Short Stories

You can post nice short stories here.

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. " Awwww! " 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

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 ، با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]

‏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."

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 ، با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ]

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.

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.

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 !

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

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!

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:

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!!!

نقل قول:

---

نوشته شده توسط mahramasrar2

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

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...*

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?

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."

[LEFT]A RESUMED IDENTITY

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.

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

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."

Wooooooow. i really excited.such a topic. but i don't think so to read them all.thanks friends

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.”

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.

: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.

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’.

“‘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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"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."

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.