شروع به گفتن «صبح به خير پرشينگ» كردند، و به زودي همهي پسرهاي مدرسه اين كار (سلام كردن به مجسمه) را انجام ميداند.
در يك روز شنبه يكي از كوچكترين اين پسرها با مادرش به فروشگاه ميرفت. وقتي كه از كنار مجسمه گذشت گفت: صبح به خير پرشينگ، اما ايستاد و به مادرش گفت: مامان، من پرشينگ را خيلي دوست دارم، اما آن مرد خندهدار كه بر پشتش سواره كيه؟
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:33
Never miss first opportunity A young man wished to marry the farmer’s beautiful daughter. He went to the farmer to ask his permission. The farmer looked him over and said, “Son, go stand out in that field. I’m going to release three bulls, one at a time. If you can catch the tail of any one of the three bulls, you can marry my daughter.”
The young man stood in the pasture awaiting the first bull. The barn door opened and out ran the biggest, meanest-looking bull he had ever seen. He decided that one of the next bulls had to be a better choice than this one, so he ran over to the side and let the bull pass through the pasture out the back gate. The barn door opened again. Unbelievable. He had never seen anything so big and fierce in his life. It stood pawing the ground, grunting, slinging slobber as it eyed him. Whatever the next bull was like, it had to be a better choice than this one. He ran to the fence and let the bull pass through the pasture, out the back gate.
The door opened a third time. A smile came across his face. This was the weakest, scrawniest little bull he had ever seen. This one was his bull. As the bull came running by, he positioned himself just right and jumped at just the exact moment. He grabbed… but the bull had no tail!
Life is full of opportunities. Some will be easy to take advantage of, some will be difficult. But once we let them pass (often in hopes of something better), those opportunities may never again be available. So
always grab the first opportunity
مرد جواني در آرزوي ازدواج با دختر زيباروي كشاورزي بود. به نزد كشاورز رفت تا از او اجازه بگيره. كشاورز براندازش كرد و گفت: پسر جان، برو در آن قطعه زمين بايست. من سه گاو نر را يك به يك آزاد ميكنم، اگر توانستي دم یکی از اين سه گاو را بگيري، مي تواني با دخترم ازدواج كني.
مرد جوان در مرتع، به انتظار اولين گاو ايستاد. در طويله باز شد و بزرگترين و خشمگينترين گاوي كه تو عمرش ديده بود به بيرون دويد. فكر كرد يكي از گاوهاي بعدي، گزينه ي بهتري باشه، پس به كناري دويد و گذاشت گاو از مرتع بگذره و از در پشتي خارج بشه. دوباره در طويله باز شد. باورنكردني بود! در تمام عمرش چيزي به اين بزرگي و درندگي نديده بود. با سُم به زمين ميكوبيد، خرخر ميكرد و وقتي او رو ديد، آب دهانش جاري شد. گاو بعدي هر چيزي هم كه باشه، بايد از اين بهتر باشه. به سمتِ حصارها دويد و گذاشت گاو از مرتع عبور كنه و از در پشتي خارج بشه. براي بار سوم در طويله بار شد. لبخند بر لبان مرد جوان ظاهر شد. اين ضعيف ترين، كوچك ترين و لاغرترين گاوي بود كه تو عمرش ديده بود. در جاي مناسب قرار گرفت و درست به موقع بر روي گاو پريد. دستش رو دراز كرد… اما گاو دم نداشت!..
زندگي پر از فرصت هاي دست يافتنيه…
بهره گيري از بعضي هاش ساده ست، بعضي هاش مشكل؛ اما زماني كه بهشون اجازه ميديم رد بشن و بگذرن (معمولاً در اميد فرصت هاي بهتر در آينده)، اين موقعيت ها شايد ديگه موجود نباشن.
براي همين، هميشه اولين شانس رو درياب!!!
The young man stood in the pasture awaiting the first bull. The barn door opened and out ran the biggest, meanest-looking bull he had ever seen. He decided that one of the next bulls had to be a better choice than this one, so he ran over to the side and let the bull pass through the pasture out the back gate. The barn door opened again. Unbelievable. He had never seen anything so big and fierce in his life. It stood pawing the ground, grunting, slinging slobber as it eyed him. Whatever the next bull was like, it had to be a better choice than this one. He ran to the fence and let the bull pass through the pasture, out the back gate.
The door opened a third time. A smile came across his face. This was the weakest, scrawniest little bull he had ever seen. This one was his bull. As the bull came running by, he positioned himself just right and jumped at just the exact moment. He grabbed… but the bull had no tail!
Life is full of opportunities. Some will be easy to take advantage of, some will be difficult. But once we let them pass (often in hopes of something better), those opportunities may never again be available. So
always grab the first opportunity
مرد جواني در آرزوي ازدواج با دختر زيباروي كشاورزي بود. به نزد كشاورز رفت تا از او اجازه بگيره. كشاورز براندازش كرد و گفت: پسر جان، برو در آن قطعه زمين بايست. من سه گاو نر را يك به يك آزاد ميكنم، اگر توانستي دم یکی از اين سه گاو را بگيري، مي تواني با دخترم ازدواج كني.
مرد جوان در مرتع، به انتظار اولين گاو ايستاد. در طويله باز شد و بزرگترين و خشمگينترين گاوي كه تو عمرش ديده بود به بيرون دويد. فكر كرد يكي از گاوهاي بعدي، گزينه ي بهتري باشه، پس به كناري دويد و گذاشت گاو از مرتع بگذره و از در پشتي خارج بشه. دوباره در طويله باز شد. باورنكردني بود! در تمام عمرش چيزي به اين بزرگي و درندگي نديده بود. با سُم به زمين ميكوبيد، خرخر ميكرد و وقتي او رو ديد، آب دهانش جاري شد. گاو بعدي هر چيزي هم كه باشه، بايد از اين بهتر باشه. به سمتِ حصارها دويد و گذاشت گاو از مرتع عبور كنه و از در پشتي خارج بشه. براي بار سوم در طويله بار شد. لبخند بر لبان مرد جوان ظاهر شد. اين ضعيف ترين، كوچك ترين و لاغرترين گاوي بود كه تو عمرش ديده بود. در جاي مناسب قرار گرفت و درست به موقع بر روي گاو پريد. دستش رو دراز كرد… اما گاو دم نداشت!..
زندگي پر از فرصت هاي دست يافتنيه…
بهره گيري از بعضي هاش ساده ست، بعضي هاش مشكل؛ اما زماني كه بهشون اجازه ميديم رد بشن و بگذرن (معمولاً در اميد فرصت هاي بهتر در آينده)، اين موقعيت ها شايد ديگه موجود نباشن.
براي همين، هميشه اولين شانس رو درياب!!!
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:33
خانم هاریس Mrs Harris lives in a small village. Her husband is dead, but she has one son. He is twenty-one, and his name is Geoff. He worked in a shop in the village and lived with his mother, but then he got work in a town and went and lived there. Its name was Greensea. It was quite a long way from his mother's village, and she was not happy about this, but Geoff said, "there isn't any good work for me in the country, Mother, and I can get a lot of money in Greensea and send you some every week."
Mrs Harris was very angry last Sunday. She got in a train and went to her son's house in Greensea. Then she said to him "Geoff, why do you never phone me?"
Geoff laughed. "But, Mother," he said, "you haven't got a phone."
"No," she answered, " I haven’t, but you’ve got one!"
خانم هاریس در یک روستای کوچک زندگی میکرد. شوهر او فوت کرده بود اما او یک پسر داشت. او بیست و یک سالش است و اسمش جف است. او در یک مغازه در روستا کار میکرد و با مادرش زندگی میکرد. سپس او در شهر کاری پیدا کرد و به آنجا رفت و در آنجا زندگی کرد. نام این شهر " گرین سی " بود. از این شهر تا روستای مادرش راه واقعا دوری بود، و مادرش از این ناراحت بود، اما جف گفت: مادر در این دهکده کار خوبی برای من نیست، و من میتونم پول زیادی در گرین سی در بیاورم و هر هفته مقداری برای تو بفرستم.
خانم هاریس یکشنبه گذشته خیلی عصبانی بود. او سوار قطار شد و به خانه پسرش در گرین سی رفت. بعد به جف گفت: جف، چرا تو هیچ وقت به من تلفن نمیکنی؟
جف خندید و گفت: اما مادر، شما که تلفن نداری!
مادر جواب داد: نه. من ندارم. اما تو که داری!
Mrs Harris was very angry last Sunday. She got in a train and went to her son's house in Greensea. Then she said to him "Geoff, why do you never phone me?"
Geoff laughed. "But, Mother," he said, "you haven't got a phone."
"No," she answered, " I haven’t, but you’ve got one!"
خانم هاریس در یک روستای کوچک زندگی میکرد. شوهر او فوت کرده بود اما او یک پسر داشت. او بیست و یک سالش است و اسمش جف است. او در یک مغازه در روستا کار میکرد و با مادرش زندگی میکرد. سپس او در شهر کاری پیدا کرد و به آنجا رفت و در آنجا زندگی کرد. نام این شهر " گرین سی " بود. از این شهر تا روستای مادرش راه واقعا دوری بود، و مادرش از این ناراحت بود، اما جف گفت: مادر در این دهکده کار خوبی برای من نیست، و من میتونم پول زیادی در گرین سی در بیاورم و هر هفته مقداری برای تو بفرستم.
خانم هاریس یکشنبه گذشته خیلی عصبانی بود. او سوار قطار شد و به خانه پسرش در گرین سی رفت. بعد به جف گفت: جف، چرا تو هیچ وقت به من تلفن نمیکنی؟
جف خندید و گفت: اما مادر، شما که تلفن نداری!
مادر جواب داد: نه. من ندارم. اما تو که داری!
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:35
بیمار عرب An Arab needed a heart transplant, but prior to the surgery the doctors needed to store his blood type in case the need arises
Because the gentleman had a rare type of blood, it couldnt be found locally. So the call went out to a number of countries.
Finally, a Jew was located who had similar type of the blood who willingly donated his blood to the Arab.
After the surgery, the Arab sent the Jew a thank you card for giving his blood along with a new car as a token of hisappreciation.
Unfortunately, the Arab had to go through a corrective surgery once again. His doctors telephoned the Jew who was more than happy to donate his blood again.
After the second surgery, the Arab sent the Jew a thank you card and a jar of Almond Roca sweets.
The Jew was shocked to see that the Arab this time did not reciprocate much the Jews kind gesture as he has done previously. So he phoned the
Arab and asked him why he had expressed his appreciation in not so generous manner. The Arab replied "Ya Habibi, I have Jewish blood now, remember...?"
بیمار عربی جهت پیوند قلب در بیمارستان بستری شد . پزشکان تشخیص دادند که بر حسب احتیاط می باید مقداری خون از گروه خونی او ذخیره کنند . اما این مرد عرب دارای گروه خونی نادری بود و در ان منطقه خونی از گروه خونی او یافت نشد. پزشکان درخواستی برای دریافت ان گروه خونی به مناطق و کشور های اطراف فرستادند. تا اینکه شخصی یهودی حاضر به اهدای خون شد.
بعد از انجام عمل جراحی مریض عرب به رسم تشکر برای او کارت تبریکی و یک دستگاه ماشین نو فرستاد. متاسفانه عمل پیوند چندان موفقیت آمیز نبود و پزشکان مجبور به انجام عمل جراحی دیگری بودند. این بار نیز درخواستی برای اهدای خون به فرد یهودی فرستادند. وی نیز با کمال رغبت این کار را انجام داد.بعد از عمل جراحی مرد عرب یک کارت تبریک و یک شیشه شکلات به رسم قدردانی برای مرد یهودی فرستاد.مرد یهودی که از دریافت این هدیه پس از دریافت هدیه سخاوتمندانه اول شوکه شده بود با مرد عرب تماس گرفت و دلیل اینکه این با سخاوتمندانه از او تشک نکرده را جویا شد.مرد عرب در پاسخ گفت: چون این بار خون یهودی در رگ های من است ، به یاد نمی آوری؟
Because the gentleman had a rare type of blood, it couldnt be found locally. So the call went out to a number of countries.
Finally, a Jew was located who had similar type of the blood who willingly donated his blood to the Arab.
After the surgery, the Arab sent the Jew a thank you card for giving his blood along with a new car as a token of hisappreciation.
Unfortunately, the Arab had to go through a corrective surgery once again. His doctors telephoned the Jew who was more than happy to donate his blood again.
After the second surgery, the Arab sent the Jew a thank you card and a jar of Almond Roca sweets.
The Jew was shocked to see that the Arab this time did not reciprocate much the Jews kind gesture as he has done previously. So he phoned the
Arab and asked him why he had expressed his appreciation in not so generous manner. The Arab replied "Ya Habibi, I have Jewish blood now, remember...?"
بیمار عربی جهت پیوند قلب در بیمارستان بستری شد . پزشکان تشخیص دادند که بر حسب احتیاط می باید مقداری خون از گروه خونی او ذخیره کنند . اما این مرد عرب دارای گروه خونی نادری بود و در ان منطقه خونی از گروه خونی او یافت نشد. پزشکان درخواستی برای دریافت ان گروه خونی به مناطق و کشور های اطراف فرستادند. تا اینکه شخصی یهودی حاضر به اهدای خون شد.
بعد از انجام عمل جراحی مریض عرب به رسم تشکر برای او کارت تبریکی و یک دستگاه ماشین نو فرستاد. متاسفانه عمل پیوند چندان موفقیت آمیز نبود و پزشکان مجبور به انجام عمل جراحی دیگری بودند. این بار نیز درخواستی برای اهدای خون به فرد یهودی فرستادند. وی نیز با کمال رغبت این کار را انجام داد.بعد از عمل جراحی مرد عرب یک کارت تبریک و یک شیشه شکلات به رسم قدردانی برای مرد یهودی فرستاد.مرد یهودی که از دریافت این هدیه پس از دریافت هدیه سخاوتمندانه اول شوکه شده بود با مرد عرب تماس گرفت و دلیل اینکه این با سخاوتمندانه از او تشک نکرده را جویا شد.مرد عرب در پاسخ گفت: چون این بار خون یهودی در رگ های من است ، به یاد نمی آوری؟
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:36
بیل گیتس Father: I want you to marry a girl of my choice
Son: "I will choose my own bride!"
Father: "But the girl is Bill Gates's daughter."
Son: "Well, in that case...ok"
Next, Father approaches Bill Gates.
Father: "I have a husband for your daughter."
Bill Gates: "But my daughter is too young to marry!"
Father: "But this young man is a vice-president of
the World Bank."
Bill Gates: "Ah, in that case...ok"
Finally Father goes to see the president of the World Bank.
Father: "I have a young man to be recommended as
a vice-president."
President: "But I already have more vice- presidents
than I need!"
Father: "But this young man is Bill Gates's son-in-law."
President: "Ah, in that case...ok"
This is how business is done!!
Moral: Even If you have nothing, You can get
Anything. But your attitude should be positive[/align]
پدر: دوست دارم با دختری به انتخاب من ازدواج کنی
پسر: نه من دوست دارم همسرم را خودم انتخاب کنم
پدر: اما دختر مورد نظر من ، دختر بیل گیتس است
پسر: آهان اگر اینطور است ، قبول است
پدر به نزد بیل گیتس می رود و می گوید:
پدر: برای دخترت شوهری سراغ دارم
بیل گیتس: اما برای دختر من هنوز خیلی زود است که ازدواج کند
پدر: اما این مرد جوان قائم مقام مدیرعامل بانک جهانی است
بیل گیتس: اوه، که اینطور! در این صورت قبول است
بالاخره پدر به دیدار مدیرعامل بانک جهانی می رود
پدر: مرد جوانی برای سمت قائم مقام مدیرعامل سراغ دارم
مدیرعامل: اما من به اندازه کافی معاون دارم!
پدر: اما این مرد جوان داماد بیل گیتس است!
مدیرعامل: اوه، اگر اینطور است، باشد
و معامله به این ترتیب انجام می شود
نتیجه اخلاقی: حتی اگر چیزی نداشته باشید باز هم می توانید
چیزهایی بدست آورید. اما باید روش مثبتی برگزینید.
Son: "I will choose my own bride!"
Father: "But the girl is Bill Gates's daughter."
Son: "Well, in that case...ok"
Next, Father approaches Bill Gates.
Father: "I have a husband for your daughter."
Bill Gates: "But my daughter is too young to marry!"
Father: "But this young man is a vice-president of
the World Bank."
Bill Gates: "Ah, in that case...ok"
Finally Father goes to see the president of the World Bank.
Father: "I have a young man to be recommended as
a vice-president."
President: "But I already have more vice- presidents
than I need!"
Father: "But this young man is Bill Gates's son-in-law."
President: "Ah, in that case...ok"
This is how business is done!!
Moral: Even If you have nothing, You can get
Anything. But your attitude should be positive[/align]
پدر: دوست دارم با دختری به انتخاب من ازدواج کنی
پسر: نه من دوست دارم همسرم را خودم انتخاب کنم
پدر: اما دختر مورد نظر من ، دختر بیل گیتس است
پسر: آهان اگر اینطور است ، قبول است
پدر به نزد بیل گیتس می رود و می گوید:
پدر: برای دخترت شوهری سراغ دارم
بیل گیتس: اما برای دختر من هنوز خیلی زود است که ازدواج کند
پدر: اما این مرد جوان قائم مقام مدیرعامل بانک جهانی است
بیل گیتس: اوه، که اینطور! در این صورت قبول است
بالاخره پدر به دیدار مدیرعامل بانک جهانی می رود
پدر: مرد جوانی برای سمت قائم مقام مدیرعامل سراغ دارم
مدیرعامل: اما من به اندازه کافی معاون دارم!
پدر: اما این مرد جوان داماد بیل گیتس است!
مدیرعامل: اوه، اگر اینطور است، باشد
و معامله به این ترتیب انجام می شود
نتیجه اخلاقی: حتی اگر چیزی نداشته باشید باز هم می توانید
چیزهایی بدست آورید. اما باید روش مثبتی برگزینید.
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:38
The salon visit
" Anyway," the woman in the chair continued, "his wife's so gullible!Bill always says he's going bowling; she always believes him!"
The beautician smiled. "My husband William loves bowling too.Never used to… Goes all the time now…! "
She paused, frowning.
Then a slow,bitter smile emerged.
"Let's start on your perm.You're gonna look unforgettable."
در آرایشگاه
به هر حال...
زنی که روی صندلی نشسته بود ادامه داد: " زنش خیلی هالوست! بیل هر شب به او می گوید برای بازی بولینگ می رود.او همیشه حرفش را باور می کند! "
آرایشگر لبخند زد : " ویلیام ، شوهر من هم عاشق بولینگ است.قبلاً اینطور نبود ... حالا تمام وقت دنبال بازی است ...! "
زن با چهره ای درهم ، مکث کرد.
بعد لبخندی آرام و تلخ بر لبانش نشست.
" صبر کن موهایت را فر کنم. قیافه ای فراموش نشدنی پیدا خواهی کرد."
" Anyway," the woman in the chair continued, "his wife's so gullible!Bill always says he's going bowling; she always believes him!"
The beautician smiled. "My husband William loves bowling too.Never used to… Goes all the time now…! "
She paused, frowning.
Then a slow,bitter smile emerged.
"Let's start on your perm.You're gonna look unforgettable."
در آرایشگاه
به هر حال...
زنی که روی صندلی نشسته بود ادامه داد: " زنش خیلی هالوست! بیل هر شب به او می گوید برای بازی بولینگ می رود.او همیشه حرفش را باور می کند! "
آرایشگر لبخند زد : " ویلیام ، شوهر من هم عاشق بولینگ است.قبلاً اینطور نبود ... حالا تمام وقت دنبال بازی است ...! "
زن با چهره ای درهم ، مکث کرد.
بعد لبخندی آرام و تلخ بر لبانش نشست.
" صبر کن موهایت را فر کنم. قیافه ای فراموش نشدنی پیدا خواهی کرد."
Ramana
25-12-2009, 11:39
The Farmer's Donkey
One day a farmer's donkey fell down into a well. The animal cried piteously for hours as the farmer tried to figure out what to do.Finally he decided the animal was old, and the well needed to be covered up anyway; it just wasn't worth it to retrieve the donkey. He invited all his neighbors to shovel dirt into the well. At first, the donkey realized what was happening and cried horribly.Then, to everyone's amazement, he quieted down.
A few shovel loads later, the farmer finally looked down the well, and was astonished at what he saw. With every shovel of dirt that hit his back, the donkey was doing something amazing. He would shake it off and take a step up. As the farmer's neighbors continued to shovel dirt on top of the animal, he would shake it off and take a step up. Pretty soon, everyone was amazed as the donkey stepped up over the edge of the well and trotted off!
روزی الاغ یک کشاورز به درون چاه افتاد و ساعتها گریه کرد. کشاورز تصمیم گرفت فکری به حال ماجرا کند. سرانجام به این فکر افتاد که چون الاغ پیر است بهتر است چاه را بپوشاند. الاغ ارزش بیرون آوردن از چاه را ندارد. چند تن از همسایگانش را صدا کرد تا با بیل خاکها را داخل چاه بریزند. الاغ که این را فهمید شروع به زاری کرد. اما چیزی نگذشت که ساکت شد.
بعد از مقداری خاک پاشیدن کشاورز به درون چاه نگاه کرد و از چیزی که میدید متعجب میشد. با هر بیل خاکی که داخل چاه ریخته میشد، الاغ آنها را از بدنش میتکاند و یک قدم بالاتر می آمد. همین کار ادامه پیدا کرد و طولی نکشید که الاغ به لبه ی چاه رسید.
زندگی همیشه سختی دارد. اما شما میتوانید از هر کدام از سختی ها به عنوان یک پله ی ترقی استفاده کنید. ما میتوانیم با تسلیم نشدن در برابر مشکلات از عمیق ترین چاه ها و گرفتاری ها خلاص شویم.
One day a farmer's donkey fell down into a well. The animal cried piteously for hours as the farmer tried to figure out what to do.Finally he decided the animal was old, and the well needed to be covered up anyway; it just wasn't worth it to retrieve the donkey. He invited all his neighbors to shovel dirt into the well. At first, the donkey realized what was happening and cried horribly.Then, to everyone's amazement, he quieted down.
A few shovel loads later, the farmer finally looked down the well, and was astonished at what he saw. With every shovel of dirt that hit his back, the donkey was doing something amazing. He would shake it off and take a step up. As the farmer's neighbors continued to shovel dirt on top of the animal, he would shake it off and take a step up. Pretty soon, everyone was amazed as the donkey stepped up over the edge of the well and trotted off!
روزی الاغ یک کشاورز به درون چاه افتاد و ساعتها گریه کرد. کشاورز تصمیم گرفت فکری به حال ماجرا کند. سرانجام به این فکر افتاد که چون الاغ پیر است بهتر است چاه را بپوشاند. الاغ ارزش بیرون آوردن از چاه را ندارد. چند تن از همسایگانش را صدا کرد تا با بیل خاکها را داخل چاه بریزند. الاغ که این را فهمید شروع به زاری کرد. اما چیزی نگذشت که ساکت شد.
بعد از مقداری خاک پاشیدن کشاورز به درون چاه نگاه کرد و از چیزی که میدید متعجب میشد. با هر بیل خاکی که داخل چاه ریخته میشد، الاغ آنها را از بدنش میتکاند و یک قدم بالاتر می آمد. همین کار ادامه پیدا کرد و طولی نکشید که الاغ به لبه ی چاه رسید.
زندگی همیشه سختی دارد. اما شما میتوانید از هر کدام از سختی ها به عنوان یک پله ی ترقی استفاده کنید. ما میتوانیم با تسلیم نشدن در برابر مشکلات از عمیق ترین چاه ها و گرفتاری ها خلاص شویم.
Yapma
14-10-2010, 22:33
Miss Williams was a teacher, and there were thirty small children in her class. They were nice children, and Miss Williams liked all of them, but they often lost clothes
It was winter, and the weather was very cold. The children's mothers always sent them to school with warm coats and hats and gloves. The children came into the classroom in the morning and took off their coats, hats and gloves. They put their coats and hats on hooks on the wall, and they put their gloves in the pockets of their coats
Last Tuesday Miss Williams found two small blue gloves on the floor in the evening, and in the morning she said to the children, 'Whose gloves are these?', but no one answered
Then she looked at Dick. 'Haven't you got blue gloves, Dick?' she asked him
'Yes, miss,' he answered, 'but those can't be mine. I've lost mine'
خانم ويليامز يك معلم بود، و سي كودك در كلاسش بودند. آنها بچههاي خوبي بودند، و خانم ويليامز همهي آنها را دوست داشت، اما آن ها اغلب لباس ها ي خود را گم مي كردند.
زمستان بود، و هوا خيلي سرد بود. مادر بچه ها هميشه آنها را با كت گرم و كلاه و دستكش به مدرسه مي فرستادند. بچه ها صبح داخل كلاس مي آمدند و كت، كلاه و دستكش هايشان در مي آوردند. آن ها كت و كلاهشان را روي چوب لباسي كه بر روي ديوار بود ميگذاشتند، و دستكش ها را نيز در جيب كتشان مي ذاشتند.
سه شنبه گذشته هنگام غروب خانم ويليامز يك جفت دستكش كوچك آبي بر روي زمين پيدا كرد، و صبح روز بعد به بچه ها گفت، اين دستكش چه كسي است؟ اما كسي جوابي نداد.
در آن هنگام به ديك نگاه كرد و از او پرسيد. ديك، دستكش هاي تو آبي نيستند؟
او پاسخ داد. بله، خانم ولي اين ها نمي تونند براي من باشند. چون من براي خودمو گم كردم.
It was winter, and the weather was very cold. The children's mothers always sent them to school with warm coats and hats and gloves. The children came into the classroom in the morning and took off their coats, hats and gloves. They put their coats and hats on hooks on the wall, and they put their gloves in the pockets of their coats
Last Tuesday Miss Williams found two small blue gloves on the floor in the evening, and in the morning she said to the children, 'Whose gloves are these?', but no one answered
Then she looked at Dick. 'Haven't you got blue gloves, Dick?' she asked him
'Yes, miss,' he answered, 'but those can't be mine. I've lost mine'
خانم ويليامز يك معلم بود، و سي كودك در كلاسش بودند. آنها بچههاي خوبي بودند، و خانم ويليامز همهي آنها را دوست داشت، اما آن ها اغلب لباس ها ي خود را گم مي كردند.
زمستان بود، و هوا خيلي سرد بود. مادر بچه ها هميشه آنها را با كت گرم و كلاه و دستكش به مدرسه مي فرستادند. بچه ها صبح داخل كلاس مي آمدند و كت، كلاه و دستكش هايشان در مي آوردند. آن ها كت و كلاهشان را روي چوب لباسي كه بر روي ديوار بود ميگذاشتند، و دستكش ها را نيز در جيب كتشان مي ذاشتند.
سه شنبه گذشته هنگام غروب خانم ويليامز يك جفت دستكش كوچك آبي بر روي زمين پيدا كرد، و صبح روز بعد به بچه ها گفت، اين دستكش چه كسي است؟ اما كسي جوابي نداد.
در آن هنگام به ديك نگاه كرد و از او پرسيد. ديك، دستكش هاي تو آبي نيستند؟
او پاسخ داد. بله، خانم ولي اين ها نمي تونند براي من باشند. چون من براي خودمو گم كردم.
Yapma
14-10-2010, 22:53
I was walking down the street when I was accosted by a particularly dirty and shabby-looking homeless woman who asked me for a couple of dollars for dinner.
در حال قدم زدن در خیابان بودم که با خانمی نسبتا کثیف و کهنه پوشی که شبیه زنان بی خانه بود روبرو شدم که از من 2 دلار برای تهیه ناهار درخواست کرد.
I took out my wallet, got out ten dollars and asked, 'If I give you this money, will you buy wine with it instead of dinner?'
من کیف پولم را در آوردم و 10 دلار برداشتم و ازش پرسیدم اگر من این پول را بهت بدم تو مشروب بجای شام می خری؟!
'No, I had to stop drinking years ago' , the homeless woman told me.
نه,من نوشیدن مشروب را سالها پیش ترک کردم,زن بی خانه به من گفت.
'Will you use it to go shopping instead of buying food?' I asked.
ازش پرسیدم آیا از این پول برای خرید بجای غذا استفاده می کنی؟
'No, I don't waste time shopping,' the homeless woman said. 'I need to spend all my time trying to stay alive.'
زن بی خانه گفت:نه, من وقتم را یرای خرید صرف نمی کنم من همه وقتم را تلاش برای زنده ماندن نیاز دارم.
'Will you spend this on a beauty salon instead of food?' I asked.
من پرسیدم :آیا تو این پول را بجای غذا برای سالن زیبایی صرف می کنی؟
'Are you NUTS!' replied the homeless woman. I haven't had my hair done in 20 years!'
تو خلی!زن بی خانه جواب داد.من موهایم را طی 20 سال شانه نکردم!
'Well, I said, 'I'm not going to give you the money. Instead, I'm going to take you out for dinner with my husband and me tonight.'
گفتم , خوب ,من این پول را بهت نمیدم در عوض تو رو به خانه ام برای صرف شام با من و همسرم می برم.
The homeless Woman was shocked. 'Won't your husband be furious with you for doing that? I know I'm dirty, and I probably smell pretty disgusting.'
زن بی خانه شوکه شد .همسرت برای این کارت تعصب و غیرت نشان نمی دهد؟من می دانم من کثیفم و احتمالا یک کمی هم بوی منزجر کننده دارم.
I said, 'That's okay. It's important for him to see what a woman looks like after she has given up shopping, hair appointments, and wine.'
گفتم:آن درست است . برای او مهم است دیدن زنی شبیه خودش بعد اینکه خرید و شانه کردن مو و مشروب را ترک کرده است!
منبع: olinda.blogfa
در حال قدم زدن در خیابان بودم که با خانمی نسبتا کثیف و کهنه پوشی که شبیه زنان بی خانه بود روبرو شدم که از من 2 دلار برای تهیه ناهار درخواست کرد.
I took out my wallet, got out ten dollars and asked, 'If I give you this money, will you buy wine with it instead of dinner?'
من کیف پولم را در آوردم و 10 دلار برداشتم و ازش پرسیدم اگر من این پول را بهت بدم تو مشروب بجای شام می خری؟!
'No, I had to stop drinking years ago' , the homeless woman told me.
نه,من نوشیدن مشروب را سالها پیش ترک کردم,زن بی خانه به من گفت.
'Will you use it to go shopping instead of buying food?' I asked.
ازش پرسیدم آیا از این پول برای خرید بجای غذا استفاده می کنی؟
'No, I don't waste time shopping,' the homeless woman said. 'I need to spend all my time trying to stay alive.'
زن بی خانه گفت:نه, من وقتم را یرای خرید صرف نمی کنم من همه وقتم را تلاش برای زنده ماندن نیاز دارم.
'Will you spend this on a beauty salon instead of food?' I asked.
من پرسیدم :آیا تو این پول را بجای غذا برای سالن زیبایی صرف می کنی؟
'Are you NUTS!' replied the homeless woman. I haven't had my hair done in 20 years!'
تو خلی!زن بی خانه جواب داد.من موهایم را طی 20 سال شانه نکردم!
'Well, I said, 'I'm not going to give you the money. Instead, I'm going to take you out for dinner with my husband and me tonight.'
گفتم , خوب ,من این پول را بهت نمیدم در عوض تو رو به خانه ام برای صرف شام با من و همسرم می برم.
The homeless Woman was shocked. 'Won't your husband be furious with you for doing that? I know I'm dirty, and I probably smell pretty disgusting.'
زن بی خانه شوکه شد .همسرت برای این کارت تعصب و غیرت نشان نمی دهد؟من می دانم من کثیفم و احتمالا یک کمی هم بوی منزجر کننده دارم.
I said, 'That's okay. It's important for him to see what a woman looks like after she has given up shopping, hair appointments, and wine.'
گفتم:آن درست است . برای او مهم است دیدن زنی شبیه خودش بعد اینکه خرید و شانه کردن مو و مشروب را ترک کرده است!
منبع: olinda.blogfa
sajjad1973
15-10-2010, 14:09
newton 's gravitational theory was not inspired by a falling apple
sir isaac newton was taking tea under the apple trees in the family gardens at woolsthorpe one summer's afternoon in 1665when an apple fell from an overhanging branch, plunked him on the head, and immediately proved the inspiration for his law of graviation. or so the story goes. it may indeed have happened that way, but no ones know for certain. even the famed british astronomer sir harold spencer jones, who publicly stated in 1994 that the story was probably true, later recanted, noting that "one cannot be sure either way.
آقای اسحاق نیوتون در یک بعد از ظهر تابستانی در سال 1665 در زیر درخت سیب در باغچه خانه در woolsthrope در حال خوردن چای بود که سیبی از یک شاخه اویزان بر سر وی افتادو و بلا درنگ الهام قانون جاذبه را فراهم کرد.یا انگونه که داستان حکایت میکند ممکن ان به این شیوه اتفاق افتاده است. اما هیچ کس مطمئن نیست. حتی منجم معروف بریتانیایی هارولد اسپنسرجونزو که در سال 1994 صحت احتمالی این داستان را تائید کرد اظهار میکند : ادمی نمیتوانداز صحت این داستان مطمئن باشد
the story of newton's apple first appears in voltaire's elements de la philosophie de newton, published in 1738, long after the great english mathematician had died and 73 years from the time the disputed apple fell. voltaire admired sir isaac and his theories tremendously and offered a clear, insightful interpretation of his teachings. but his only source for the apple story was sir issac 's niece, chtherine barton conduitt who had married one of her uncle's closest associates. she and her husband lived with and kept house for newton in his declining years
.
داستان سیب نیوتون اولین بار در عناصر فلسفه نیوتون اثر voltaire پدیدارشد که در سال 1738 مدتها بعد از مرگ این ریاضی دان شهیر انگلیسی و 73 سال بعد از سقوط بحث انگیز سیب او منتشر شد. voltaire حسابی نیوتون و تئوریهایش را ستود و از تعلیمات او یک تفسیر روشن و معقولی ارائه داد. اما تنها منبع او برای داستان سیب خواهر زاده نیوتون کاترین بارتون conduitt بودکه با یکی از خویشاوندان عمو اش ازدواج کرده بود. او و همسرش در دوران افوا افتاب عمر نیوتون با وی زندگی کرده و از خانه او مواظبت می کردند.
another bit of evidence, one that is taken quite seriously by the story's adherents, is rev. william stukely's biography of newton, written in 1752 though un published, mysteriously, until 1936. stukely, a physician, cleric, and promient antiquarian, wrote that he was once enjoying afternoon tea with sir issac amid the woolsthorpe apple trees when the mathematician reminisced that " he was just in the same situation as, when formerly, the notion of gravitation came into his mind. it was occasioned by the fall of an apple, as he sat in contemplative mood." note hoever, that stukely did not claim to have witnessed the apple incident firsthand. meanwhile , important early biographers of newton by pemberton, whiston, and colin maclaurin include no mention of the anecdote at all. and the great german astronomer karl friedrich gauss thought the story too ludicrous for words. undoubtedly he once hypothesized, the occurrence was something of this sort: there comes to newton a stupid importunate man,who ask him how he hit upon his great discover. newton wanted to get ride of that man and told him that an apple fell on his nose and this made the matter quite clear to the man, and he went satisfied
شواهد جزئی دیگر که از وابستگان داستان بدست می اید عبارت است از بیو گرافی نیو تون که توسط عالیجناب ویلیام در سال 1752 نوشته شده که بطور مرموزانه تا سال 1936 منتشر نشد . ویلیام که یک فیزیکدان - کشیش- و عتیقه شناس برجسته بود نوشت که یکبار او به اتفاق نیوتون در بین درختان سیب از یک چایی بعد از ظهر ( عصرانه) لذت می بردند. وقتی که این ریاضی دان بخاطر اورد که ( او درست در همان وضعیتی قرار دارد که قبلا ایده جاذبه زمین به ذهن او خطور کرد وقتی که او در حال تفکر بود. باسقوط یک سیب این ایده تصور شد) . توجه کنید که ویلیام ادعا نمیکند که حادثه سقوط سیب را مستقیم شاهد بوده. در ضمن شرح حال نویسان برجسته نیوتون همچون ......................اصلا ذکری از این حکایات به میان نیورده اند. وستاره شناس بزرک المانی کارل فردریک فکر کرد که این داستان خیلی مضحک و احمقانه است. او زمانی فرضیه داد که ( بدون شک این اتفاق چیزی به این شکل بوده: یک مرد احمق سمج به نیوتون مراجعه کرده و می پرسد که او چگونه به کشف بزرگش دست میابد. نیوتون که میخواست از دست ان مرد خلاص شود به وی گفت به او گفت یک سیب روی بینی او افتاد وای موضع را برای مرد روشن کردو او راضی و خشنود رفت)
sir isaac newton was taking tea under the apple trees in the family gardens at woolsthorpe one summer's afternoon in 1665when an apple fell from an overhanging branch, plunked him on the head, and immediately proved the inspiration for his law of graviation. or so the story goes. it may indeed have happened that way, but no ones know for certain. even the famed british astronomer sir harold spencer jones, who publicly stated in 1994 that the story was probably true, later recanted, noting that "one cannot be sure either way.
آقای اسحاق نیوتون در یک بعد از ظهر تابستانی در سال 1665 در زیر درخت سیب در باغچه خانه در woolsthrope در حال خوردن چای بود که سیبی از یک شاخه اویزان بر سر وی افتادو و بلا درنگ الهام قانون جاذبه را فراهم کرد.یا انگونه که داستان حکایت میکند ممکن ان به این شیوه اتفاق افتاده است. اما هیچ کس مطمئن نیست. حتی منجم معروف بریتانیایی هارولد اسپنسرجونزو که در سال 1994 صحت احتمالی این داستان را تائید کرد اظهار میکند : ادمی نمیتوانداز صحت این داستان مطمئن باشد
the story of newton's apple first appears in voltaire's elements de la philosophie de newton, published in 1738, long after the great english mathematician had died and 73 years from the time the disputed apple fell. voltaire admired sir isaac and his theories tremendously and offered a clear, insightful interpretation of his teachings. but his only source for the apple story was sir issac 's niece, chtherine barton conduitt who had married one of her uncle's closest associates. she and her husband lived with and kept house for newton in his declining years
.
داستان سیب نیوتون اولین بار در عناصر فلسفه نیوتون اثر voltaire پدیدارشد که در سال 1738 مدتها بعد از مرگ این ریاضی دان شهیر انگلیسی و 73 سال بعد از سقوط بحث انگیز سیب او منتشر شد. voltaire حسابی نیوتون و تئوریهایش را ستود و از تعلیمات او یک تفسیر روشن و معقولی ارائه داد. اما تنها منبع او برای داستان سیب خواهر زاده نیوتون کاترین بارتون conduitt بودکه با یکی از خویشاوندان عمو اش ازدواج کرده بود. او و همسرش در دوران افوا افتاب عمر نیوتون با وی زندگی کرده و از خانه او مواظبت می کردند.
another bit of evidence, one that is taken quite seriously by the story's adherents, is rev. william stukely's biography of newton, written in 1752 though un published, mysteriously, until 1936. stukely, a physician, cleric, and promient antiquarian, wrote that he was once enjoying afternoon tea with sir issac amid the woolsthorpe apple trees when the mathematician reminisced that " he was just in the same situation as, when formerly, the notion of gravitation came into his mind. it was occasioned by the fall of an apple, as he sat in contemplative mood." note hoever, that stukely did not claim to have witnessed the apple incident firsthand. meanwhile , important early biographers of newton by pemberton, whiston, and colin maclaurin include no mention of the anecdote at all. and the great german astronomer karl friedrich gauss thought the story too ludicrous for words. undoubtedly he once hypothesized, the occurrence was something of this sort: there comes to newton a stupid importunate man,who ask him how he hit upon his great discover. newton wanted to get ride of that man and told him that an apple fell on his nose and this made the matter quite clear to the man, and he went satisfied
شواهد جزئی دیگر که از وابستگان داستان بدست می اید عبارت است از بیو گرافی نیو تون که توسط عالیجناب ویلیام در سال 1752 نوشته شده که بطور مرموزانه تا سال 1936 منتشر نشد . ویلیام که یک فیزیکدان - کشیش- و عتیقه شناس برجسته بود نوشت که یکبار او به اتفاق نیوتون در بین درختان سیب از یک چایی بعد از ظهر ( عصرانه) لذت می بردند. وقتی که این ریاضی دان بخاطر اورد که ( او درست در همان وضعیتی قرار دارد که قبلا ایده جاذبه زمین به ذهن او خطور کرد وقتی که او در حال تفکر بود. باسقوط یک سیب این ایده تصور شد) . توجه کنید که ویلیام ادعا نمیکند که حادثه سقوط سیب را مستقیم شاهد بوده. در ضمن شرح حال نویسان برجسته نیوتون همچون ......................اصلا ذکری از این حکایات به میان نیورده اند. وستاره شناس بزرک المانی کارل فردریک فکر کرد که این داستان خیلی مضحک و احمقانه است. او زمانی فرضیه داد که ( بدون شک این اتفاق چیزی به این شکل بوده: یک مرد احمق سمج به نیوتون مراجعه کرده و می پرسد که او چگونه به کشف بزرگش دست میابد. نیوتون که میخواست از دست ان مرد خلاص شود به وی گفت به او گفت یک سیب روی بینی او افتاد وای موضع را برای مرد روشن کردو او راضی و خشنود رفت)
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