 Introduction to Autumn Leaves Autumn Leaves, edited by Anna Whales Abbott, Introduction Autumn Leaves, original pieces in prose and verse, Anna Whales Abbott, Editor Our wits are so diversely colored, Shakespeare. Note The pieces gathered into this volume were, with two exceptions, written for the entertainment of a private circle, without any view to publication. The editor would express her thanks to the writers, who, at her solicitation, have allowed them to be printed. They are published with the hope of aiding a work of charity, the establishment of an agency for the benefit of the poor in Cambridge, to which the proceeds of the sale will be devoted. N. W. Abbott End of Introduction, recorded by David Lawrence, December 2009 Chapter 1 of Autumn Leaves This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Autumn Leaves, edited by Anna Whales Abbott, Christmas Revived It was six o'clock in the morning of last Thursday, Christmas morning, when Nathan Stoddard, a young sabbler, strode through the vacant streets of one of our New England towns, hastening to begin his work. The town is an old-fashioned one, and although the observance of the ancient church festival is no longer frowned upon, as in years past, yet it has been little regarded, especially in the church of which Nathan is a member. As the sabbler mounted the steps of his shop, he felt the blood so rush along his limbs and tingle in his fingers that he could not forbear standing without the door for a moment as if to enjoy the triumph of the warmth within him over the cold morning air. The little stone church which Nathan attends stands in the same square with his shop, and nearly opposite. It was closed as usual on Christmas Day, and a recent snow had heaped the steps and roof and loaded the windows. Nathan thought that it looked uncommonly beautiful in the softening twilight of the morning. While Nathan Stodd Musing, with his eyes fixed upon the church, he became suddenly conscious that another figure had entered the square upon the opposite side and was walking hastily along. He turned his eyes upon it and was greatly surprised by its appearance. He saw a tall old man, although a good deal stooping, with long straight and very white hair falling over his shoulders, which was the more conspicuous from the black velvet cap as it appeared that he wore, and the close-fitting suit of pure black in which he was dressed, and which seemed to Nathan almost to glisten and flash as the old man tripped along. He had hardly begun to speculate as to who the stranger could be when he beheld him turn in between the posts by the path that leads to the church, tread lightly over the snow and up the steps, and knock hastily and vigorously at the church door. But half recovered from his wonder, he was just raising his voice to utter a remonstrance when to his seven-fold amazement the door was opened to the knock, and the old man disappeared within. It was not without a creeping feeling of awe mingled with his astonishment that Nathan gazed upon the door through which this silent figure had vanished. But he was not easily to be daunted. He did not care to follow the steps of the stranger into the church, but he remembered a shed so placed against the building near the farther end that he had often, when a child, at some peril indeed climbed upon its top and looked into the church through a little window at one side of the pulpit. For this he started, but he did not fail to run across the square and leap over the church gate at the top of his speed in order to gather warmth and courage for the attempt. When Nathan Stoddard climbed upon the old shed and pressed his face against the glass of the little church window, he had at first only a confused impression of many lamps and many figures in all parts of the church. But as his vision grew more clear, he beheld a sight which could not amaze him less than the apparition that startled Tam O'Shanter as he glared through the darkness into the old Kirk of Allaway. The great chandelier of the church was partly lighted, and there were besides many candles and lanterns burning in different parts of the room casting their light upon a large party of young men and women who were dressed in breeches and ruffled shirts and hooped petticoats and towering headdresses, such as he had only seen in old pictures. They were mounted upon benches and ladders and boards laid along the tops of the pews and were apparently just completing the decoration of the church which was already dressed with green with little trees in the corners and with green letters upon the walls and great wreaths about the pillars. The whole party appeared full of life and cheerfulness while the old man whom Nathan had seen enter stood near the door looking quietly on with the little girl holding his hand. It was not until Nathan stoddered had looked for some little time upon this spectacle that he began to feel that he was witness of anything more than natural. The whole party had so home-like and air and appeared so engaged with their pleasant occupation that notwithstanding their quaint dress, Nathan only thought how much he should like to share their company. But the more he studied their faces, the more he was filled for all their appearance of youth and their simple manners with a strange sort of veneration. The sweet and cheerful faces of the young women seemed to grow awfully calm and beautiful as they brought their task to a close and their foreheads with the hair brought back in the old-fashioned way to become more and more serene and high. There was a strange beauty too about the old man's face. He appeared to Nathan as if he felt that the group before him only waited his command to fade away in the morning light that struggled among the candles, but he could not bear to give the word and so they kept playing with the festoons and stepping about the pews to please him. Nathan felt a cold thrill partly from pleasure and partly from awe running up his back and a strong pain across his forehead seldom known to one of his temperament, and again and again he drew his hand across his brows until he felt that he was near-swooning and like to fall and he clung desperately to his hold. When the fit was over he dared venture no more, but hastened to the ground. It was no fear of ridicule or incredulity that led Nathan Stoddard to keep secret what he had witnessed, but it was like some deep and holy experience that would lose its charm if it were spoken of to another. So he went back to his shop and sat looking upon the church and watching almost with dread the doves that lighted upon its roof and fluttered about and beat their wings against its windows. The minister of Nathan's parish was a young man by the name of Dudley and it so happened that he had driven out before light on the morning we have spoken of to visit a sick man at some distance. In returning home he had to pass along the rather unfrequented street which runs in the rear of his church and close to it. As he was driving rapidly along his ear caught what seemed the peel of an organ. He stopped his horse to listen and a moment convinced him that the sound both of the instrument and of singing voices came from his own church and it was music of a depth and beauty such as he had never before heard within it. Filled with astonishment he put his horse upon its fastest trot and drove round into the square to the shop of Nathan Stoddard. There is music today in our church Nathan, he cried to the young Saddler, what can it mean? But Nathan answered not a word. He caught the horse by the head and fastened him to a post before the door. Then stepping to the side of the sleigh he said to Mr. Dudley, come with me sir. Mr. Dudley looked upon the pale face and trembling lips of his parishioner and followed in silence. Nathan sprang upon the shed at the side of the church and scrambled up to the little window. Mr. Dudley followed and with Nathan's help gained the same precarious foothold. Look in, sir, said Nathan, not venturing a glance himself. Mr. Dudley looked and had not Nathan's arm been about his body he would have lost his hold in sheer amazement. The building was crowded as he had never known it before and crowded with people whom his eye versed in the dress and manners of our forefathers recognized as the churchgoers of a century and a half ago. The singer's gallery was filled by a choir of girls and boys while his own place in the pulpit was occupied by a white-haired figure whom he recognized as the original of a portrait which he had purchased and hung in his parlor at home for its singular beauty. It was said to be a portrait of a minister in the town who lived in the last century and is still remembered for his virtues. The sight of this old man's face completely stilled the agitation of the young minister. He was leaning over the great Bible with his hands folded upon it and his eyes seemingly filled with tears of pleasure and gratitude and bent upon the choir. Mr. Dudley listened intently and could catch what seemed the words of some old Christmas carol, Thou makes'd my cup of joy run o'er. And he was so rapt with the sights and the sounds within that it needed all Nathan's endeavours to uphold him. By this time the sound of a gathering crowd below which he had not heeded at first was forced more and more upon his notice and the anxious voice of his oldest deacon calling Mr. Dudley, Mr. Dudley rose high and loud while the great thundering at the front door of the church announced that the people below had also caught the sound of the music and were clamorous for admission. Mr. Dudley hastened round to prevent there causing any disturbance to the congregation within, but he came only in time to see the door burst open and to be borne in with the crowd. All gazed about in wonder. The congregation indeed were gone and the preacher and the choir and the room was cold. But there was a great green cross over the pulpit and words along the walls and festoons upon the galleries and great wreaths like vast green serpents coiled about the cold pillars. The church of the Orthodox parish of Blank had been fairly dressed for Christmas by spirit hands. When Mr. Dudley reached his home after the wonder had in part spent itself, he found that an enormous Christmas pie had been left at his door by a white-haired old man dressed in black about six in the morning, just after he had gone to visit his sick parishioner. The girl who received it reported the old man is sane in a tremulous but very kind voice. Give your master the Christmas blessing of an old Puritan minister. How the meaning of this message would have been known to Mr. Dudley had not the events we have told disclosed it. Who can say? Need I add that my friend Mr. Dudley from whose lips I have taken down the above narrative has directed the decorations to remain in his church during the coming month and that he avows the intention of observing the Christmas of the following year with public services, unless indeed he should be anticipated by his ancient predecessor. It may not be impertinent to observe that I am invited to dine and spend the day with the Dudleys on that occasion and I shall not fail to make an accurate report of whatever glimpse I may obtain into the mysterious ceremonies of a Puritan Christmas. End of Christmas Revived In the churchyard at Cambridge, a legend of Lady Lee. In the village churchyard she lies, dust is in her beautiful eyes, no more she breathes, nor fills, nor stirs. At her feet and at her head lies a slave to attend the dead, but their dust is white as hers. Was she, a lady of high degree, so much in love with the vanity and foolish pump of this world of ours? Or was it Christian charity, and lowliness and humility, the richest and rarest of all dowers? Who shall tell us? No one speaks, no color shoots into those cheeks, either of anger or of pride, at the root question we have asked, nor will the mystery be unmasked by those who are sleeping at her side. Hereafter, and do you think to look on the terrible pages of that book to find her failings, faults and errors? Ah, you will then have other cares, in your own shortcomings and despairs, in your own secret sins and terrors. End of In the churchyard at Cambridge, a legend of Lady Lee. Chapter 3 of the Autumn Leaves This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Autumn Leaves, edited by Anna Wills Abbott. The Little South Wind The Little South Wind had been shut up for many days, while his cousin from the northeast had been abroad, and the clouds had been heavy and dark. But now, all was bright and clear, and the Little South Wind was to have a holiday. Oh, how happy he would be! He sallied forth to amuse himself, and hear what he did. He came whistling down the chimney, until the nervous old lady was ready to fly with vexation. Then away he flew, laughing in triumph, the naughty South Wind. He played with the maidens' work, away the pieces flew, some here, some there, and away ran the maiden after. What cared she for the wind? She tossed back her curls and laughed merrily, and the wind laughed merrily too. The silly South Wind Onward he stole, and lifting the curtain. Curious South Wind, what did he see? On the sofa lay a young man, a heavy book was in his hand. The Little South Wind ruzzled through the leaves, but the young man stirred not. He was asleep, hot and weary, he slept. The wind found his brow a while, lifted his dark locks, and, leaving a kiss behind, stole out of the casement the gentle South Wind. Then he met a little child, away he whirled the little boy's hat, away ran the child, but his little feet were tired, and he wept. Poor child! The wind looked back, and felt sad. Then hung the hat on a bush, and went on. He had played too hard, the thoughtless South Wind. A sick child slayed tossing to and fro, its hands and face were hot and dry. The mother raised the window. The wind heard her as he was creeping by, and stepping in, he cooled the burning face. Then, playing among the flowers until their fragrance filled the room, away he flew. The kind South Wind. He went out into the highway, and played with the dust. But that was not so pleasant, and onward he sped to the meadow. The dust could not follow, and the green grass, and the little South Wind soon outstripped it, and onward and onward he sped over mountain and valley, dancing among the flowers, and frolicking round, until the trees lifted up their arms, and bent their heads, and shook their sides with glee. The happy South Wind. At last he came to a quiet dell, where a little brook lay, just stirring among his white pebbles. The wind said, kind brook, will you play with me? And the brook answered with a sparkling smile, and a gentle murmur. Then the wind rose up, and, sporting among the dark pines, whizzled and sung through the lofty branches, while the pretty brook danced along, and wobbled songs to the music of its merry companion, the merry South Wind. But the sun had gone down, and the stars were peeping forth, and the day was done. The happy South Wind was still, and the moon looked down on the world below, and watched among the trees and hills, but all was still. The little South Wind slumbered, and the moon and the stars kept guard. Poor, tired South Wind. Old lady and maiden, young man and child, the dust and the flowers were forgotten, and he slept dear little South Wind. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 of Autumn Leaves. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Autumn Leaves, edited by Anna Wells Abbott. Lines written at the close of Dr. Holmes's lectures on English poetry. Footnote. The poets are metaphorically introduced as follows. Rogers the Beach, Campbell the Fur, Byron the Oak, Moore the Elm, Scott the Chestnut, Sothe the Holly, Collaridge the Magnolia, Keats the Orange, Wordsworth the Pine, Tennyson the Palm, Felicia Hemmins the Locust, Elizabeth Barrett Browning the Laurel. End footnote. Farewell, farewell, the hours we've stolen from scenes of worldly stripe and stir to live with poets and with thee, their brother and interpreter, have brought us wealth. As thou hast reaped, we have not followed thee in vain, but gathered in one precious sheaf, the pearly flower and golden grain. For twelve bright hours, with thee we walked within a magic garden's bound, where trees whose birth owned various climes beneath one sky were strangely found. First in the group, in ancient beach, his shapely arms abroad did fling, wearing old autumn's russet crown among the lively tints of spring. Those pale brown leaves and winds of march made vocal mid the silent trees and spread their faint perfume abroad like sad yet pleasant memories. Near it, the vigorous noble fur arose with firm yet graceful mean. Welcome for shelter or for shade a pyramid of living green, and from the tender vernal spray the sunny air such fragrance drew as breathes from fields of strawberries wild, all bathed in morning's freshest dew. The oak, his branches richly green, broad to the winds did wildly fling. The first in beauty and in power all bowed before the forest king, but ere its brilliant leaves were sear or scattered by the autumn wind, fierce lightnings struck its glories down and left a blasted trunk behind. A youthful elm its drooping boughs in graceful beauty bent to earth as if to touch with reverent love the kindly soil that gave it birth, and rounded in such close embrace sweet honeysuckles did entwine. We knew not if the south wind caught its odorous breath from tree or vine. The chestnut tall with shining leaves and yellow tassels covered oar, the sunny summer's golden pride and pledge of autumn's ruddy store. Though grander forms might near it rise and sweeter blossoms sent the air, was still a favorite amongst the trees that flourished in that garden fair. All brightly clad in glossy green and scarlet berries gay to see, we welcome next a constant friend, the brilliant cheerful holly tree. But twilight falls upon the scene, rich odors fill the evening air, and, lighting up the dusky shades, gleam the magnolia's blossoms fair. The firefly with its fairy lamp flashes within its soft green bower, the humming sphinx flits in and out to sip the nectar of its flower. Now the charmed air, more richly fraught to steep our senses in delight, comes oar us as the orange tree in beauty beams upon our sight, and, glancing through its emerald leaves, white buds and golden fruits are seen. Fit flowers to deck the bride's pale brow, fit fruit to offer to a queen. But let me rest beneath the pine and listen to the low sad tone its music breathes, that oar my soul comes like the ocean's solemn moan. Direct it stands in graceful strength, its spire points upward to the sky, and, nestled in its sheltering arms, the birds of heaven securely lie. And though no gaily painted bells, no order bearing urns are there, when the west wind sighs through its boughs, let me inhale the balmy air. The stately palm in conscious pride lifts its tall column to the sky, while rounded fragrant air plants cling, deep-steamed with every gorgeous dye. Linger with me a moment where the locust trembles in the breeze, in soft transparent verdure dressed, contrasting with the darker trees. The hummingbird flies in among its boughs, with pure white clusters hung, and honeybees come murmuring where its perfume on the air is flung. A noble laurel meets our gaze, ere yet we leave these alleys green, amongst many stately, fair and sweet, the Daphne Odara stands a queen. May 2, 1853 In looking back upon my early days, one of the images that rises most vividly to my mind's eye is the image of Miss Molly, or Aunt Molly, as she was called by some of her little favourites, that is, to say about a dozen girls, and, not complementary to the unfair sex, to be sure, one boy. There was one who, even to Miss Molly, was not at torment and a plague, and I must confess he was a pleasant specimen of the genus. At the time of which I speak, the great awkward barn of a schoolhouse on the common near the Appian Way had not reared its imposing front. In its place, in the centre of a grass plot, that was one of the very first to look green in spring, and kept its verdure through the heats of July, stood the brown one storied cottage which she owned, and in which the aged woman lived alone. Her garden and clothes-yard behind the house were fenced in, but in front, the visitor to the cottage, unimpeded by gate or fence, turned up the pretty green slope directly from the street to the lowly door. As I have started for a walk into the old times, and am not bound by any rule to stick to the point, I will hear digress to say that the Episcopal Church, the church as it was simply called when all the rest were meeting-houses, that tells the traveller what a pure and true taste was once present in Cambridge, and, by the contrast it presents to the architectural blunders that abound in the place, tells also what a want of it there is now. This beautiful church stood most appropriately and tastefully surrounded by the green turf, unbroken by stiff gravel walks or coach sweep, and undivided from the public walk by a fence. Behind the church, and forming a part of its own grounds, where now exist the elegances of school court, was an unappropriated field, and that spot was considered by a certain little group of children of six or seven years old, the most solitary, gloomy, mysterious place in their little world. When the colours of sunset had died out in the west, and the stillness and shadow of twilight were coming on, they used to snatch a fearful joy in seeing one of their number, whose mother had kindly omitted the first lesson usually taught to little girls to be afraid of everything, perform the feat of going slowly around the church alone, stopping behind it to count a hundred. Her wonderful courage in actually protecting the whole group from what they called a flock of cows, and in staking and patting the mad dogs that they were forever meeting was nothing to this going round the church. But to return to the cottage, from which the pretty rural trait of it standing in its unfenced green door-yard led me away to notice the same sort of rustic beauty where the church stood. We did not stop to knock at the outside door, for Aunt Molly was very deaf, and if we had knocked our little knuckles off she would not have heard us, but went in, and passing along the passage, wrapped at the door of the common room, half sitting room, half kitchen, and were admitted. Those who saw her for the first time, whether children or grown people were generally afraid of her, for her voice, unmodulated of course by the ear, was naturally harsh, strong and high toned, and the sort of half laugh, half growl that she uttered when pleased, might have suggested to an imaginative child the howl of a wolf. She had very large features, and sharp, penetrating black eyes shaded by long grey lashes, and surmounted by thick, bushy grey eyebrows. I think that when she was scolding the schoolboys with those eyes fiercely glowering at them from under the shaggy grey thatch, she must have appeared to those who in their learning page had got as far as the furies, like a living illustration of classic law. Her cap and the make of her dress were peculiar and suggestive of those days before and at the time of the revolution of which she loved to speak. But we, her little favourites, were not afraid of her. To go into her garden in summer and eat currants larger and sweeter than any we found at home. To look up at the enormous old damson tree when it was white with blossoms and the rich honeycomb smell was diffused over the whole garden was a pleasant little excursion to us. She took great care and pains to save the plums from the plundering boys because it was the only real damson there was anywhere in the neighbourhood and she found a ready sail for them for preserves. She seemed to think that the real damsons went out with the real gentry of the olden time and perhaps they did as damsons, though for all I know they may figure now in our fruit catalogs as the Duke of Argyle's new seedling a simulated drop of Damascus which would be something like a translation of damson into the modern terminology. But more pleasant still was it to go into Aunt Molly's best room. The walls she had papered herself with curious stripes and odd pieces of various shapes and patterns ornamented with a border of figures of little men and women joining hands cut from paper of all colours and they were adorned besides with several prints in shining black frames. There was no carpet on the snow-white unpainted floor but various mats and rugs of all the kinds into which ingenuity has transformed woolen rags were disposed about it. The bed was the pride and glory of the room however for on it was spread a silk patchwork quilt made of pieces of the brocade and damask and elegant silks of which the ladies belonging to the grand old Tory families had their gowns and cardinals and other paraphernalia made. Aunt Molly had been a mantua-maker to the old quality and she could show us a piece of Madame Vassal's gown on that wonderful and brilliant piece of work, the bed quilt. On that hint she would speak. Aha! They were real gentle folks that lived in them days. Aha! I declare I could eat almost, kneel down and kiss the very earth they trod on as they went by my house to church. Polite they were, yes they knew what true politeness was and to my thinking true politeness is next to saving grace. Once a year or so Aunt Molly would dress up in her best gown, a black silk trimmed with real black lace and a real lace cap, relics of the good old days of taurism and brocade and the real gentry and go to make an afternoon visit to one of her neighbours. After the usual salutations the lady would ask her visitor to take off her bonnet and stay the afternoon knowing by the rig that such was her intention but she liked to be urged a little so she would say oh I only came out for a little walk it was so pleasant and stopped in to see how little Henry did sent his sickness you know I always call him my boy. Yes Aunt Molly, the only boy in the universe that for you had any good in him. After the proper amount of urging she would lay aside her bonnet and black sat in mantel saying well I didn't come here to get my tea but you were so urgent I believe I will stay. Aunt Molly's asides were often amusing. She was so very deaf that she could not hear her own voice and often imagined she was whispering when she could be heard across the room. On one occasion she saw a gentleman who was a stranger to her in the parlor when she went to visit one of the ladies who were kind and attentive to her. She sat a few minutes looking keenly at him and then whispered who's that? Mr. J. Who? Mr. J. Who? Mr. J. Oh Mr. J. Well what does he do for a living? He's a tutor mum. What? A tutor. What? A tutor. Oh I thought you said a suitor. Aunt Molly owned the little brown cottage where her widowed mother she said had lived and there she died. As soon as she was laid in her grave it was torn down and the precious damson tree was felled. I was rather glad that the schoolhouse was so ugly that I might have a double reason for hating the usurper. If Nemesis cared for schoolboys she doubtless looks on with a grin now to see them scampering at their will round the precincts of the former enemy of their race and listens with pleasure while they make day hideous where once the bee and the hummingbird only broke the quiet of the little garden. Aunt Molly had a vigorous, active mind and a strong, tenacious memory and her love of the departed grandeur and taurism of court row as she called that part of Brattle Street from Ash Street to Mount Auburn was pleasant and entertaining to those who listened to her tales of other times. Peace to her memory. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Autumn Leaves This is LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Raven Notation Autumn Leaves Edited by Anna Wales Abbott The sound of mourning in Cambridge I sing the melodies of early morn Huck It is the distant roar of iron wheels First sound of busy life and the shrill nae of vaporsteed the veil of brightened threading region of lowing keen and perfumed breeze echoes the shore of blue meandering Charles straight away the chorus of glad shantiglius proclaims the dawn first comes one clarion note loud, clear and long drawn out and Huck, again, rises the jokun song distant, though distant now faint and far like plaintive cry for help piercing the ear of sleep each night of the spur watchful as brave and emulous in noise with mighty pinions beat a glad reveal all feathered nature wakes man's drowsy sense heats not the trilling band but slumrous waits the tardy god of day car sluggard wake open thy blind and rub thy heavy eyes for once behold a sunrise is there ought in thy dream world more splendid or more fair with crimson glory the horizon streams and ghostly deon hides her face ashamed now to the ear of him who lingers long down a couch falsely luxurious comes the unwelcomed in a college bell fast tolling tis but the earliest the warning peel he sleeps again happy if bustling chum footsteps along the entry all her chance in the homebower maternal knock and hallow shall break the treacherous slumber for behold the youth collegiate sniff the morning zeffers breezes of brisk December frosty and keen with nose incarnateen peering above each graceful shepherds plaid the chin enfolding see how the purple hue of youth and health glows in each cheek how the sharp wind brings pearls from every eye opening those dimmed with study and waste of midnight oil bull classic page long pouring glorious in merry mood plays with each unkept lock and vainly strives to make a football of the freshman's beaver or the sage sophomore's indented felt behold the foremost with the liberate stride and slow approach the chapel three empowered entering composedly its gaping portal then as the iron tongue goes on to rouse the mocking echoes with its call arrive others with hastier step and heaving chest a nun some bound along divergence paths which scar the grassy plain and with no pause for breath straight way a desperate view with headlong frantic speed swifter than arrow flight all medford whirlwind sparks flying from iron shard heels at every footfall over stone causeway and tessellated pavement they come they come they leap they scamper in air grating on its hinges slams the door inexorable pauses the sluggered at wood and halls just crossing the chime melodious dying on his ear embroidered sandals scarce maintain their hold upon his feet shuffling with heel exposed and need his upper garment just appears a many colored robe about his throat no comfortable scarf but crumpled gills shrink from the scanning eye of passenger the omnibus so horny list towards the last last stroke it dies away like murmuring wave bootless he came and bootless whence he back gnawing his gloveless thumb and pacing slow bright eyes might gaze on him compassionate but that young rosy maiden early afoot is o her shoulder watching with wild fear a hornet host that rushes by a mane bellowing bassoon like music angry shouts of drovers hurried menace and dire curse shrill scream of imitative boy and crack of cruel whip the tread of clumsy feet are hurrying on but now with instinct sure madly those doomed ones bolt from the dread road that leads to brighten and to death they charge up brattle streets screaming the maiden flies nor heeds the loss of fluttering veil upborn unsportive breeze and sailing far away and now a flock of sheep bleeding bewildered with tiny footprints fret the dusty square and huddling strive to elude relentless fate and hark with snuffling grunt and now and then a squeak a squad of long-nosed gentry run the gutters to explore with comic jerk of the investigating snout and wink at passerby and saucy lounging gate and independent lash-defying course and now the baker with his steaming load hums like the humble bee from door to door and thoughts of breakfast rise and harmonies domestic song of kettle and hissing urn glad voices and the sound of hurrying feet clatter of chairs and din of knife and fork bring to a close the melodies of mourn end of the sounds of mourning in Cambridge Chapter 7 of Autumn Leaves This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Raven Notation Autumn Leaves Edited by Anna Wales Abbott The sounds of evening in Cambridge The melodies of mourning late I sang Recall we now those melodies of even Which charmed our ear The summer day o'er past Full of the theme O' Phoebus hear me sing What time thy golden car draws near its goal Mount Orban's pillared summit Chorus loud Old mud-borne songsters fills the dewy air Hark! in yon shallow pool What melody is poured from swelling throats Liquid and bubbling As if the plaintive notes thrilled Struggling through the stagnant waters And the waving reeds Monotonous the melancholy strain Save when the bullfrog From some slimy depth profound Sends up his deep poo-too, poo-too Like a staccato note of double bass Marking the cadence The unwearyed crickets fill up the harmony And the whipper will His mournful solo sings among the willows The tree toad's pleasant trillian croak Proclaims a coming rain A welcome evil sure When streets are one long ash heap And the flowers fainting Or crisp in sun-baked borders stand Mount Orban's gate is closed The latest bus down Battle Street goes rumbling Laborers high home by twos and threes Homeliest fizzes Voices high-pitched and tongues With tell-tale brrr The short-stemmed pipe Diffusing odours vile Garments of comic And misfitting make And steps which tend to Curran's door A man, ignoble yet quite worthy of the name Of Philpot Curran All proclaim the race Adopted by Columbia Grumblingly when their stepmother country Cast them off Here with a creaking barrow Piled with tools Keen as the wit that wields them Hurries by a man of different stamp His well-trained limbs Move with a certain grace and readiness Skillful intelligence every muscle swaying Rapid his tread yet firm His scheming brain teams with broad plans And hopes of future wealth And time and life move all too slow for him Will he industrious gains and home renounce To grow more quickly rich in land's unblessed Hearest thou that gleeful shout Who hopes the gate, the neatly painted gate And runs before with noisy joy Now from the trellised door Toddles another bright-haired boy And now captive they lead the father Strong their grasp he cannot break away Dreamily quiet The dewy twilight of a summer eve Tired mortals lounge at casement or at door While deepening shadows gather round No lamp save in yon shop Whos sable minister his evening customers attends A nun with squeaking buckets on his arm Emerges the errand boy Slow marching to the tune of Uncle Ned or Norma Whistled shrill, Hark! Heard you not against the windowpane The dash of horny skull and mad career And the loud bars of terror He'll be in this horrid beetle Yes, and in my hair Close all the blinds It is dismal but is safe Listen, we thought I heard delicious music Faint and afar Pray, is the boat club out? Do the peering minstrels meet tonight? Or chime the bells of Boston or the port? Nearer now, nearer Ah, bloodthirsty villain Is it you? Too late I closed the blind Alas, list, there's another trump There, two of them Two, a quintet at least Mosquito chorus Ah, ah, my cheek And oh, again, my island I gave myself a stunning cuff on the ear And all in vain Flap, we are handkerchief Flap, flap, a smash Quick, quick, bring in a lamp I've switched the flower vase from the shelf Ah, me, splash on my head And then upon my feet The water poured, I'm drowned My slippers fall, my dickie Ah, tis cruel Flowers are nonsense I'd have them amaranths all Or made of paper Here, ring my neckcloth And rub down my hair Now, Mr. Bracket, punctual man Is ringing the curfew bell Tis nine o'clock already Tis early bedtime Yet me things twer joy On mattress-cool to stretch supine At midnight, where it winter I were less fatigued, less sleepy Sleep, I invoke thee Comfortable bird that broodest over The troubled waves of life And hushest them to peace All hail the man who first invented bed A wondrous soft this pillow to my weary head Right soon, my dizzy thoughts Shall owe the brink of sleep Fall into chaos and be lost I dream Now comes mine enemy, not silently But with insulting and defiant warning Come, banquet, if thou wilt I offer thee my cheek, my arm Tease me not, hovering higher With a continuous hum I fame would rest Come, do thy worst at once Light, scandal, light Thou insect vulture Seize thy helpless prey No ceremony I'd have none with thee Could I but find thee Fainter now and father The tiny war-woop Now I hear it not A cowardly assassin he He waits Full well aware that I am on the alert With murderous intent Perchance he's gone Hark I, a nose of hound Not serving him To find me in the dark With a long sigh I beat my pillow Closed my useless eyes And soon again my thoughts Well giddily Verging towards dreams Starting I shake my bed Loud thumps my heart Rises on end my hair A murder screech And yells a frantic fury Under my very window A duet of fiendish hatred Battle to the death Tis enough to enrage a man Missile I seize, not caring what And with a savage scat That scrapes my throat, let drive I would it were a millstone Swiffly through the garden beds And o'er the fence On either side they fly I to my couch return But not to sleep I toss and think tis almost dawn So still the streets But now the latest train Whistling melodiously Comes in the tramp of feet And hum of voices echo far In the still night air Now with joy I feel My eyelids droop once more To sleep and dream Is bliss unspeakable I'm going off What was I thinking last Slowly I rise On downy pinions Dreaming I fly I soar Through the clouds my way I'm winging Angels to their harps are singing Strains of unearthly sweetness Lonely and thrilling harmonies Yelp, bow wow wow Get out! The dog has got me by the leg Stave him off will you See he's rent my pants My newest plaid Yow, yow This house I'll never serenade again A dog should know musicians From suspicious chaps And gentlemen from rowdies Even at night Beat him again No, no Perhaps tis hers A lady's pet Me thinks the curtain moves She's looking out Let's sing once more Just once Not I I'll sing no more tonight And steps Limping unequally And grumbling voice Pass round the corner And are heard no more End of The Sounds of Evening in Cambridge To the nearsighted Pure-blind and short-sighted friends You will listen to me You will sympathize with me For you know by painful experience What I mean when I say that we nearsighted people Do not receive from our hawk-eyed neighbors That sympathy and consideration To which we are justly entitled If we were blind We should be abundantly pitted But as we're only half-blind Such comments as these are all the consolation we get Oh, nearsighted is she? Yes, it is very fashionable nowadays For young ladies to carry eyeglasses And call themselves nearsighted Or pooh, it's all affectation She can see as well as anybody if she chooses She thinks it's pretty to half-shut her eyes And cut her acquaintances I meet my friend Ace some morning Who returns my salutation with cold politeness And says, how cleverly you managed To cut me at the concert last night At the concert, I did not see you Oh, no, you could see well enough to bow To Miss Pretty Bee and her handsome cousin But as for seeing your old schoolmate Two seats behind her Of course you are too nearsighted In vain I protest that I could not see her That three yards is a great distance to my eyes She leaves me with an incredulous smile And that most provoking phrase Oh, yes, I suppose so And distrusts me ever afterwards Alas, we see just enough to seal our own condemnation Who is free from this malady? As I look around in society I see starey, glassy ellipses on every side In the place where eyes ought to grow And perhaps most of the unfortunate owls Get along very comfortably with their artificial eyes But imagine a bashful youth, awkward and nearsighted Whose friends dissuade him from wearing glasses Is there in the universe an individual more unlucky More blundering, more sincerely to be pitied? See that little boy who, having put on his father's spectacles Is enjoying for the first time A clear and distinct view of the evening sky Oh, is that pretty little yellow dot a star? Exclaims the delighted child Poor innocent, a star had always been to him A dim, cloudy spot, a little nebula Which the magic glass has now resolved And he can hardly believe that this brilliant point Is not an optical illusion But when his mother assures him That the stars always appear so to her And he turns to look in her face, he says Why, mother, how beautiful you look Pleased to give me some little spectacles all my own? She could not resist this entreaty, who could And little squire-specs Does not mind the shouts of his companions Or the high-sounding nicknames they give him He so rejoices in what seems to him A new sense, a second sight I was summoned the other day To welcome a family of cousins from a distant state Who I had not seen for a very long time They were accompanied, I was told, by a Boston lady A stranger to us I entered the room with considerable impressement But when my eye detected the dim outline Of a circle of bonneted figures I stopped in despair in the middle of the room Not knowing which was which Or whom I ought to speak to first And at last made an embarrassed half-bow Half-courtesy to the company in general A confused murmur of greetings And introductions followed And throwing aside my air of stiff, ceremonious politeness I rushed with a smiling face to the nearest lady Shook hands with her in the most cordial manner And then in passing bowed formally to the next Who I concluded was the stranger What then was my surprise and utter confusion When she caught me by the hand And, drawing me towards her, kissed me emphatically several times How do you do, dear? Have you quite forgotten me? Ah, you don't remember the times When you used to ride a cock-horse on my knee To Banbury Cross to see the old lady Get on her white horse? What could I say? I was petrified I could not smile, I could not speak My only feeling was mortification At my most awkward mistake Yet I ought to have become accustomed to such embarrassments For they are a very frequent occurrence Why, Julia, what is the matter? How strangely your eyes look My sister at this exclamation turns round And I discover that from the other end of the room I've been gazing at the unexpressive features of her back-air Which is twisted in a pug or bob Which is the correct term? And surmounted by a tortoise shell comb But in the whole course of my numerous mistakes and blunders Whether ludicrous, serious, or embarrassing I believe I have never mistaken a cow for a human being As was done by old Dr. E. It was many years ago when Boston Common was still used as a pasture And cows were daily to be met in the crooked streets of the city And at this gentleman, distinguished for the courtesy And old school politeness of his manner No less than for his extreme nearsightedness Was walking at a brisk pace one winter's day And saw just before him a lady, as he thought Richly dressed in furs As he was passing her he thought he perceived that her fur boa Or tippet had escaped from her neck And carefully lifting the end of it with one hand He made a low bow, raising his hat with the other And said in his blandest tone Madam, you're losing your tippet And what thanks did the worthy doctor receive, do you think For this truly kind and polite deed? Why the lady merely turned her head Gave him a wondering stare with her large eyes And said Moo As an offset to this instance of courtesy And good breeding lavished on a cow Let me give you as a parting bon boucher Another cow antidote Where, as you will see, there was no gentle politeness wasted The river in Dr. H. was an eccentric old man Nearsighted, of course, all eccentric people are Who lived a small country town in this neighborhood Numerous are the traditionary accounts of his peculiarities Of his odd manners and customs, which I have heard But it is only of one little incident That I am now going to speak A favorite employment of this good man Was the care of his garden And he might be seen any pleasant afternoon and summer Rigged out in a hideous yellow calico robe or blouse With a dusty old black straw hat stuck on the back of his head Hoeing and digging in that beloved patch of ground One day, as he was thus occupied His wife emerged from the house Dressed in a dark brown gingham And bearing in her hand some muslins Which she began to spread upon the gooseberry bushes to whiten She was very busily engaged so that she was not aware That her husband was approaching her with a large stick Until she felt a smart blow across her shoulders And heard his peculiar sharp voice shouting in her ears Go long, old cow! Go long, old cow! End of Chapter 8 Recording by Lynn Handler Chapter 9 of Autumn Leaves This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recorded by Kate McDonald Autumn Leaves, edited by Anna Wales Abbott Flowers from a student's walk As the animal dies of inination and fed on But one kind of food, however congenial It lives if he has all in succession So is it with complex man Learn retrenchment from the starving oyster Who spends his last energies in a new pearly layer Suited to his shrunken form As animals which have no organs of special sense Know not light or sound as we do Yet shrink from a hand or a candle Because their whole bodies are dimly conscious Thus we have a glimmering perception Of infinite truths and existences Which we cannot grasp or fully know Because our minds have no special organs for them The prick in the butterfly's wing Will be in the full-grown insect A great blemish The speck in thy child's nature If fondly overlooked now Will become a wide rent traversing all his virtues As mineral poisons kill Because by their strong affinity They decompose the blood So the soul possessed by too strong an affinity For gold petrifies Our principles are central forces Our desires, tangential It requires both to describe the curve of life The slightest inclination of a standing body Virtually narrows its base The least departure from integrity Lessons our foundation The pyramid, broad-based Yet heaven-pointed is the firmest figure Most characters are inconsistent Unsymmetrical and have a base-wanting extent In some direction Be not over-curious in assigning causes Or predicting consequences The same diagonal may be formed By various combining forces Through water the musical sound is not transmitted Only the harsh material noise In air the noise is heard very near The musical sounds only are transmitted Be thankful poets and prophets When you live in an element such That your uncommonly features Are known only to your own village Do not sing its fundamental note too loud Near a delicate glass or it will break Whispered my friend to me As he saw me gazing at this lovely being Seek the golden mean of life Like the temperate regions It has but few thorny plants Be doubly careful of those To whom nature has been a-niggered The oak and the palm take their own forms Under all circumstances The fungi seems to owe theirs To outward influences It is a poor plant that crisps quickly into wood It is a meager character which runs Perpetually into prejudices As light suffers from no change of medium When it falls perpendicularly So the consequences of a perfectly upright action Or a cause of action are strictly fortunate But let it be ever so little oblique The new medium will exaggerate its obliquity And the farther it departs from uprightness The more frightfully it is distorted Hoops and coins which cannot preserve Their equilibrium when in rest Keep it when set in motion Man also activity finds his safest position As it takes a diamond to cut and shape a diamond So there are faults so obstinate That they can be worn away only by life long contact With similar faults in those we love Learn the virtue of action Who inquires whether momentum comes from mass Or velocity But velocity has this advantage It depends on ourselves The grass is green after these October rains Because in the July drought it struck deep roots End of Flowers from a Student's Walk Chapter 10 of Autumn Leaves This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Autumn Leaves Edited by Anna Wells Abbott Miseries. Number 1 Did you ever try to eat a peach Elegantly and gracefully? Of course you have. Show me a man who has not tried the experiment When under the restraint of human surveillance And I shall look upon him as a curiosity There is no fruit certainly Which has so fair and alluring and exterior But few content themselves With feasting their eyes upon it How fresh and ripe it looks As it lies upon the plate With its rosy cheek turned temptingly upward How cool and soft is the downy skin to the touch And the fragrance so suggestive Of its rich, delicious flavor Who can resist? Ah, unhappy white Bitterly you shall repent your rashness Any other fruit can be eaten With comparative ease and politeness Peach was evidently intended only to be looked at Or enjoyed beneath your own tree Where no I may watch and criticize your motions I see you in imagination at a party Standing in the middle of the room Plate in hand, regarding your peach As if it were some great natural curiosity A sudden jog of your elbow compels you to a succession Of most dexterous balancing As your heavy peach rolls from side to side Knocks down your knife and threatens to plunge after it When you stoop to regain it You look distractedly round for a table But all are occupied Even the corner of the mantel shelf holds a plate And you enviously see the owner thereof Leaning carelessly against the chimney And looking placidly round Upon his less fortunate companions You glance at the different groups To see if anyone else is in your most Unenviable predicament Ah, yes, yonder stands a gentleman worse off yet For, in addition to your perplexities He's talking with a young, laughing girl Who's watching his movements With a merry twinkle in her bright eyes He evidently wishes to astonish her By his dexterity And disappoint her roguish expectations He holds his plate firmly in his left hand And proceeds at once to cut his peach in halves Deuce take the blunt silver knife The tough skin resists its pressure The knife and the plate clash loudly together The peach is bounding and rolling At the very feet of the young lady Who is in an ecstasy of laughter Ah, she herself has no small resemblance to a peach Fair, beautiful and attractive without And I sadly fear With a hard heart beneath Are you yet more miserable than before? Turn then to the yonder, sober-looking gentleman Who certainly seems sufficiently composed To perform the difficult maneuver He has the advantage of a table to be sure But that is not everything He begins right by deliberately removing the woolly skin Now he lays the slippery peach in his plate And makes a plunge at it with his knife A sharp prolonged screech across his plate Solutes the ears of all the bystanders And a fine slice of juicy pulp Is flung unceremoniously into the face Of the gentleman opposite Who certainly does not look very grateful For the unexpected gift Everyone, of course, has seen the awkward accident Oh, no! That pretty animated girl upon the sofa Is much too pleasantly engaged, that is evident To be watching her neighbors Playing carelessly with her fan And casting many sparkling glances upward At the two gentlemen who are vying with each other In their gallant attentions She has enough to do without noticing other people She is happily unconscious of the mortification Which is in store for her Or willfully shuts her eyes to the peril Alas! her hand is resting even now Upon the destroyer of all her present enjoyment The beautiful, fragrant, treacherous peach With a nonchalance really shocking to the anxious beholder She raises it and breaks it open Talking the while and scarcely bestowing a thought Upon what she's about Dexterously done, but oh, luckless maiden The fruit is ripe and rich and juicy And the running drops fall not into her plate But upon the delicate folds of her dress The merry repartee dies away upon her lips As she becomes conscious of the catastrophe It is with a forced smile that she declares It is nothing, oh, none of the slightest consequence That unlucky peach How many blunders, how many pauses How many absent-minded remarks it occasions She makes the most frenzied attempts To regain her former gaiety, but in vain Her gloves are stained and sticky with the flowing juice And she is oppressed by the conviction That all her partners for the rest of the evening Will hate her most heartily An expression of real vexation Steals over her pretty face And she gives up her plate to one of the attendant beau With not so much as a wish that he will return to her Where are the arch smiles, the lively tones The quick and ready response is now Her spirit is quenched, her manner has become subdued Depressed, shall I say it? Yes, even sulky Ah, I see your courage will not brave laughter You steal to the table, half ashamed of yourself As you set down your untasted peach Your sudden zeal to relieve those ladies of their plates Serves as a very good excuse for the relinquishment of your own You have rescued yourself very well from your dilemma this time Remember my advice for the future Never accept a peach in company End of Miseries Number 1 Recording by Lynn Handler Chapter 11 of Autumn Leaves This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by David Lawrence Autumn Leaves, edited by Anna Wales Abbott Miseries Number 2 A Dark Night There are some people who seem to have the facility which horses and dogs are said to possess of seeing in the dark. But I, alas, am blind and blundering as a beetle. I can never find my way about house in the evening without a lamp to allume my path. Many smarting remembrances have I of bruised nose and black eyes, the consequences of attempting to run through a partition that I have arrived at an open door. My most prominent feature has been rudely assailed also by doors standing ajar, unexpectedly, which I have embraced with both outstretched arms crickets, tables, chairs, especially chairs with very sharp rockers, and other movable articles or furniture have satianed themselves, as it would seem, with malicious intent to trip me up. Some murderous contusion makes me suddenly conscious of their presence. Then a feeling of complete bewilderment and helplessness and timidity comes over me. I have not the least idea in what part of the room I am. I am oppressed with a sense of chairs scattered about in improbable places. I long most ardently for a lamp or only for one gleam from a neighbor's window. It is no rare thing for me to discover by a thrilling touch upon the cold glass that I have been feeling my way exactly the opposite direction from what I imagined. Strange how ideas of direction and distance are lost when the sight is powerless. Touch may find out mistakes, but cannot always prevent them. Touch may convince me that I have arrived at my bureau, but it is too careless to perceive what the poor straining eyes would have discovered at a glance. The open upper drawer that solutes my forehead is as I stoop hastily to grasp the handles beneath. Touch is clumsy. It only serves to upset valuable plants, ink stands, solar lamps, etc. with an appalling crash and then leaves me standing aghast in utter uncertainty as to the extent of the catastrophe. In such emergencies I rush for the stairs as the first impulse. Aha! But those stairs! I will pass over the startling plunge begins my descent, the frantic snatch for the banisters and the strange momentary doubt as to which foot must move first, like what a child may feel when learning to walk. All this serves to render me so over-careful that when I actually arrive at the foot of the staircase I cannot believe it, until a loud scuff and the shock that follows the interruption of my expected descent assure me beyond a doubt. There is nothing more exasperating than this unless it may be the corresponding disappointment in running upstairs when you raise your foot high in the air and bring it down with an emphatic stamp exactly upon a level with the other. But these are mere household experiences. Sad though they are, I esteem them as nothing in comparison with my adventures out of doors. In a dark night, and especially in a night both dark and stormy, I feel myself one of the most wretched beings in existence. Imagine a vessel lost in the wide ocean and without a compass, and you will have some faint idea of my perplexity, discouragement and loneliness at such a time. I have a strange propensity for shooting off into the gutter or for shouldering the fences under the impression that I am pursuing a straight course. I go quite out of my way to trip over chanced stones or to pick out choice bits of slippery ice. I splash recklessly through deep puddles, stumble over unfortunate scrapers, walk unexpectedly into open cellars, and lay my length upon wet stone doorsteps. I start back at visions of posts looming up in the darkness and quite washed fences and trees, all of which would be quite unlikely to be standing in the middle of the sidewalk, and which disappear at the first reasonable thought. I run into harmless passengers as if I would knock the breath of life out of them and tangle our umbrellas together so fearfully that they spin round and round sometime after their separation. Oh, that umbrella of mine! Sometimes I hook it in the drooping branches of trees and, losing my hold in the suddenness of the shock, have the gratification of feeling it tip up and go down over my shoulder into the mud behind me. Its bone tips tap and scratch at the windows as I go by and scrape against the tall fences, like fingers trying to catch at something to hold on by and stop my progress. It hits a low branch and its varnished handle slips through my woolen gloves, knocking my hat over my eyes and extinguishing me for the time being, as if the night were not dark enough without. My friends, I could go on much longer with my complaints, but I feel that I have drawn upon your sympathies sufficiently for the present. You will be as glad to leave me at my own house door as I am to find it. End of A Dark Night Recording by David Lawrence February 2010 in Brampton, Ontario Chapter 12 of Autumn Leaves This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Autumn Leaves, edited by Anna Wales Abbott Miseries No. 3, Twine Under the general heading of string I might enumerate a long list of this world's miseries. Shoe strings alone comprehend an amount of wretchedness, which is but feebly described in the tragical story of Jemmy's string. Bonnet strings and apron strings, Dickey strings and watch guards, curtain cord, bed cord, and codline each and all have furnished enough discomfort to make out a long grumbling article. But I cannot linger to describe their treacherous desertions when their services are most needed, their unexpected weaknesses, and their obstinate entanglements when time presses. A certain pudding-bag string is commemorated in one of the beautiful couplets of Mother Goose's medallies. I am sure you have not forgotten it. Nor is the staring spotted cat that is there represented racing away with her booty. That lamented pudding-bag string is but a type of string in general. They are fleeting possessions, always hiding, always misplaced, never in order. You fit up a string drawer, perhaps, with a fine assortment and pride yourself upon its nice arrangement. Go to it a week after, and see if you can find one ball where you left it. Can you lay your hand upon a single piece that you want? No, indeed. Twine is considered common property. If anyone has a use for it, he takes it without leave or license, without even inquiring who is the owner. And you may be sure he will never bring any of it back again. O, the misery endured for the want of an errant piece of twine, when you are in a nervous hurry to do up a parcel. Someone waiting at the door, meanwhile. After an immense deal of pains, you have it at last folded to your liking, with every corner squared and even every wrinkle smoothed. Then, clasping tightly with one hand the stiff wrapper, you search distractedly with the other for a ball of twine, which you distinctly remember tossing into the paper drawer only the day before. In vain, you surround yourself with newspaper and brown paper and useless rubbish, tumbling your whole drawer into confusion. In vain, you relinquish your nicely packed parcel and see its contents scattered in all directions. In vain, you grumble and scold. The ball is not forthcoming. Your little brother has seized it to fly his kite, or your sister is even now tying up her trailing morning glories or sweet peas with the stolen booty. You plunge your hand exploringly into the drawer and bring up a long roll, wound thickly with twine of all kinds and colors. Your eyes sparkle at the prize. But alas, the first energetic pull leaves in your hand a piece about four inches long, and a quantity of dangling ends and rough knots convince you that you have nothing to hope in that quarter. A second plunge brings up a handful of odds and ends, strong pieces, clumsy and rough, coarse-red quill cord, delicate two-colored bits far too short, cotton twine breaking at the touch, fine long pieces hopelessly tangled together so that not even an end is visible. The more you twitch at the loops, the more desperate is the snarl. Poor mortal, your pride gives way before the urgency of haste. You send off your nice packet terribly tied together by two kinds of twine. All the rest of the day you are tormented by the superfluity of the very thing you needed so much. It was impossible to get it when you wanted it, but now it is pernaciously in your way when you do not want it. You almost break your neck tripping over a long, firm cord, which proves to be a pair of reins left hanging on the chair by some careless urchin. The carpet and furniture are strewed with long, straggling pieces of pack thread. You find a white end dangling conspicuously from your waistcoat pocket. As you walk the streets, you see twine flying from fences or lying uselessly on the sidewalk, black with dust and age. To crown the hole, a friend comes with a piece of twine extending across two rooms and asks you to help him twist and double it into a cord. It is a very entertaining process. You amuse yourself with watching one little rough place that twirls swiftly round, stops with a jerk, turns hesitatingly one side and the other. Then, yielding to a new impulse, flies round and round again until you were dizzy. You look with great complacency at the tightening twist, now brought almost to perfection. You turn it carelessly in your fingers, scarcely noticing its convulsive starts for freedom. Ah, your imprudent friend without any warning gives it a final pull to stretch it into shape. The twine slips from your grasp, springs away across the room, curls itself into a succession of snarls and twisted loops and then lies motionless. Your friend looks thunderstruck. With a hasty apology you step forward and tightly clasp the recreate end. You are in nervous expectation of dropping it again. Your fingers are benumbed at the tips with their tight compression and the constant twitching. They give a sudden jerk. You make an involuntary clutch for the cord, but in vain. It is rapidly untwisting at the very feet of your companion who looks at it in despair. Again you make an attempt with no success at all, the refractory twine eluding once more. Your fellow twister walks off at last with a wretchedly rough affair which she good-humoredly says will do very well. End of miseries number three, twine. Chapter 13 I believe the world has gone quite crazy on the subject of fresh air. In the next century, people will think they must sleep on the housetops, I suppose, or camp out in tents in primitive style. Nothing is talked about but ventilators and air tubes and chimney drafts. One would suppose that fireplaces were invented expressly for cooling and airing a room instead of heating it. There was no such fuss when I was young. In those good old times, these airy notions had not come into fashion. Where the loose window sashes rattled at every passing breeze and the wind chased the smoke down the wide-mouthed chimney, nobody complained of being stifled. There were no furnaces then to spread a summer heat to every corner of the house. No indeed. We ran shivering through the long, windy entries and shawls and hugging ourselves to retain the friendly warmth of the fire as long as possible. Far from devising ways of letting in the air, we tried hard to keep it out by stuffing the cracks with cotton and closely containing the windows in bed. Even then, the ice in the washbasin and the electricity which made our hair literally stand on end in the process of combing and the gradual transformation of fingers into thumbs showed but too plainly the wintry air had penetrated our defenses. When we crowded joyfully around a crackling, sparkling wood fire, even while our faces glowed with the intense heat, cold shivers were creeping down our backs and sudden drafts from an opening door set our teeth chattering. I often wished myself on a spit to revolve slowly before the fire until thoroughly roasted. Not from any want of air, I assure you, we children were always breaking panes of glass on the bitterest days and the glacier was never known to come under a week to replace them. Why people should wish to revive and live through again the miseries of such a frost-nipped childhood I cannot imagine. I for one love a snug house, even a warm house. I'm of a chilly temperament and subject to rheumatism, horrible colds, etc. Fresh air is my bane. I banish all books on the subject from my table. I studiously avoid all notorious fresh air lovers or try in every way to bring over the poor, misguided mortals to my views, but it is of no use. Fresh air is the fashion and is run to extremes as all fashions must be. I call in a physician, Lo, fresh air is recommended as a tonic. I give a party. Of course my windows are all thrown open and foolish young girls in the thinnest of white muslins are standing in the draft and such a whirlwind is raised by the flirting of fans and the rush of the dancers that I am blown like a dry leaf into a corner where I stand shivering and making rueful attempts to appear smiling and hospitable. I go out to pass a social afternoon with a friend and I'm set down in a room just above the freezing point with a little crack opened in the window and all the doors flying to change the air. I ride in the omnibus and I'm almost choked with my bonnet strings such a furious draft meets me in the face and when with infinite pains I have secured the only tolerably warm corner my next neighbor becomes very faint and must have the window open. Even the poor babies are not safe from this popular insanity. You may see the little victims any day taking an airing with their little red noses and watery eyes peeping forth from under the cap and feathers. The old-fashioned blanket in which the baby was done up head and all like a bundle is thrown aside. The child is not quite so often carried upside down. I suppose under the new system but what difference does it make whether the poor thing is smothered or frozen to death? I shall never forget a long journey I took once with a friend who was raving mad on the subject of fresh air and cold water. Every morning the windows were thrown open wide and the blinds flung back with an energetic bang while a stiff wintry wind whirled everything about the room and flapped the curtains against the ceiling and there she stood declaring herself exhilarated while her nose and lips turned from red to blue and the tears ran down her cheeks. I always took to flight. Afterwards the poor auto-marter went out to walk before breakfast scornfully rejecting all offers of furs and extra wrappings. Oh dear, no! She never thought of muffs, tippets, snow boots but as encumbrances fit for extreme old age and infirmity. She always walked fast and the more the wind blew the warmer she felt. I might be assured. As soon as she had gone I established myself in comfort by the side of a glowing grate happy but for dreading her return. She came in dreadfully fresh and breezy from the outer air very energetic, very noisy and fully bent upon stirring me up and making me take exercise. After snapping the door open and slamming it behind her with a clap that greatly disturbed my nerves she exclaimed in a stentorian voice oh dear me, I shall die in such an oven my dear child you have no idea how hot it is and the first thing I knew up would go a window with a crash that made the weights rattle it might rain or shine whether made no difference to this inveterate air seeker many a time has she come in all dripping and tracking the carpet brushed carelessly against me with her wet garments and finally enveloped me with the steam arising from them as they hung around my fire it roused my indignation that she should make herself and everybody else so uncomfortable and then glory in the deed as if it were indubitably and indisputably praiseworthy she was so good-natured however and so happy in her delusion that I could not find it in my heart to remonstrate very vehemently except when she would make me listen to her interminable lectures upon the importance the necessity of fresh air and the effect of a snug, cozy room upon the blood, the heart, the lungs, the head and as I verily believe she hinted at the temper I know I lost all control of mine long before she finished but whether it was the want of fresh air in practice or too much of it in theory I leave you to imagine my friend always carried a small thermometer in her trunk which she consulted a dozen times an hour in order to regulate the temperature of the room alas for me if the quick silver rose above sixty I devoutly hoped she would leave it behind in some of our numerous stopping places and with an eye to that possibility I must confess I hung it in the most out-of-the-way corners I could find but it seemed to be on her mind continually she never forgot it and always packed it very carefully too I asked her two or three times so let me put it in my trunk where I had slyly arranged a nice little place full of hard surfaces and sharp corners but she always had plenty of room I believe my zealous friend is now residing at the seashore freezing in the cold sea winds and losing her breath every morning in the briny wave under the strange illusion that she's improving her health end of miseries number four fresh air recording by Lynn Handler they tell me my head is old as cares believe it so but since I'm uncivially told that the old thing must go I bid thee farewell old hat good hat farewell to thee good old hat I must soon to the city his enthrudge to some horrid store a smart new tile to buy with a hard exceedingly sore of a long dried friend a close friend I'm ashamed of a trusty old friend ah let me remember these tears the date I was my first own when I settled tea over my ears then we saw blocks overgrown hurray for a beaver hat a sleek hat a cheer for a sleek beaver hat that day is in memory green among those that were all of the two sweet days of my youth ah I've seen but too many sins that were blue how smooth was our front my hat my first hat unbent were our prose my first hat the first dent what the sorrow it was were it only my skull instead indignant I think of the cause and pommel my stupid head I was new to the care of a hat a tall hat unversy to wear a tall hat that omnibus portal low-browed and never grazed my humble cap but it knocked off my beaver so proud which in a puddle fell slap a lass from a dignified hat my proud hat wore to my lofty ground hat it survived but it had a weak side and so had its fairer perchance since I left it on the stairs to a bite at the house where I went to a dance a lady ran into my hat my poor hat she demolished my invalid hat end of farewell recording by Ellie December 2009 Chapter 15 of autumn leaves this is a lipovox recording all lipovox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit lipovox.org recording by Ellie autumn leaves edited by Anna Wales Abbott innocent surprises I am somewhat inclined to the opinion that if positive legislation could be brought to be upon this subject making it a criminal offence for one person deliberately to concoct and designately to spring a surprise upon another society would derive incalculable benefit from the act for the ordinary and inevitable surprises of everyday life are sufficiently frequent and startling to content even the most romantic disposition entire dispensing is the necessity of those artfully contrived embarrassing little plots which one's friends occasionally set the emotion greater to their own diversion and take extreme discomfort of the surprised unfortunate never broken his skull on a treacherous sidewalk or received from the post a dining missive when he expected a laugh letter or arrived one minute later at the car station or taken a desperately bad bill in exchange for good silver or been caught in a thunderstorm with white pentalons and no umbrella knows that unavoidable surprises of life are in themselves decorous of quite frequent occurrence and require not the aid of human invention but the surprises which we most dread are not those which naturally fall to us as part of the misfortune we are born to inherit not those which result from unforeseen accidental circumstances from carelessness on our own part or from the folly of others from revolutions in the elements or in the affairs of nations these we can bear by using against them the best remedies we possess or by fearing and enduring them as wisdom and philosophy teachers to do no, our only prayer in this connection is that we may be saved from our friends not from their carelessness but from the deliberate schemes against our security in order to reconcile the apparent contradiction in terms take the following instance of a friendly propensity you walk into your house at dusky twilight at that particular hour of evening at which your own brother if he be a reasonable being would not expect you to recognize him one of your family extents his or her head from the parlor and calls upon you at once to enter and greet an old friend you obey and are immediately confronted with an individual whose countenance was an expression associated with some reminiscences of your use but so dim and undefined is it that you cannot for the life of you give it its appropriate name or place what is to be done the recollections of early childhood are expected spontaneously to burst forth from under heap of later and more weird associations and the name, residence, business and whole history of the unwelcome guest are called upon those who chased themselves at once time after a long moment of painful hesitation during which you have in vain tried to stare his name out of him you clutch at the struggling idea and blurt out the name of one of your former associates you do this not by any means because common sense or conviction suggest the cause but simply because something must instantly be done the result of course is that you hit upon the wrong name and now your kind friends can do no more for you even if they rush to the rescue of the stranger it is of no avail the deed is done you are placed in a position of awkward modification which both the stranger and yourself will never forget and never cease to regret why is it that the feeling of shame which follows upon such mishaps attaches itself exclusively to the innocent sufferers rather than those who are the cause of the suffering and never could understand this kind of diversion betrays a want of human consideration in the contriver it is infinitely more cruel and unamable than Spanish bullpatings or the gladiatorial shows of the ancients inasmuch as a shock to the finest feelings of human nature is harder to bear and longer in duration than the momentary pain induced by witnessing a merely physical suffering end of innocent surprises recording by Ellie December 2009 Chapter 16 of autumn leaves this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org autumn leaves edited by Anna Wales Abbott The Old Sailor in my school vacations I used occasionally to visit an old sailor friend a man of uncommon natural gifts and that varied experience of life which does so much to supply the want of other means of education he must have been a handsome man in his youth and though time and hardship had done their utmost to make a ruin of his bold features and had made it needful to braid his still jetty black locks together to cover his bald crown he was a fine striking head yet to my boyish fancy I loved to sit at his feet and hear him tell the events of sixty years of toil and danger suffering and well earned joy as he leaned with both hands upon his stout staff at ease swaying with the earnestness of his speech his labors and perils were now ended and in his age and infirmity he had found a quiet haven he had built a small house by the side of the home of his childhood and his son who followed his father's vocation lived under the same roof this son and two daughters were all that remained to him of a large family an easterly bank and a westerly glim are certain signs of a wet skin said the fisherman pointing to the heavy black masses of cloud that hung over the eastern horizon one morning when I had risen at sunrise for a day's fishing twon't do, don't go out today there's soon such a breeze off shore as with the heavy chop would make you sick enough besides the old Dory won't put up with such a storm as is coming no fishing my boy today his old father said Steven is right there is a blow brewing and he came to look leaning on his cane stay in today I yielded and the sky during the morning slowly assumed a dull leaden hue the storm came on in the afternoon heavily pattering and pouring and blowing against the windows and obscuring the little light of an autumn twilight through the few small rooms of the cottage endeavouring to amuse myself while the light lasted with two funeral sermons and an old newspaper then I sat down at a window and I well remember the gloomy landscape seen through the rain in the dusk the marsh with a creek dividing it the bare round eminence between the house and the beach or rather the rocky cliffs and on either side the wide lonely sands with heavy foam capped by rakers rolling in upon the shore with a sound like a solemn dirge at a distance on the left half hidden by the walnut trees lay the ruins of a mill which had always the air of being haunted a high rocky hill very nearly perpendicular on the side next to the house was covered on the sides and top with junipers pines and other evergreens as the darkness thickened I left the lonely best room in the seat in the large chimney corner in the kitchen the old wife tottered round making preparations for the evening meal and muttered recollections of shipwrecks which the storm brought to her mind now and then she would go to a window turn back her cap border from her forehead put her face close to the glass shading off the firelight with her hand and gaze out into the darkness Asa did not go out either thank the good father she said the dog whined piteously st st poor skip here shall have a peace good dog a fearful night indeed it is the two men came in from the barn shook off the wet and drew near the fire just such a night 29 years ago come August we ran a fowl of hadras you remember old women how they frightened ye about me don't ye amidst such such reminiscences we were called to supper I remember being solemnly impressed when that old man bent with hardship and the weight of years clashed his hands reverently and in rude terms but full of meaning asked a blessing upon their humble board I remember the flickering light from the logs burning on the hearth and how it showed upon the faces of those who sat there a strong feeling of the words in which rose an added petition to those on the mighty deep supper being ended the old man took down the tobacco board and when he had cut enough to fill his pipe handed it to his son who having done the same restored it to its nail in the chimney corner then they smoked and talked of dangers braved and overcome of pirates and shipwrecks and escapes till I involuntarily drew closer into my corner and looked over my shoulder suddenly the dog under the table gave a whining growl I never see the like of that dog exclaimed the fisherman turning to me I thought he was asleep but if ever a foot comes nigh the house at night he gives notice depend on it there's someone coming the door of the little entry opened with a rush of the whistling wind and a man stepped in the dog half rose and though he wagged his tail hoping that he knew the step to be that of a friend he kept up a low whine a young man muffled to the eyes and with the water dripping from his huge pea jacket opened the kitchen door William Crosby why what brings you out in such a storm as this strip off your coat and draw up to the fire can't he where are you bound then and the night as dark as a wolf's throat the young fisherman made no answer by a motion of his hand as he turned back the collar from his face we saw by the wavering light that it was as pale as death the long wet locks already lay upon his cheeks making him more ghastly as he struggled to speak oh Stephen Lee it's no time to be sitting by the fire when old Asa Osbourne is rolling in the waters a man's drowned in and who's to get the body for the wife and the children God pity them the ebb carries it out to sea the old man drew his hand across his forehead and rose I looked at him as he drew up his tall figure and looked the young messenger full in the eye in a low deep whisper he said who William did you say you said a man's drowned but tell me the name again yes grand sir I did say it old uncle Ace Fleming he and the minister went out of fishing in the morning the minister got his boots off in the water and after a long time he swam ashore but poor uncle Ace Stephen come along his poor wife's gone down to the beach now they left the house and I shut the door after them and came back softly to my seat by the old man's knee once before I had seen him when a heavy sorrow fell upon him it was on a beautiful summer's day and the open window was full breeze from the sea he was sitting by it in his arm chair looking out upon the calm water buried in thought his favorite daughter had long been very low and might sink away at any moment the old dog was at his feet asleep the clock ticked in the corner and the sun was shining upon the floor some friends sat by in silence with sorrowful countenances his little grandchild came to his side and said mother says tell grandpa aunt Lucy's gone home the old man did not alter his position for some time he sat in deep thought looking out with unseeing gaze and winding his thumbs as before of five fair daughters three had before died by the same disease consumption he had seen them slowly fade away one by one and had followed his children to the grave in the secluded burying ground the green sod was now to be broken to receive the fourth rising slowly he walked across the room and taking the well-worn family Bible returned with it to his seat and as he turned the leaves he said in a low tone to himself there's only one left now then he sat entirely silent with his eyes fixed upon the sacred page he did not utter one word of lamentation he did not shed a tear but as he turned his eye on me in passing its expression went to my heart stealing softly out I left him to the silent comforter whose blessing is on the mourner now the scene was changed one was suddenly taken from his side who had been a companion from boyhood to old age they had played and worked in company together they had embarked on their first voyage and their last had settled down in close neighborhood in the evening of their days each had preserved the other's life in some moment of peril but took small praise to himself for so simple an act of duty few words of fondness had ever passed between them they had gone along the path of life without perhaps being conscious of any peculiarly strong tie of friendship binding them together till they were thus torn asunder the death of a daughter even slowly wasting away before his eyes could be calmly born but this blow was wholly unforeseen and his chest heavily rose and fell and by the bright firelight I saw tears rolling over his weather-beaten cheeks a child will weep a brambles smart a maid to see her sparrow part a stripling for a woman's heart talk not of grief till thou hast seen the hard-drawn tears of bearded men the fury of the storm being abated I resolved to follow Stephen down to the shore he was not in sight and I knew not what direction to take it was a gloomy night the transient glimpses of the moon between driving masses of clouds only making the scene more wild and appalling I could see the tops of the tall trees bending under the fury of the blast ere it came to sweep the beach the heaving billows were covered with foam far as the eye could reach and rising and tumbling seemed striving with each other as they rolled on towards the sands I had seen storms upon the ocean before but never had it presented so awful and majestic an appearance as the breakers struck upon the shore and sent a huge mass of water upon the sands their sullen roar mingled with the howling and rushing of the wind and filled me with awe there were torches upon the beach and as I drew near I saw the fishermen run together to one point the body had just been washed ashore and lay stretched upon the sands the head was bare and long locks of white hair streamed down upon the shoulders the heavy P-jacket was off from one arm as if he had endeavored to extricate himself from it in the water the sinewy arms lay powerless and free from tension then but they told me that when they first drew him from the surf both hands were grasping a broken oar with such strength that they were unable to lose his hold till suddenly the muscles relaxed and the arms fell upon the ground they turned the body and a little water ran from the mouth then gently raising it upon their shoulders they bore it home End of The Old Sailor Chapter 17 of Autumn Leaves This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Autumn Leaves Edited by Anna Wilde's Abbot Laughter In some individuals the risibles lie so near the surface that you may tickle them with a feather In others they are so deeply embedded in phlegm or so protected by the crust of ill humor that a strong thrust and a keen weapon are required to reach them A laugh is in itself a different thing in different individuals Some persons laugh inwardly unsocially, bitterly It is a pure grimace on your part when you join in their merriment unless you are superior to the fear of ridicule On the other hand there is a laugh of so contagious a nature that you are irrestably moved to sympathy while ignorant of the exciting cause or out of the sphere of its influence You will laugh loud and long and afterwards confess that you had not the least gleam of a funny idea all the while You doubt the power of the sympathetic laugh Come with me into the nursery Here is a rosy little horror a year and a half old Sit down and take him upon your knees Hold his dimpled hands and yours and look steadily into his raw-gish eyes Repeat a nursery rhyme no matter what in a humdrum recitative He is sober and very attentive Suddenly spring a mine upon him with a boo and his hicdy hic all those and his eyes begin to shine Repeat the experiment Hic de hic again more heartily than at first with the baby encore Add in The same process awakens the rapturous little pearls again and again and you are quite in the spirit of the thing yourself Now for a more ecstatic burst You purposely prolong his suspense He is all attilled with a lightful surprise You drawl out each word You drone the ditty over and over again till every tiny nerve is tense with expectation boo at last and over he goes in the complete abandon of baby glee His cherry lips are wide as under His head hangs powerless back and the hic de hic burst tumultuously from his little beating throat And you sir what are you doing Laughing I declare in full roar till the tears run down your cheeks You catch the boy in your arms toss him almost throttle him with kisses and so enhance the merry spasms that mama who has a philosophical instinct with regards to excited nerves and dreads the reaction comes to the rescue Let me introduce you to another effective laughter You shall not hear a sound yet you cannot choose but laugh if she does quite as she is about it See how her shoulders shake and look at her face Every feature is instinct with mirth the color mounts to the roots of the hair the curls vibrate the eyes sparkle through tears the white teeth glisten the very nose and ears that she is about to take apart like Norma Hall she laughs all over and while you wonder what the joke may be you laugh too Do you feel dismal or anxious You shall hear Elle tell a story She is one of the very few who can undertake with impunity to talk and laugh at the same time Look and listen while she describes some comic occurrence boisterous noise but musical, peels of laughter come thick and fast and faster and thicker pretty naturally fast and thick come the words with them and yet each word is distinct you do not lose a syllable and I should like to see the man who can resist her if she chooses he should laugh even at his own expense There is an odd sort of power too in the gravity with which B tells a humorous anecdote he invariably maintains a sober face while everybody is in an agony of laughter around him just as it begins to subside the echo of his own wit comes back to him and as if he had just caught the idea he bursts into one little abrupt explosion so genuine so full of heartiness that it sets everybody off upon a fresh score Nothing so melts away reserve amongst rangers but nothing so quickly develops the affinities in chance society as laughter a person might be ever so polite and even kind and talk sentiment a whole day and it would not draw me so near to him as the mutual enjoyment of one heartfelt laugh it is a perfect bond of union for the time being but once so between