 The Lifted Bandage by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews The man let himself into his front door, and staggering lightly, like a drunken man as he crossed it, walked to the hall table, and mechanically laid down his hat, but still wearing his overcoat, turned and went into his library, and dropped on the edge of a divan, and stared out through the letted panes of class across the room facing him. The grayish skin of his face seemed to fall in diagonal furrows, from the eyes, from the nose, from the mouth. He sat, still to his fingertips, staring. He was sitting so when a servant slipped in, and stood motionless a minute, and went to the wide window where the west light glared through leafless branches outside, and drew the shades lower, and went to the fireplace, and touched a match. Wood caught, and crackled, and a cheerful orange flame flew noisily up the chimney, but the man sitting on the divan did not notice. The butler waited a moment, watching, hesitating, and then, Have you had lunch, sir? he asked, in a tentative, gentle voice. The staring eyes moved with an effort, and rested on the servant's face. Lunch, he repeated, apparently trying to focus on the meaning of the word. Lunch? I don't know, Miller, but don't bring anything. With a great anxiety in his face, Miller regarded his master. Would you let me take your overcoat, Judge? You'll be too warm, he said. He spoke in a suppressed tone, as if waiting for, fearing something, as if longing to show sympathy, and the man stood, and let himself be cared for, and then sat down again in the same unrestful, fixed attitude, gazing out again through the glittering panes into the stormy, tawny, west sky. Miller came back, and stood quiet, patient. In a few minutes the man seemed to become aware of him. I forgot, Miller. You'll want to know, he said, in a tone which went to show an old bond between the two. You'll be sorry to hear, Miller, he said, and the dull eyes moved difficultly to the anxious ones, and his voice was uninflected. You'll be sorry to know that the coroner's jury decided that Master Jack was a murderer. The word came out more horribly, because of an air of detachment from the man's mind. It was like a soulless, evil mechanism, running unguided. Miller caught at a chair. I don't believe it, sir. No lawyer shall make me. I've known him since he was ten, Judge, and they're mistaken. It's not any mere lawyer's can make me believe that awful thing, sir, of our Master Jack. The servant was shaking from head to foot with intense rejection, and the old man put up his hand as if to ward off this emotion. I wish I could agree with you, he said quietly, and then added, thank you, Miller, and the old butler, walking as if struck with a sickness, was gone. The man sat on the edge of the divan, staring out the window, minute after minute, the November wind tossed the clean black lines of the branches backward and forward against the copper sky, as if a giant hand moved a fan of seaweed before fire. The man sat still and stared. The sky dulled. The delicate wild branches melted together. The diamond lines in the window blurred, yet unmoved, unseeing. The eyes stared through them. The burr of an electric bell sounded. Someone came in at the front door and came to the door of the library, but the fixed figure did not stir. The newcomer stood silent a minute, two minutes. A young man in clerical dress, boyish, with gray, serious eyes, at length he spoke. May I come in? It's Dick. The man's head turned slowly and his look rested inquiring on his nephew. It was a minute before he said, as if recognizing him, Dick, yes, and set himself as before to the persistent gazing through the window. I lost you at the courthouse, the younger man said. I didn't mean to let you come home alone. Thank you, Dick. It seemed as if neither joy nor sorrow would find a way into the quiet voice again. The wind roared. The boughs rustled against the glass. The fire, soberly settled to work, steamed and crackled. The clock ticked indifferently. There was no other sound in the room. The two men were silent, the one staring always before him, the other sitting with a hand on the older man's hand, waiting. Minutes they sat so, and the wintry sky outside darkened, and lay sullenly in bands of gray and orange against the windows. The light of the logs was stronger than the daylight. It flickered carelessly across the ashyness of the emotionless face. The young man, watching the face, bent forward and gripped his other hand on the unresponsive one in his clasp. Uncle, he asked, will it make things worse if I talk to you? No, Dick. Nothing made a difference, it seemed. Silence or words must simply fall without effect on the rock bottom of despair. The young man halted, as if dismayed. Before this overpowering inertia of hopelessness, he drew a quick breath. A coroner's jury isn't infallible. I don't believe it of Jack. A lot of people don't believe it, he said. The older man looked at him heavily. You'd say that. Jack's friends will. I've been trained to weigh evidence. I must believe it. Listen, the young man urged. Don't shut down the gates like that. I'm not a lawyer, but I've been trained to think, too. And I believe you're not thinking squarely. There's other evidence that counts besides this. There's Jack, his personality. It has been taken into consideration. It can't be taken into consideration by strangers. It needs years of intimacy to weigh that evidence as I weigh it. As you, you know the best of all, he cried out impulsively. If you'll let yourself know how impossible it was, that Jack should have bought that pistol and taken it to Ben Armstrong's room to kill him. It was impossible. Impossible. The clenched fist came down on the black broadcloth knee with the conviction of the man behind it. The words rushed like melted metal, hot, stinging, not to be stopped. The judge quivered, as if they had stung through the callousness, touched a nerve. A faint color crawled to his cheeks for the first time he spoke quickly, as if his thoughts connected with something more than the gray matter. You talk about my not allowing myself to believe in Jack. You seem to realize that such a belief would, might, stand between me and madness. I've been trying to adjust myself to a possible scheme of living, getting through the years till I go into nothingness. I can't. All I can grasp is the feeling that a man might have if dropped from a balloon and forced to stay gasping in the air with no place in it, nothing to hold to. No breath to draw. No earth to rest on. No end to hope for. There is nothing beyond. Everything is beyond the young man cried triumphantly. The end, as you call it, is an end to hope for. It is the beginning, the beginning of more than you have ever had with them, with the people you care about. The judge turned a ghastly look on the impetuous bright face. If I believe that, I should be even now perfectly happy. I don't see how you Christians can ever be sorry when your friends die. It's childish. Anybody ought to be able to wait a few years. But I don't believe it. He said heavily, and went on again, as if an inertia of speech were carrying him as an inertia of silence had held him a few minutes before. When my wife died a year ago, it ended my personal life. But I could live Jack's life. I was glad in the success and honor of it. Now the success, he made a gesture. And the honor? If I had that, only the honor of Jack's life left, I think I could finish the years with dignity. I've not been a bad man. I've done my part, and lived a seemed right. Before I'm old, the joy is wiped out, and long years left. Why? It's not reasonable, not logical, with one thing to hold to. With Jack's good name, I might live. How can I now? What can I do? A life must have raison d'etre. Listen, the clergyman cried again. You are not judging Jack as fairly as you would judge a common criminal. You know better than I how often juries make mistakes. Why should you trust this jury to have made none? I didn't trust the jury. I watched, as I have never known before how to watch a case. I felt my mind more clear and alert than common. Alert, he caught at the word, but alert on the side of terror, abnormally clear to see what you dreaded, because you are fair-minded, because it has been the habit of your life to correct at once any conscious prejudice in your judgment. You have swayed to the side of unfairness to yourself to Jack, uncle, he flashed out. Would it tear your soul to have me state the case as I see it? I might, you know, I might bring out something that would make it look different. Almost a smile touched the gray lines of his face. If you wish. The young man drew himself into his chair and clasped his hands around his knee. Here it is. Mr. Newbold, on the seventh floor of the Bruzan bachelor apartments, heard a shot at one in the morning, next to his bedroom in Ben Armstrong's room. He hurried into the public hall, saw the door wide open into Ben's apartment, went in, and found Ben shot dead. Trying to use the telephone to call help, he found it was out of order. So he rushed again into the hall toward the elevator with the idea of getting Dr. Avery who lived below on the second floor. The elevator door was open also, and a man's opera hat lay near it on the floor. He saw, just in time, that the car was at the bottom of the shaft, almost stepping inside in his excitement before he noticed this. Then he ran down the stairs with Jack's hat in his hand and got Dr. Avery, and they found Jack at the foot of the elevator shaft. It was known that Ben Armstrong and Jack had quarreled the day before. It was known that Jack was quick-tempered. It is known that he bought that evening the pistol which was found on the floor by Ben, loaded with one empty shell. That's the story. The steady voice stopped a moment, and the young man shivered slightly. His look was strained. Steadily he went on. That's the story. From that the coroner's jury have found that Jack killed Ben Armstrong, that he bought the pistol to kill him, and went to his rooms with that purpose, that in his haste to escape he missed seeing that the elevator was down. As Mr. Newbold all but missed seeing it later, and jumped into the shaft, and was killed instantly himself. That's what the jury get from the facts, but it seems to me they're begging the question. There are a hundred hypotheses that would fit the case of Jack's innocence. Why is it that reasonable to settle on the one that means his guilt? This is my idea. Jack and Ben Armstrong had been friends since boyhood, and Jack, quick-tempered as he was, was warm-hearted and loyal. It was like him to decide suddenly to go to Ben and make friends. He had been to a play in the evening, which had more or less that motif. It was open to such influences. It was like the pair of them, after the reconciliation, to set to work looking at Jack's new toy, the pistol. It was a brand new sort, and the two have been interested always in guns. I remember how I, as a youngster, was impressed when Ben and Jack bought their first-shot guns together. Jack had got the pistol at Mellingham's that evening, you know. He was likely to be keen about it still, and then it went off. There are plenty of other cases where a man has shot his friend by accident. Why shouldn't poor Jack be given the benefit of the doubt? The telephone wouldn't work. Jack rushed out with the same idea which struck Mr. Newbold later, of getting Dr. Avery, and fell down the shaft. For me there is no doubt. I never knew him to hold malice. He was violent sometimes, but that he could have gone about it for hours with a pistol in his pocket and murder in his heart, that he could have planned Ben Armstrong's death and carried it out deliberately. It's a contradiction in terms. It's impossible being Jack. You must know this. You know your son. You know human nature. The rapid resume was but an impassioned appeal. Its answer came, after a minute, to the torrent of eager words. Three words. Thank you, Dick. The absolute lack of impression on the man's judgment was plain. Ah, the clergyman sprang to his feet and stood, his eyes blazing despairingly, looking down at the bent, listless figure. How could he let a human being suffer as this one was suffering? Quickly his thoughts shifted their basis. He could not affect the mind of the lawyer. Might he reach now, perhaps, the soul of the man? He knew the difficulty, for before this his belief had crossed with swords with the agnosticism of his uncle and agnosticism shared by his father, in which he had been trained, from which he had broken free only five years before. He had faced the batteries of the two older brains at that time, and come out with the brightness of his newfound faith untarnished, but without he remembered scratching the armor of their profound doubt in everything. One could see, looking at the slender black figure, at the visionary gaze of the wide gray eyes, at the shape of the face, browed, bowed, ovaled, that this man's psychic makeup must lift him like wings into an atmosphere outside a material, outside even an intellectual world. He could breathe freely, only in a spiritual air, and things hard to believe to most human beings were, perhaps, his everyday thoughts. He caught a quick breath of excitement as it flashed to his brain, that now, possibly, was coming the movement when he might justify his life, might help this man whom he loved, to peace. The breath he caught was a prayer. His strong, nervous fingers trembled. He spoke in a tone whose concentration lifted the eyes below him, that brooded, stared. I can't bear it to stand by and see you go under, when there's help close. You said that if you could believe that they were living, that you would have them again. You would be perfectly happy no matter how many years you must wait. They are living as sure as I am here, as sure as Jack was here, and Jack's mother. They are living still. Perhaps they're close to you now. You've bound a bandage over your eyes. You've covered the vision of your spirit so that you can't see. But that doesn't make nothingness of God's world. It's there, here, close, maybe. A more real world than this, this little thing. With the boy's gesture, he thrusts behind him the universe. What do we know about the earth except effects upon our consciousness? It's all a matter of interference. You know that better than I. The thing we do know beyond doubt is that we are each of us something that suffers and is happy. How is that something the same as the body, the body that gets old and dies? How can it be? You can't change thought into matter, not conceivably. Everybody acknowledges that. Why should the thinking part die then? Because the material part dies. When the organ is broken, is the organist dead? The body is the hull, the covering? And when it has grown useless, it will fall away, and the live seed in it will stand free to sunlight and air. Just at the beginning of life, as a plant is when it breaks through earth in the spring. It's the seed in the ground, and it's the flower in the sunlight, but it's the same thing, the same life. It is. It is. The boy's intensity of conviction shot like a flame across the quiet room. It's the same thing with us too. The same spirit substance underlies both worlds, and there is no separation in space, only in viewpoint. Life goes on. It's just transfigured. It's as if a bandage should be lifted from our eyes, and we should suddenly see things in whose presence we had been always. The rushing, eager voice stopped. He bent and laid his hand on the older bands, and stared at his face, half hidden now in the shadows of the lowering fire. There was no response. The heavy head did not lift, and the attitude was unstirred, hopeless. As if struck by a blow he sprang erect, and his fingers shut hard. He spoke as if to himself, brokenly. He does not believe a single word I say. I can't help him. I can't help him. Suddenly the clenched fists flung out, as if of a power not their own, and his voice rang across the room. God! The word shot from him as if a thunderbolt fell with it. God lift the bandage! A log fell with a crash into the fire. Great battling shadows blurred all the air. He was gone. The man startled, drew up his bent shoulders, and pushed back a lock of gray hair and stared about, shaking, bewildered. The ringing voice, the word that had flashed as if out of a larger atmosphere. The place was yet full of these, and the shock of it added a keenness to his misery. His figure swung sideways. He fell on the cushions of the sofa, and his arms stretched across them. His gray head lying heedless. Sobs that tore roots came painfully. It was the last depth. Out of it, without his volition, he spoke out loud. God! God! God! His voice said. Not prayerfully, but repeating the sound that had shocked his torture. The word wailed, mocked, reproached, defied, and yet it was a prayer. Out of a soul in mortal stress, that word comes, sometimes driven by a force of the spirit, like the force of the lungs fighting for breath, and it is a prayer. God! God! God! The broken voice repeated, and Sobs cut the words, and again, over and over, and the sobbing broke it. As suddenly as if a knife had stopped the life inside the body, all sounds stopped. Of movement shook the man as he lay face down, arms stretched. Then for a minute, two minutes, he was quiet. With a quiet that meant muscles stretched, nerves alert. Slowly, slowly the tightened muscles of the arms pushed the shoulders backward and upward. The head lifted, the face turned outward. And if an observer had been there, he might have seen by the glow of the firelight that the features wet, distorted, war, more than all at this moment. A look of amazement. Slowly, slowly moving as if afraid to disturb something, a dream, a presence. The man sat erect as he had been sitting before, only that the rigidity was in some way gone. He sat alert, his eyes wide, filled with astonishment, gazing before him eagerly. A look different from the dull stare of an hour ago, by the difference between hope and despair. His hands caught at the stuff of the divan on either side and clutched it. All the time the look on his face changed, all the time, not at once, but by fast, starling degrees. The gray misery which had bound eyes and mouth and brow and iron dropped, as if a cover were being torn off and a light set free. Amazement, doubting, incredulous came first, and with that eagerness, trembling and afraid, and then hope, and then the fear to hope and hunger. He bent forward, his eyes peered into the quiet emptiness, his fingers gripped the cloth as if to anchor him to a wonder, to an unbelievable something. His body leaned to something, and his face was now the face of a starved man, of a man dying from thirst, who sees food, water, salvation. And his face changed, a quality incredible was coming into it, joy, he was transformed. Lines softened by magic, color came, and light in the eyes, the first unbelief, the amazement, shifted surely, swiftly, and in a flash the whole man shone, shook with rapture. He threw out before him his arms, reaching, clasping, and from his radiant look the arms might have held all happiness. A minute he stayed so with his hands stretched out, with face glowing, then slowly his eyes straining as if perhaps they followed a vision which faded from them, slowly his arms fell, and the expectancy went from his look. Yet not the light, not the joy, his body quivered, his breath came unevenly, as of one just gone through a crisis. Every sense seemed still alive to catch a faintest note of something exquisite which vanished, and with that the spell, rapidly as it had come, was gone. And the man sat there quiet as he had sat an hour before, and the face which had been ledden was brilliant. He stirred and glanced about the room as if trying to adjust himself, and his eyes smiled as they rested on the familiar objects as if for love of them, for pleasure in them. One might have said that this man had been given back at a blow youth and happiness. Movement seemed beyond him yet. He was yet dazed with the newness of a marvel. But he turned his head and saw the fire, and at that put out his hand to it as if to a friend. The electric bell bird softly again through the house, and the man heard it, and his eyes rested inquiringly on the door of the library. In a moment another man stood there, of his own age, iron gray, strong featured. Dick told me I might come, he said. Shall I trouble you? May I stay with you a while? The judge put out his hand, friendly, a little vaguely, much as he had put it out to the fire. Surely, he said. And the newcomer was, all at once aware of his look. He started. You're not well, he said. You must take something whiskey, Miller. The butler moved in the room, making lights here and there, and came quickly. No said the judge. I don't want anything. I don't need anything. It's not as you think. I'll tell you about it. Miller was gone. Dick's father waited. His gaze fixed on the judge's face, anxiously. And for moments no word was spoken. The judge gazed into the fire with the rapt smiling look, which had so startled his brother-in-law. At length. I don't know how to tell you, he said. There seem no words. Something has happened, yet it's difficult to explain. Something happened, the other repeated, bewildered, but guarded. I don't understand. Has someone been here? Is it about the trial? No. A slight spasm twisted the smiling lines of the man's mouth. But it was gone, and the mouth smiled still. A horrors-struck expression gleamed for a second from the anxious eyes of the brother-in-law. But he controlled it quickly. He spoke gently. Tell me about it. It will do you good to talk. The judge turned from the fire. And at sight of his flushed cheeks and lighted eyes, the other shrank back. And the judge saw it. You'd needn't be alarmed, he said quietly. Nothing is wrong with me, but something has happened, as I told you, and everything has changed. His eyes lifted as he spoke and straight about the room, as if considering a change which had come also to the accustomed setting. A shock of pity flashed from the other, and was mastered at once. Can you tell me what has happened, he urged? The judge, his face bright with a brightness that was dreadful to the man who watched him, held his hand to the fire, turning it about as if enjoying the warmth. The other shivered. There was silence for a minute. The judge broke it, speaking thoughtfully. Suppose you had been born blind, Ned, he began. And no one had ever given you a hint of the sense of vision, and your imagination had never presented such a power to your mind. Can you suppose that? I think so, yes, the brother-in-law answered, with careful gentleness, watching always the illumined countenance. Yes, I can suppose it. Then fancy, if you will, that all at once sight came, and the world flashed before you. Do you think you'd be able to describe such an experience? The voice was normal, reflective, many a time the two had talked together of such things in this very room. And the naturalness of the scene, and of the judge's manner, made the brother-in-law for a second forget the tragedy in which they were living. Why, of course, he answered, if one had never heard of such a power, one's vocabulary wouldn't take in the words to describe it. Exactly the judge agreed. That's the point I'm making. Perhaps now I may tell you what it is that has happened, or rather I may make you understand how a definite and concrete event has come to pass, which I can't tell you. Alarm suddenly expressed itself beyond control in the brother-in-law's face. John, what do you mean? Do you see that you distress me? Can't you tell me clearly if someone has been here what it is, in plain English, that has happened? The judge turned his dreamy, bright look to the frightened man. I do see, I do see, he brought out affectionately. I'll try to tell, as you say, in plain English, but it is like the case I put. It is a question of lack of vocabulary. A remarkable experience has occurred in this room within an hour. I can no more describe it than the blind man could describe sight. I can call it by only one name which may startle you. A revelation. A revelation. The tone expressed incredulity. Scarcely veiled scorn. The judge's brilliant gaze rested undisturbed on the speaker. I understand none better. A day ago, two hours ago, I should have answered in that tone. We have been trained in the same school and have thought alike. Dick was here a while ago and said things. You know what Dick would say. You know how you and I have been sorry for the lad, been indulgent to him with his keen broad mind and that inspired self-forgetfulness of his. How we've been sorry to have such qualities wasted on a person, a religion machine. We've thought he'd come around in time, that he was too large a personality to be tied to a treadmill. We've thought that all along, haven't we? Well Dick was here and out of the hell where I was I thought that again. When we talked I thought in a way for I couldn't think much and that after a consistent voyage of agnosticism I wouldn't be whipped into a sniveling belief at the end by Shipwreck. I would at least go down without surrendering in a dim way I thought that and all that I thought then and have thought through my life is nothing. Reasoning doesn't weigh against experience. Dick is right. The other man sat before him, bent forward, his hands on his knees, listening, dazed. There was a quality in the speaker's tone which made it necessary to take his word seriously. Yet the other sighed and relaxed a bit as he waited, watched. The calm voice went on. The largest event of my life has happened in the last hour in this room. It was this way. When Dick went out I went utterly to pieces. It was the farthest depth. Out of it I called on God, not knowing what I did, he answered. That's what happened. As if a bandage had been lifted from my eyes. I was. I was in the presence of things, indescribable. There was no change. Only that where I was blind before I now saw. I don't mean vision. I haven't words to explain what I mean. But a world was about me as real as this. I had perhaps always been there. In that moment I was first aware of it. I knew, as if a door had been opened, what heaven means, a condition of being. I knew another thing more personal, that, without question, it was right with those I thought I had lost, and that the whore which seemed blackest, I have no need to dread. I cannot say that I saw them, or heard, or touched them, but I was with them. I understand, but I can't make you understand. I told Dick an hour ago, that if I could believe they were living, that I should ever have them again, I should be perfectly happy. That's true now. I believe it, and I am, perfectly happy. The listener groaned uncontrollably. I know your thought, the judge answered the sound, and his eyes were like lamps as he turned them toward the man. But you're wrong. My mind is not unhinged, you'll see. After what I've gone through, after facing eternity without hope, what are mere years I can wait? I know. I am perfectly happy. Then the man who listened rose from his chair and came, and put a hand gently on the shoulder of the judge, looking down at him gravely. I don't understand you very well, John, he said, but I'm glad of anything, of anything. His voice went suddenly. Will you wait for me here a few minutes? I'm going home, and I'll be back. I think I'll spend the night with you if you don't object. Object, wait! The judge looked up in surprise, and with that he smiled. I see. Surely I'd like to have you here. Yes, certainly I'll wait. Outside in the hall, one might have heard the brother-in-law say a low word or two to Miller, as the man helped him on with his coat. Then the front door shut softly, and he was gone. At the judge sat alone, his head thrown back against his chair, his face luminous. The other man swung down the dark street, rushing, agitated, as he came to the corner, an electric light shone full on him, and a figure crossing down toward him halted. Father, I was coming to find you. Something extraordinary has happened. I was coming to find you. Yes, Dick, the older man waited. I've just left Charlie Owen at the house. Do you remember Charlie Owen? No. Oh yes, you do. He's been here with Jack. He was in Jack's class and college. In Jack's and Ben Armstrong's. He used to go on shooting trips with them both, often. I remember now. Yes, I knew you would. His voice rushed on. He has been away just now, down in Florida shooting, away from civilization. He got all his mail for a month in one lump, just now, two days ago, and was a letter from Jack and Ben Armstrong, written that night, written together. Do you see what that means? What? The word was not a question, but an exclamation. What, Dick? Yes. There were newspapers, too, which gave an account of the trial. The first, he'd heard it. He was away in the Everglades. He started instantly and came on here, when he read the papers, and realized the bearing his letter would have on the trial. He has traveled day and night. He hoped to get here in time. Jack and Ben thought he was in New York. They wrote to ask him to go duck-shooting with them. And, Father, here's the most startling point of it all. As the man waited, watching his son's face, he groaned suddenly and made a gesture of despair. Don't, Father. Don't take it that way. It's good. It's glorious. It clears Jack. The pistol will be almost happy. But I wouldn't tell him at once. I'd be careful, he warned the other. What was it, the startling point you spoke of? Oh, surely this. The letter to Charlie Owens spoke of Jack's new pistol. That pistol. Jack said they would have target-shooting with it in camp. They were all crack-shots, you know. He said he had bought it that evening, and that Ben thought well of it. Ben signed the letter after Jack, and then added a post-script. It clears Jack. It clears him, doesn't it, Father? But I wouldn't tell my uncle just yet. He's not fit to take it in for a few hours. Don't you think so? No, I wouldn't tell him just yet. The young man's wide glance concentrated with a flash on his father's face. What is it? You speak queerly. You've just come from there. How is he? How is my uncle? There was a letter-box at the corner, a foot from the old man's shoulder. He put out his hand and held to the lid a moment before he answered. His voice was harsh. Your uncle is perfectly happy, he said. He's gone mad. End of The Lifted Bandage Recording by Alana Jordan This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to learn how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Misery by Anton Chekhov. To whom should I tell my grief? The twilight of evening. Big flakes of white snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted. And lying in a thin, soft layer of roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent. If a regular snowfall fell on him, it seems as though even then he would not think it necessary to shake it off. His little mare is white and motionless, too. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, the stick-like straightness of her legs make her look like a haypenny gingerbread horse. She is probably lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn away from the plow, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full of monstrous lights, of unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to think. It is a long time since Iona and his nag have budged. They came out of the yard before dinnertime, and not a single fair yet. But now the shades of evening are falling on the town. The pale light of the street lamps changes to a vivid color, and the bustle of the streets grows noisier. Sledge to V. Borgskaya, Iona hears. Sledge! Iona starts, and through his snow-plastered eyelashes sees an officer in a military overcoat with a hood over his head. To V. Borgskaya, repeats the officer, are you asleep? To V. Borgskaya! In token of ascent Iona gives a tug at the reins which sends cakes of snow flying from the horse's back and shoulders. The officer gets into the sledge. The sledge-driver clicks to the horse, cranes his neck like a swan, rises in his seat, and more from habit than necessity, brandishes his whip. The mare crags her neck too, crooks her stick-like legs, and hesitatingly sets off. Where are you shoving, you devil? Iona immediately hears shouts from the dark mass shifting to and fro before him. Where the devil are you going? Keep to the right. You don't know how to drive. Keep to the right," says the officer angrily. A coachman driving a carriage swears at him. A pedestrian crossing the road and brushing the horse's nose with his shoulder looks at him angrily and shakes the snow off his sleeve. Iona fidgets on the box as though he were sitting on thorns, jerks his elbows, and turns his eyes about, like one possessed as though he did not know where he was or why he was there. What rascals they all are, says the officer jacosly. They are simply doing their best to run up against you or fall under the horse's feet. They must be doing it on purpose. Iona looks at his fare and moves his lips. Apparently he means to say something, but nothing comes but a sniff. What? inquires the officer. Iona gives a rye smile and straining his throat brings out huskily. My son—er, my son died this week, sir. Hmm. What did he die of? Iona turns his whole body round to his fare and says, Who can tell? It must have been from fever. He lay three days in the hospital, and then he died. God's will. Turn round, you devil! comes out of the darkness. Have you gone crack, you old dog? Look where you are going. Drive on, drive on! says the officer. We shan't get there till tomorrow going on like this. Hurry up! The sledge-driver cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and with heavy grace swings his whip. Several times he looks round at the officer, but the ladder keeps his eyes shut and is apparently disinclined to listen. Putting his fare down at Viborgskaya, Iona stops by a restaurant and again sits huddled up on the box. Again the wet snow paints him and his horse white. One hour passes, and then another. Three young men, too tall and thin, one short and hunched-backed come up, railing at each other and loudly stamping on the pavement with their galoshes. Happy! To the police bridge. The hunchback cries in a cracked voice. The three of us. Twenty Kopecks. Iona tugs at the reins and clicks to his horse. Twenty Kopecks is not a fair price, but he has no thoughts for that. Whether it is a ruble or whether it is five Kopecks does not matter to him now, so long as he has a fare. The three young men shoving each other and using bad language go up to the sledge, and all three try to sit down at once. The question remains to be settled. Which are to sit down and which one is to stand? After long altercation, ill temper and abuse, they come to the conclusion that the hunchback must stand because he is the shortest. Well, drive on," says the hunchback in his cracked voice, settling himself and breathing down Iona's neck. Cut along. What a cap you've got, my friend. You shouldn't find a worse one in all Petersburg. He-he-he laughs Iona. It's nothing to boast of. Well then, nothing to boast of, drive on. Are you going to drive like this all the way? Eh? Shall I give you one in the neck? My headaches," says one of the tall ones. At the dukmasov's yesterday Vaska and I drank four bottles of brandy between us. I can't make out why you talk such stuff," says the other tall one angrily. You'll lie like a brute. Strike me dead, it's the truth. It's about as true that a louse coughs. He-he-he grins Iona. Merry, gentlemen. T'fu, the devil take you," cries the hunchback indignantly. Will you get on, you old plague, or won't you? Is that the way to drive? Give her one with a whip. Hang it all. Give it her well. Iona feels behind his back the jolting person and quivering voice of the hunchback. He hears abuse addressed to him, and the feeling of loneliness begins, little by little, to be less heavy on his heart. The hunchback swears at him till he chokes over some elaborately whimsical string of epithets and is overpowered by his cough. His tall companions begins talking of a certain nadjezda patrovna. Iona looks round at them, waiting until there is a brief pause. He looks round once again and says, Uh, this week, um, my, uh, son died. We shall all die," says the hunchback with a sigh, wiping his lips after coughing. Come, drive on, drive on. My friends, I simply cannot stand crawling like this. When will he get us there? Well, you give him a little encouragement. One in the neck. Do you hear, old plague? I'll make you start. If one stands on ceremony with fellows like you, one may as well walk. Do you hear, you old dragon? Or don't you care a hag what we say? Iona cures, rather than feels, a slap at the back of his neck. Hee-hee! he laughs. Merry, gentlemen. God give you health. Cabman, are you married? asks one of the tall ones. I? Hee-hee! Merry, gentlemen. The only wife for me now is the damp earth. Hey-ho-ho! The grave, that is. My dead son. And I am alive. It's a strange thing. Death has come in at the wrong door. Instead of coming for me, it went for my son. Iona turns round to tell them how his son died. But at that point the hunchback gives a faint sigh and announces that, thank God, they have arrived at last. After taking his twenty co-pecs, Iona gazes for a long while after the revelers, who disappear into a dark entry. Again he is alone, and again there is silence for him. The misery which has been for a brief space erased comes back again and tears his heart more cruelly than ever. With a look of anxiety and suffering, Iona's eyes stray restlessly among the crowds moving to and fro, on both sides of the street. Can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to him? But the crowds flit by, heedless of him and his misery. His misery is immense, beyond all bounds. If Iona's heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems. But yet it has not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificant shell that one could not have found it with a candle by daylight. Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to address him. What time will it be, friend? He asks, going on for ten. Why have you stopped here? Drive on! Iona drives a few paces away, bends himself double, and gives himself up to misery. He feels it is no good to appeal to people. But before five minutes have passed, he draws himself up, shakes his head as though he feels a sharp pain and tugs at the reins. He can bear it no longer. Back to the yard, he thinks. To the yard! And this little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to trotting. An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty stove. On the stove, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The air is full of smells and stuffiness. Iona looks at the sleeping figures, scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early. I have not earned enough to pay for the oats, even, he thinks. That's why I am so miserable. A man who knows how to do his work, who has had enough to eat and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always at ease. In one of the corners a young cab man gets up, clears his throat sleepily and makes for the water bucket. Want a drink? Iona asks him. Seem so. What do you good? But my son is dead, mate. Do you hear? A week in the hospital. It's a queer business. Iona looks to see the effect produced by his words. But he sees nothing. The young man has covered his head over and is already asleep. The old man sighs and scratches himself. Just as the young man had been thirsty for water he thirsts for speech. His son will soon have been dead a week and he has not really talked to anybody yet. He wants to talk of it properly with deliberation. He wants to tell how his son was taken ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died. He wants to describe the funeral and how he went to the hospital to get his son's clothes. He still has his daughter, Anisha, in the country and he wants to talk about her too. Yes, he has plenty to talk about now. His listener ought to sigh and exclaim and lament. It would be even better to talk to women, though they are silly creatures. They blubber at the first word. Let's go out and have a look at the mare. Iona thinks there is always time for sleep. You'll have sleep enough. No fear. He puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare is standing. He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather. He cannot think about his son when he is alone to talk about him with someone as possible. But to think of him and picture him is insufferable anguish. Are you munching? Iona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. There! Munch away. Munch away. Since we have not earned enough for oats, we will eat hay. Yes, I have grown too old to drive. My son ought to be driving, not I. He was a real cab man. He ought to have lived. Iona is silent for a while and then he goes on. That's how it is, old girl. Kuzma Ionich is gone. He said goodbye to me. He went and died. For no reason. Now suppose you had a little colt and you were own mother to that little colt and all at once that same little colt went and died. You'd be sorry, wouldn't you? You'd be sorry, wouldn't you? The little mare munches, listens and breathes on her master's hands. Iona is carried away and tells her all about it. End of Misery by Anton Chekhov This recording is in the public domain. Read for LibraBox.org by Alan Davis-Strake. by Jane Austen This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org Recording by Juli van Wallachem Plan of a novel according to hints from various quarters by Jane Austen. Seen to be in the country Haruin, the daughter of clergyman, one who, after having lived much in the world, had retired from it and settled in accuracy with the very small fortune of his own. He, the most excellent man that can be imagined, perfect in character, temper and manners, without the smallest drawback or peculiarity to prevent his being the most delightful companion to his daughter, from one to the other. Haruin, a fortless character herself, perfectly good with much tenderness and sentiment, and not the least wit, very highly accomplished, understanding modern languages and, generally speaking, everything that the most accomplished young women learn, but particularly excelling in music, her favorite pursuit and playing equally well in a forty and harp and singing in the first isle. Her person quite beautiful, dark eyes and plum cheeks, booked to open with the description of father and daughter, who are to converse in long speeches, elegant language and a tone of high, serious sentiment. The father to be induced, at his daughter's earnest request, to relay to her the past his life. This narrative will reach through the greatest part of the first volume as, besides all the circumstances of his attachment to his mother and their marriage, it will comprehend his going to see as a chaplain to his distinguished naval character about the court, his going afterwards to court himself, which introduced him to a great variety of characters and involved him in many interesting situations, concluding with his opinion of the benefits to result from tithes being done away and his having buried his own mother, Heron's lamented grandmother, in consequence of the high priest of the parish in which he died, refusing to pay her remains the respect due to them. The father to be of a very literary turn, an enthusiast in literature, nobody's enemy but his own. At the same time, most zealous in the discharge of his pastoral duties, the model of an exemplary parish priest, the Heron's friendship to be sought after by a young woman in the same neighborhood of talents and shrewdness with light eyes and a fair skin, but having a considerable degree of wit, Heron shall shrink from the acquaintance. From this out it the story will proceed and contain a striking variety of adventures. Heron and her father never above a fortnight together in one place, he being driven from his curacy by the vile arse of some totally unprincipled and heartless young man, desperately in love with Heron and pursuing her with unrelenting passion. No sooner settled in one country than they are necessitated to quit it and retire to another, always making new acquaintance and always obliged to leave them. This will of course exhibit a wide variety of characters, but there will be no mixture, the scene will be forever shifting from one set of people to another, but all the good will be unexceptionable in every respect, and there will be no foibles or weaknesses, but with a wicket who will be completely depraved and infamous, hardly resemblance of humanity left in them. Early in her career, in the progress of her first removals, Heron must meet with the hero, all perfection of cause, and only prevented from paying his addresses to her by some excess of refinement. Wherever she goes somebody falls in love with her and she receives repeated offers of marriage, which she always refers wholly to her father exceedingly angry that he should not be first applied to, often carried away by the anti-hero, but rescued either by her father or the hero. Often reduced to support herself and her father by her talents and work for her bread, continually cheated and defrauded of her hire, worn down to his skeleton and now and then starved to death. At last hunted out of civilized society denied a poor shelter of the humblest cottage, they are compelled to retreat into Kamchatka where the poor father quite worn down finding his end approaching throws himself on the ground and after four or five hours of tender advice and paternal admonition to his miserable child, expires in a fine burst of literary enthusiasm, intermingled with invectives against hordes of tithes harrowing inconsolable for some time, but afterwards crawls back towards a former country, having at least twenty narrow escapes of falling into the hands of anti-hero and at last in the very nick of time turning a corner to avoid him runs into the arms of the hero himself, who having just shaken off the scruples which fatted him before, was at the very moment setting off in pursuit of her. The tenderest and completest Iclercysmar takes place, and they are happily united. Throughout the whole work harrowed to be in the most elegant society and living in high style. The name of the work not to be Emma, but of the same sort as sense and sensibility and pride and prejudice. End of Plan of a Novel According to Hints from Varys Corders by Jane Austen. The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin by Beatrix Potter 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 Carolyn Francis The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin by Beatrix Potter This is a tale about a tale. A tale that belonged to a little red squirrel, and his name was Nutkin. He had a brother called Twinkleberry and a great many cousins. They lived in a wood at the edge of a lake. In the middle of the lake, there is an island covered with trees and nut bushes, and amongst those trees stands a hollow oak tree, which is the house of an owl who is called Old Brown. One autumn when the nuts were ripe and the leaves on the hazel bushes were golden and green, Nutkin and Twinkleberry and all the other little squirrels came out of the wood and down to the edge of the lake. They made little rafts out of twigs, and they paddled away over the water to Owl Island to gather nuts. Each squirrel had a little sack and a large ore, and spread out his tail for a sale. They also took with them an offering of three fat mice as a present for Old Brown, and they put on upon his doorstep. Then Twinkleberry and the other little squirrels each made a low bow and said politely, Old Mr. Brown, will you favor us with permission to gather nuts upon your island? But Nutkin was excessively impertinent in his manners. He bobbed up and down like a little red cherry, singing Riddle Me, Riddle Me, Rot-Tot-Tot a little wee man in a red, red coat, a staff in his hand and a stone in his throat. If you'll tell me this riddle I'll give you a groat. Now this riddle is as old as the hills. Mr. Brown paid no attention whatever to Nutkin. He shut his eyes obstinately and went to sleep. The squirrels filled their little sacks with nuts and sailed away home in the evening. But next morning they all came back again to Owl Island. And Twinkleberry and the others brought a fine, fat mole and laid it on the stone in front of Old Brown's doorway and said, Mr. Brown, will you favor us with your gracious permission to gather some more nuts? But Nutkin, who had no respect, began to dance up and down to hold Mr. Brown with a nettle and singing. Old Mr. B, riddle me re, hitty-pitty within the wall, hitty-pitty without the wall. If you touch hitty-pitty, hitty-pitty will bite you. Mr. Brown woke up suddenly and carried the mole into his house. He shut the door in Nutkin's face. Presently a little thread of blue smoke from a wood fire came up from the top of the tree and Nutkin peeped through the keyhole and sang, A house full, a hole full, you cannot gather a bowl full. The squirrel searched for nuts all over the island and filled their little sacks. But Nutkin gathered oak apples, yellow and scarlet and sat upon a beach stump playing marbles and watching the door of Old Mr. Brown. On the third day the squirrels got up very early and went fishing. They caught seven fat minnows as a present for Old Brown. They paddled over the lake and landed under a crooked chestnut tree on Owl Island. Twinkleberry and six other little squirrels each carried a fat minnow but Nutkin, who had no nice manners brought no present at all. He ran in front singing The man in the wilderness said to me, how many strawberries grow in the sea I answered him as I thought good as many red herrings as grow in the wood. But Old Mr. Brown took no interest in riddles not even when the answer was provided for him. On the fourth day the squirrels brought a present of six fat beetles which were as good as plums in plum pudding for Old Brown. Each beetle was wrapped up carefully in a dock leaf fastened with a pine needle pin but Nutkin sang as rudely as ever Old Mr. B. Riddle me re, flower of England, fruit of Spain meet together in a shower of rain. Put in a bag tied round with a string if you'll tell me this riddle I'll give you a ring which was ridiculous of Nutkin because he had not got any ring to give to Old Brown. The other squirrels hunted up and down the nut bushes but Nutkin gathered robin's pincushers off of a briar bush and stuck them full of pine needle pins. On the fifth day the squirrels brought a present of wild honey. It was so sweet and sticky that they licked their fingers as they put it down upon the stone. They had stolen it out of a bumblebee's nest on the tippity top of the hill. But Nutkin skipped up and down singing Humma bum, buzz buzz Humma bum, buzz as I went over Tipple time I met a flock of Bonnie swine some yellow-nacked some yellow-backed they were the very bonious swine that I went over Tipple time. Old Mr. Brown turned up his eyes and disgust at the impertinence of Nutkin but he ate up the honey. The squirrels filled their little sacks with nuts and Nutkin sat upon a big flat rock and played nine pins with a crab apple and green fur cones. On the sixth day which was Saturday the squirrels came again for the last time. They brought a new laid egg in a little rush basket as a last parting present for Old Brown. But Nutkin ran in front laughing and shouting Humpty Dumpty lies in the back with a white counterpane round his neck. Forty doctors and forty rights cannot put Humpty Dumpty to rights. Now Old Mr. Brown took an interest in eggs he opened one eye and shut it again but still he did not speak. Nutkin became more and more impertinent Old Mr. B, Old Mr. B Hickamore, Hackamore on the king's kitchen door all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't drive Hickamore, Hackamore off the king's kitchen door. Nutkin danced up and down like a sunbeam but still Old Brown said nothing at all. Nutkin began again. Arthur O. Bauer has broken his band he comes roaring up the land. The king of Scots with all his power cannot turn Arthur of the Bauer. Nutkin made a whirring noise to sound like the wind and he took a running jump right onto the head of Old Brown. Then all at once there was a flutterment and a scufflement and a loud squeak. The other squirrels scuttered away into the bushes. When they came back very cautiously peeping round the tree there was Old Brown sitting on his doorstep quite still with his eyes closed as if nothing had happened. But Nutkin was in his waistcoat pocket. This looks like the end of the story but it isn't. Old Brown carried Nutkin into his house and held him up by the tail intending to skin him but Nutkin pulled so very hard that his tail broken too and he dashed up the staircase and escaped out of the attic window. And to this day if you meet Nutkin up a tree and ask him a riddle he will throw sticks at you and stamp his feet and scold and shout end of the Tale of Squirrel Nutkin Recording by Carolyn Francis Wee Willy Winky by Rudyard Kipling 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 James Christopher Wee Willy Winky by Rudyard Kipling His full name was Percival William Williams but he picked up the other name in a nursery book and that was the end of Chris and Titles. His mother's Aya called him Willy Baba but as he never paid the faintest intention to anything that the Aya said her wisdom did not help matters. Colonel of the 195th and as soon as Wee Willy Winky was old enough to understand what military discipline meant Colonel Williams put him under it There was no other way of managing the child When he was good for a week he drew good conduct pay and when he was bad he was deprived of his good conduct stripe Generally he was bad for India offers so many chances to little six year olds of going wrong Children resent familiarity from strangers and Wee Willy Winky was a very particular child Once he accepted an acquaintance he was graciously pleased to fall He accepted Brandus a subaltern of the 195th on site Brandus was having tea at the kernels and Wee Willy Winky entered strong in the possession of a good conduct badge one for not chasing hens around the compound He regarded Brandus with gravity for at least ten minutes and then delivered himself of his opinion I like you, he said slowly getting off his chair and coming over to Brandus I like you, I shall call you copy because of your hair Do you mind being called copy? It is because of the hair you know Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee Willy Winky's peculiarities He would look at a stranger for some time and then without warning or explanation would give him a name and the name stuck No regimental penalties could break Wee Willy Winky of this habit He lost his good conduct badge for christening the commissioner's wife pobs but nothing that the Colonel could do could make the station forgo the nickname and Miss Colvin remained Mrs. Pobs until the end of her stay So Brandus was christened copy and rose therefore in the estimation of the regiment If Wee Willy Winky took an interest in anyone the fortunate man was envied alike by the mess and the rank and file and in their envy lay no suspicion of self-interest The Colonel's son was idolized on his own merits entirely Yet Wee Willy Winky was not lovely His face permanently freckled as his legs were permanently scratched And in spite of his mother's almost tearful remonstrances he had insisted upon having his long yellow locks cut short in the military fashion I want my hair like Sergeant Tommel said Wee Willy Winky and his father abetting the sacrifice was accomplished Three weeks after the bestowl of his youthful affections on Lieutenant Brandus henceforth to be called copy for the sake of brevity Wee Willy Winky was destined to behold strange things in far beyond his comprehension Copy returned his liking with interest Copy had let him wear for five rapturous minutes his own big sword just as tall as Wee Willy Winky Copy had promised him a terrier puppy and copy had permitted him to witness the miraculous operation of shaving nay more Copy had said that even he, Wee Willy Winky would rise in time to the ownership of a box of shiny knives a silver soap box and a silver-handled sputter brush as Wee Willy Winky called it Decidedly there was no one except his father who could give or take away good conduct badges at pleasure half so wise, strong and valiant as Copy with the Afghan and Egyptian medals on his breast Why then should Copy be guilty of the immanly weakness of kissing vehemently kissing a big girl Miss Ullardice to wit In the course of a morning ride Wee Willy Winky had seen Copy so doing and, like the gentleman he was had promptly wheeled round and cantered back to his groom lest the groom should also see Under ordinary circumstances he would have spoken to his father but he felt instinctively that this was a matter in which Copy ought first to be consulted Copy, shouted Wee Willy Winky raining up outside at Subaltern's bungalow early one morning I want to see you, Copy Come in, youngin' returned Copy who was at early breakfast in the midst of his dogs What mischief have you been getting into now? Wee Willy Winky had done nothing notoriously bad for three days and so stood on a pinnacle of virtue I've been doing nothing bad, said he curling up into a long chair with a studious affectation of the colonel's langer after a hot parade He buried his freckled nose in a teacup and with eyes staring roundly over the rim asked, I say, Copy, is it quaper to kiss big girls? By Jove, you're beginning early Who do you want to kiss? No one, my mother's always kissing me if I don't stop her. If it isn't quaper how will you kissing Miss Ullardice's big girl last morning by the canal? Copy's brow wrinkled He and Miss Ullardice had with great craft managed to keep their engagement secret for a fortnight They were urgent and imperative reasons why Major Ullardice should not know how matters stood for at least another month and this small marplot had discovered a great deal too much I saw you, said wee Willy Winky calmly but the groom didn't see I said, hut jow Oh, you had that much since you young rip grown poor copy, half amused and half angry and how many people may you have told about it Only me, myself would tell when I tried to divide the buffalo when my pony was lame and I thought you wouldn't like Winky, said copy enthusiastically shaking the small hand You're the best of good fellows Look here, you can't understand all these things One of these days hang it, how can I make you see it I'm going to marry Miss Ullardice and then she'll be Mrs. Copy as you say If your young mind is so scandalized at the idea of kissing big girls go and tell your father as wee Willy Winky who firmly believed his father was unnippin' it I shall get into trouble, said copy playing his trump card with an appealing look at the holder of the ace Then I won't, said wee Willy Winky briefly but my father says it's unmanly to be always kissing and I didn't think you'd do that, copy I'm not always kissing old chap it's only now and then and when you're bigger you'll do it too Your father meant that it's not good for little boys Ah, said wee Willy Winky How fully enlightened It's like the sputter brush Exactly, said copy gravely But I don't think I ever went to kiss big girls nor no one set my mother and I must vat, you know There was a long pause broken by wee Willy Winky Are you fond of this big girl, copy Awfully, said copy Fonder than you are of Belle or of Ibucha or me It's in a different way, said copy You see, one of these days Miss Ullardice belong to me but you'll grow up and command the regiment and all sorts of things, it's quite different, you see Very well, said wee Willy Winky Rising, if you're fond of the big girl I won't tell anyone I must go now Copy Rose and escorted his small guest to the door Adding, you're the best of little fellows, Winky I tell you what In 30 days from now you can tell if you like Tell anyone you like Thus the secret of the brand of Ullardice engagement was dependent on a little child's word Winky who knew wee Willy Winky's idea of truth was at ease for he felt that he would not break promises Wee Willy Winky betrayed a special and unusual interest in Miss Ullardice and slowly revolving round that embarrassed young lady was used to regarding her gravely with unwinking eye He was trying to discover why copy should have kissed her She was not half so nice as his own mother On the other hand, she was copy's property and would in time belong to him Therefore, if you hooked him to treat her this copy's big sword or shiny pistol The idea that he shared a great secret in common with copy kept wee Willy Winky unusually virtuous for three weeks Then the old Adam broke out and he made what he called a campfire at the bottom of the garden How could he have foreseen that the flying sparks would have lighted the Colonel's little haystack and consumed a weak store for the horses Sudden and swift was the punishment depriving of the good conduct badge and, most sorrowful of all the barracks, the house in the veranda coupled with the withdrawal of the light of his father's countenance He took the sentence like the man he strove to be drew himself up with a quivering underlip saluted, and once clear of the room ran to weep bitterly in his nursery called by him, my quarters Copy came in the afternoon and attempted to console the culprit I'm under a west, said wee Willy Winky mournfully and I didn't ought to speak to you Very early the next morning he climbed to the roof of the house that was not forbidden and beheld Miss Allardice going for a ride Where are you going? cried wee Willy Winky Across the river she answered and trotted forward Now the condom in which the one hundred ninety-fifth leg was bounded on the north by a river dry in the winter From his earliest years wee Willy Winky had been forbidden to go across the river and had noted that even copy the almost almighty copy had never set foot beyond it Wee Willy Winky had once been read to out of a big blue book the history of the princess and the goblins a most wonderful tale of a land where the goblins were always warring with the children of men until they were defeated by one curty Ever since that date it seemed to him that the bare black and purple hills across the river were inhabited by goblins and in truth everyone had said that there lived the bad men Even in his own house the lower halves of the windows were covered with green paper on account of the bad men who might if allowed clear view into peaceful drawing rooms and comfortable bedrooms certainly beyond the river which was the end of all the earth lived the bad men and here was Major Allardyce's big girl copy's property preparing to venture into their borders what would copy say of anything happen to her if the goblins ran off with her as they did the curty princess she must had all hazards be turned back the house was still Wee Willy Winky reflected for a moment on the very terrible wrath of his father it was a crime unspeakable the low sun through his shadow very large and very black on the trim garden paths as he went down to the stables and ordered his pony it seemed to him in the hush of the dawn that all the big world had been binned to stand still and look at Wee Willy Winky, guilty of mutiny the drowsy groom handed him his mount and since the one great sin made all others insignificant Wee Willy Winky said that he was going to ride over to copy Saheb and went out at a foot pace stepping on the soft mold of the flower borders the devastating track of the pony's feet was the last misdeed that cut him off from all the sympathy of humanity he turned into the road leaned forward and rode as fast as the pony could put foot to the ground in the direction of the river but the liveliest of twelve two ponies can do little against the long canter of a waller Miss Ullardice was far ahead had passed through the core beyond the police post when all the guards were asleep and her mount was scattering the pebbles of the river bed he left the Canton Mint and British India behind him bowed forward and still flogging Wee Willy Winky shot into Afghan territory and could just see Miss Ullardice a black speck flickering across the stony plain the reason of her wandering was simple enough copy in a tone of two hastily assured authority had told her overnight that she must not ride out by the river and she had gone to prove her own spirit and teach copy a lesson almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills Miss Winky saw the waller blunder and come down heavily Miss Ullardice struggled clear but her ankle had been severely twisted and she could not stand having thus demonstrated her spirit she wept copiously and was surprised by the apparition of a white, wide-eyed child in khaki on a nearly spent pony are you badly badly hurted shouted Wee Willy Winky as soon as he was within range you did not to be here I don't know said Miss Ullardice ruefully ignoring the reproof what are you doing here you said you was going across Wee-Wiver painted Wee Willy Winky throwing himself off his pony and nobody, not even copy, must go across Wee-Wiver and I came after you so hard but you wouldn't stop and now you've hurted yourself and copy will be angry with me and I've broken my a-west I've broken my a-west the future colonel of the one hundred ninety fifth sat down and sobbed in spite of the pain and her ankle and what for you belong to copy, copy told me so welled Wee Willy Winky disconsolently I saw him kissing you and he said he was fond of you Vembelle or Vibucha or me and so I came you must get up and come back you did not to be here this is a bad place and I've broken my a-west I can't move Winky said Miss Ullardice with a groan I've hurt my foot what shall I do with him brought up to believe that tears were the depth of unmanliness still when one is as great a sinner as Wee Willy Winky even a man may be permitted to break down Winky said Miss Ullardice when you've rested a little ride back and tell him to send someone out to carry me back in it hurts fearfully the child sat still for a little time and Miss Ullardice closed her eyes the pain was nearly making her faint she was roused by Wee Willy Winky tying up the reins to his pony's neck and setting it free with a vicious cut of his whip that made it wicker the little animal headed towards the condomments oh Winky what are you doing Push said Wee Willy Winky there's a man coming one of the bad men I must stay with you my father says a man must always look after a girl Jack will go home and then they'll come look for us that's why I let him go not one man but two or three had appeared from behind the rocks of the hills and the heart of Wee Willy Winky sank within him in just this manner where the goblins went to steal out and vexed Kurtie's soul thus they had played in Kurtie's garden he had seen the picture and thus they had frightened the princess's nurse he heard them talking to each other and recognized with joy the bastard push-toe that he had picked up from one of his father's grooms lately dismissed people who spoke that tongue could not be the bad men they were only natives after all they came up to the boulders on which Miss Ullardice's horse had blundered then rose from the rock Wee Willy Winky child of the dominant race aged six and three quarters and said briefly and emphatically, yow the pony across the riverbed the men laughed and laughter from natives was the one thing Wee Willy Winky could not tolerate he asked them what they wanted and why they did not depart other men with most evil faces and crooked stock guns crept out of the shadows of the hills till soon Wee Willy Winky was face to face with an audience some twenty strong Miss Ullardice screamed you said one of the men I am the Colonel Sahib's son and my order is that you go at once you black men are frightening Miss Sahib one of you must run to the Cantonments and make the news that Miss Sahib has hurt herself and that the Colonel's son is here with her put our feet into the trap was a laughing reply hear this boy's speech say that I sent you, I, the Colonel's son they will give you money what is the use of this talk take up the child and the girl and send them ours are the villages on the heights said a voice in the background these were the bad men worse than goblins and it needed all Wee Willy Winky's training to prevent him from bursting into tears but he felt at the cry before a native accepting only his mother's Aya would be an infamy greater than any mutiny moreover he as future Colonel of the 195th had that grim regiment at his back are you going to carry us away said Wee Willy Winky yes my little Sahib Bahadur said the tallest of the men and eat you afterwards that is child's talk said Wee Willy Winky men do not eat men a yellow laughter interrupted him but he went on firmly and if you do carry us away I tell you that all my regiment will come up in a day and kill you all without leaving one who will take my message to the Colonel Sahib speech in any vernacular and Wee Willy Winky had a colloquial acquaintance with three was easy to the boy not yet manages ours and thus a right another man joined the conference crying oh foolish men what this babe says is true his is at the heart's heart of those white troops for the sake of peace let them go both for if he is taken the regiment will break loose and gut the valley our villages are in the valley and we shall not escape that regiment are devils they broke Coco Yar's breast bone with kicks when he tried to take the rifles and if we touch this child they will fire and rape and plunder for a month till nothing remain better to send a man back to take the message and get a reward I say that this child is their God and that they will spare none of us nor our women if we harm him it was Din Muhammad the dismissed groom of a Colonel who made the diversion and an angry and heated discussion followed Wee Willy Winky standing over Miss Allardyce waited the upshot surely his wedgment, his own wedgment would not desert him if they knew of his extremity the writer Lisponi brought the news to the 195th though there had been consternation in the Colonel's household for an hour before the little beast came into the parade ground in front of the main barracks where the men were setting down to play spoil five till the afternoon Devlin, the color sergeant of E Company glanced at the empty saddle and tumbled through the barracks room kicking up each room corporal as he passed up, E beggars, there's something happen to the Colonel's son he shouted he couldn't fall off so help me fluttered a drummer boy go and hunt him across the river, he's over there if he's anywhere and maybe those Pathens have got him for the love of God don't look for him in the nullas let's go to the river there's since and not yet said Devlin, E Company, double out to the river shop so E Company, in its shirt sleeves mainly doubled for dear life and in the rear toiled the perspiring sergeant adjuring it to double yet faster the cantiment was alive with the men of the 195th hunting for Wee Willy Winky and the currently finally overtook E Company far too exhausted to swear struggling in the pebbles of the river bed up the hill under which Wee Willy Winky's bad men were discussing the wisdom of carrying off the child and the girl a lookout fired two shots what have I said? shouted Den Mohamed there is a warning, the Polton are out already and are coming across the plane get away, let us not be seen with the boy the men waited for an instant and then as another shot was fired withdrew into the hills silently as they had appeared the wedge of men is coming said Wee Willy Winky confidently to Miss Allardyce it's all white, don't cry he needed the advice himself for ten minutes later when his father came up he was weeping bitterly with his head in Miss Allardyce's lap and the man of the 195th carried him home with shouts and rejoicings and copy, who had ridden the horse into a lather met him and to his intense disgust kissed him openly in the presence of the men there was a bomb for his dignity his father assured him that not only would the breaking of a recipe condone but that the good conduct badge would be restored as soon as his mother could sew it on his blouse sleeve Miss Allardyce had told the Colonel the story that made him proud of his son she belonged to you copy said Wee Willy Winky indicating Miss Allardyce with a grimy forefinger I knew she didn't ought to go across to Wee Weaver and I knew Wee Wedgement would come to me if I sent Jack home you're a hero Winky said copy a puka hero I don't know what that means said Wee Willy Winky but you mustn't call me Winky any no more I'm Percival Willem Willems and in this manner did Wee Willy Winky enter into his manhood End of Wee Willy Winky