 A LEAF IN THE STORM by Louise de la Rame. Bernardoux clung to his home with a doggie devotion. He would not go from it to fight unless compelled, but for it he would have fought like a lion. His love for his country was only an indefinite shadowy existence that was not clear to him. He could not save a land that he had never seen, a capital that was only to him as an empty name, nor could he comprehend the danger that his nation ran, nor could he desire to go forth and spend his lifeblood in defence of things unknown to him. He was only a peasant, and he could not read nor greatly understand, but affection for his birthplace was a passion with him, mute indeed, but deep-seated as an oak. For his birthplace he would have struggled as a man can struggle only when supreme love, as well as duty, nerves his arm. Neither he, nor in our leaks, could see that a man's duty might lie from home. But in that home both were alike ready to dare anything, and to suffer everything. It was a narrow form of patriotism, yet it had nobleness, endurance, and patience in it. In song it has been often times deified as heroism, but in modern warfare it is punished as the blackest crime. So Bernardoux tarried in his cottage till he should be called, keeping watch by night over the safety of his village, and by day doing all he could to aid the deserted wives and mothers of the place by tilling their ground for them, and by tending such poor cattle as were left in their desolate fields. He and Margot and Rena leaks, between them, fed many mouths that would otherwise have been closed in death by famine, and denied themselves all except the barest and most meagre subsistence that they might give away, the little they possessed. And all this while the war went on, but seemed far from them, so seldom did any tidings of it pierce the seclusion in which they dwelt. By and by, as the autumn went on, they learned a little more. Fugitives coming to the smithy for a horse's shoe, women fleeing to their old village homes from their light, gay life in the city, mandates from the government of defence sent to every hamlet in the country. Even news sheets brought in by carriers or hawkers and hucksters, all these by degrees told them of the peril of their country, vaguely indeed and seldom truthfully, but so that by mutilated rumours they came at last to know the awful facts of the fate of Sudan. The fall of the Empire, the siege of Paris, it did not alter their daily lives and was still too far off and too impalpable, but a foreboding, a dread and unspeakable woe settled down on them. Already their lands and cattle have been harassed to yield provision for the army and large towns, already their best horses have been taken for the siege-trains and the forage-wagons. Already their plowshares were perforce idle and their children cried because of the scarcity of nourishment. Maybe the iron of war had entered into their souls. The little street at evening was mournful and very silent. The few who talked spoke in whispers, lest the spy should hear them, and the young ones had no strength to play. They wanted food. Bernadou, now that all means of defence was gone from him and the only thing left to him to deal with was his own life, had become quiet and silent and passionless as was his habit. He would have fought like a mastiff for his home, but this they had forbidden him to do, and he was passive and without hope. He closed his door and sat down with his hand on that of Ren Alitz and his arm around his wife. There is nothing to do but wait, he said sadly. The days seemed very long incoming. The firing, which had come nearer each day, ceased for a while, then its roll commenced afresh and grew still nearer to the village. Nothing, again, all was still. At noon a shepherd staggered into the place, pale, bleeding, bruised, covered with mire. The Prussians, he told them, had forced him to be their guide, had knotted him tight to a trooper's saddle, and had dragged him with them until he was half-dead with fatigue and pain. At night he had broken from them and had fled. They were close at hand, he said, and had burned the town from end to end because a man had fired at them from a housetop. That was all he knew. Bernadu, who had gone out to hear his news, returned into the house and sat down and hit his face within his hands. It grew dark, the autumn day died, the sullen clouds dropped scattered rain. The red leaves were blown in millions by the wind. The little houses on either side of the road were dark, for the dwellers in them dared not show any light that might be a star, to allure to them the footsteps of their foes. Bernadu sat with his arms on the table and his head resting on them. Margot nursed her son, Rena Leakes prayed. Suddenly, in the street without, there was the sound of many feet of horses and of men, the shouting of angry voices, the splashing of quick steps in the watery ways, the screams of women, the flash of steel through the gloom. Bernadu sprang to his feet, his face pale, his blue eyes dark as night. They are come, he said under his breath. It was not fear that he felt, nor horror. It was rather a passion of love for his birthplace and his nation, a passion of longing to struggle and to die for both, and he had no weapon. He drew his housetop open with a steady hand and stood on his own threshold and faced these his enemies, the streetness full of them. Some mounted, some on foot, crowds of them swarmed in the woods on the roads. They had settled on the village as vultures on a dead lamb's body. It was a little lowly place. It might well have been left in peace. It had had no more share in the war than a child still unborn, but it came in the victor's way and his mailed heel crushed it as he passed. They had heard that arms were hidden and Franch-tireur sheltered there, and they had swooped down on it and held it hard and fast. Some were told off to search the chapel, some to ransack the dwellings, some to see such food and bring such cattle as there might be left, some to seek out the devious paths that crossed and recrossed the field. And yet there still remained in the little street hundreds of armed men, almost enough to awe a citadel or storm a breach. The people did not attempt to resist. They stood passive, dry-eyed in misery, looking on whilst the little treasures of their household lives were swept away for ever, and ignorant what fate by fire or iron might be their portion ere the night was done. They saw the corn that was their winter-store to save their offspring from famine, poured out like ditch-water. They saw oats and wheat flung down to be trodden into a slough of mud and filth. They saw the walnut presses in their kitchens broken open, and their old heirlooms of silver centuries old borne away as booty. They saw the oak cupboard in their wives' bedchambers ransacked, and the homespun linen and the quaint bits of plate that had formed their nutchle dowers, cast aside in derision or trampled into a battered heap. They saw the pet lamb of their infants, the silver earrings of their brides, the brave tankards they had drunk their marriage-wine in, the tame bird that flew to their whistle, all seized for food or spoil. They saw all this, and had to stand by with mute tongues and passive hands, lest any glance of wrath or gesture of revenge should bring the leaden bullets in their children's throats or the yellow flame amidst their homesteads. Into agony the world cannot hold. End of Elief in the Storm, by Louise de la Rémée. L'Amour d'Arthur, King Arthur and of his noble knights of the round table, by Sir Thomas Mallory, volume one. CHAPTERS I THROUGH FIVE CHAPTER I. Euthere Pendragon sent for the Duke of Cornwall and ingrained his wife and of their departing suddenly again. It befell in the days of Euthere Pendragon when he was king of all England, and so reigned that there was a mighty duke in Cornwall that held war against him long time. And the duke was called the Duke of Tentagill. And so by means King Euthere sent for this duke charging him to bring his wife with him, for she was called a fair lady and a passing wife, and her name was Egrane. So when Duke and his wife were come unto the king, by the means of great lords, they were accorded both. The king liked and loved this lady well, and he made them great cheer out of measure. And desired to have length by her. But she was a passing good woman, and would be sent unto the king. And then she told the duke her husband and said, I suppose that we were sent for that I should be dishonored. Wherefore, husband, I counsel you, that we depart from him suddenly, that we may ride all night unto our own castle. And in likewise as she said, so they departed, and that neither the king nor none of his counsel were aware of their departing. All so soon as King Euthere knew of their departing, so suddenly, he was wonderfully wrong. Then he called to him, his prively counsel, and told them of the sudden departing of the duke and his wife. Then they advised the king to send for the duke and his wife by a great charge. And if so, he would not come at your summons, then may you do your best. Then have you kept calls to make mighty war upon him. So that was done, and the messengers had their answer. And that was with shortly that neither he nor his wife would not come at him. Then was the king wandily walked, and then the king sent him, playing word again, and bade him be ready and stuff him and garnish him. For within forty days he would fetch him out of the biggest castle that he had. When the duke had his warning, and then he went and furnished and garnished two strong castles of head, of the which the one height tens ago, and the other castle height terribil. So his wife aced about the castle of terribil. And there he piked many pavilions. And there was great war made on both parties, as much people slain. And for pure anger, and for great love of fair angry, the king user fell sick. So came to the king user sir you look a noble knight and ask the king why he was sick. I shall tell thee said the king I am sick for anger and for the love of fair angry that I may not be home. Well, my lord said sir I shall seek Merlene and he shall do you remedy that your heart shall be pleased. So Ulyphus departed and by adventure he met Merlene in a beggar's array. And then Merlene asked Ulyphus whom he sought. And he said he had little adieu to tell him. Well said Merlene, I know whom thou seekest for thou seekest Merlene. Therefore seek no further for I am he. And if King Uther will well award me and be sworn until me to fulfill my desire that shall be his honor and profit for more than mine. For I shall cause him to have all his desire. All this will I undertake said Ulyphus that there shall be nothing reasonable but thou shall have thy desire. Well said Merlene, he shall have his intent and desire. And therefore said Merlene, ride on your way for I will not be long behind. Chapter two, how Uther Pendragon made war on the Duke of Cornwall and how by the mean of Merlene he lay by the Duchess and God Arthur. Then Ulyphus was glad and rolled on more than a pace till that he came to King Uther Pendragon and told him he had met with Merlene. Where is he? said the King. Sir, said Ulyphus, he will not dwell long. Therewithal Ulyphus was where Merlene stood at the porch of the Pavilion door and then Merlene was bound to come to the King. When King Uther saw him, he said he was welcome. Sir, said Merlene, I know all your heart every day. So ye will be sworn unto me as ye be a true King anointed. To fulfill my desire, you shall have your desire. Then the King was sworn upon the four evangelists. Sir, said Merlene, this is my desire. The first night that ye shall lie by evening, you shall get a child on earth. And when that is born, that it shall be delivered to me for to nourish there as I will have it. For it shall be your worship. And the child's avail as nickel as a child is worth. I will well, said the King, as thou wilt have it. Now make you ready, said Merlene. This night shall lie with Ingrid in the castle of Tensable. And ye shall be the duke her husband. Ulyphus shall be like Sir Baratheus, a knight of the duke. And I will be like a knight that hights Sir Jordan, a knight of the duke. But wait, ye may not many question with her nor her men. But sal ye are diseased and so high ye to bed. And rise not on the morn till I come to you. For the castle of Tensable is but ten miles hence. So this was done as they divide. But the duke of Tensable is spied, how the King rode from the seas of Terrible. And therefore the knight he issued out of the castle and a pasta for to have distressed the King's host. And so, through his own issue, the duke himself was slain, or ever the King came to the castle of Tensable. So after the death of the duke, King Yuthel lay with Ingrid, more than three hours after his death. So beget on her that night author. And on day came Merlene to the King and bade him, make him ready. And so he kissed the lady Ingrid and departed in all hate. But when the lady heard tale of the duke her husband, and by all record he was dead, or ever King Yuthel came, then she marveled who that might be that lay with her in likeness of her Lord. So she mourned pribly and held her peace. Then all the barrens by one set prayed the King of record. Betwixt the lady Ingrid and him, the King gave them leave for fame, where he have been accorded with them. So the King put all the trust in Yulafit to entreat between them. So by the entreaty at the last, the King and she met together. Now will we do well, said Yulafit? Our King is a lusty knight and wife. And my lady Ingrid is a passing fair lady. It were great joy unto us all. And it might please the King to make her his queen. Until that they all well accorded and moved in to the King. And annan, like a lusty knight, he ascended there to with good will. And so in all haste, they were married in the morning with great mirth and joy. And King Lot of Lothonian and of Acne, then wedded Margaus, that was God one's mother and King Natress of the land of Garlot, wedded Elaine. All this was done at the request of King Yulafit. And the third system, Morgan Lee Fay, was put to school in a nunnery. And there she learned so much that she was a great clerk of the Chromacy. And after she was wedded to King Yuring of the land of Gore, that was Sir E'Wayne's last blanched man, father, chapter three of the birth of King Arthur and of his nurture. Then Queen Ingrid waxed daily, greater and greater. So it befell after within half a year as King Yuther laid by his queen. He asked her by the face she owed to him, whose was the body? Then she saw a bash to give answer. This may you not, said the king, but tell me the truth and I shall love you better. But the faith of my body, sir, she said, I shall tell you the truth. The same night that my Lord was dead, the hour of his death, as his nights record, there came into my castle of tentacle a man like my Lord in speech and in countenance. And two nights with him, in likeness of his two nights, Braticia enjoyed him. And so I went unto bed with him as I ought to do with my Lord. And the same night I shall answer unto God, this child was begotten of honey. That is true, said the king, as ye say, for it was I myself that came in the likeness. And therefore this may you not, for I am father of the child. And there he told her all the call, how it was by Maryland's counsel. Then the queen made great joy when she knew who the father of her child. Soon came Merlin unto the king and said, sir, ye must purify you for the nourishing of your child. As thou wilt, said the king, be it. Well said Merlin, I know a Lord of yours in this land that is a passing true man and a faithful. And he shall have the nourishing of your child. And his name is Sir Hector, and he is a Lord of fair livelihood in many parts in England and Wales. And this Lord, Sir Hector, let him be sent forth for to come and speak with you and desire him yourself. As he loveth you, that he will put his own child to nourishing to another woman, and that his wife nourishes yours. And when the child is born, let it be delivered to me at yonder privy, posthum, unchristened. So like as Merlin devised it was done, and when Sir Hector came, he made fiance to the king for to nourish the child like as the king desired, and there the king granted Sir Hector great reward. Then when the lady was delivered, the king commanded two night and two ladies to take the child, bound in cloth of gold, and that ye deliver him to what poor man ye meet at the post and gate of the castle. So the child was delivered unto Merlin, and so he buried forth unto Sir Hector, and made an holy man to christen him, and name him Arthur, and so Sir Hector's wife nourished him with her own hat. Chapter 4 of the Death of King Yuthera Andrade Then within the two years King Yuther fell sick of a great malice, and in the meanwhile his enemies observed upon him, and did a great battle upon his men, and slew many of his people. Sir Sammerlin ye may not lie so as ye do, for ye must to the field, though ye ride on an horse litter, for ye shall never have the better of your enemy, but if your person was there, and there shall ye have the victor, so it was done as Merlin had devised. And they carried the king forth in a horse litter with a great host towards his enemy, and at Sir Albin there met the king, a great host of the north, and that day Sir Ulyphus and Sir Bratius did great deeds of arm, and King Yuthera's men overcame the northern battle, and slew many people, and put the remnant to flight, and then the king returned unto London, and made great joy of his victor, and then he fell passing Sorcy, so that three days and three nights he was speechless, wherefore all the barons made great sorrow, and asked Merlin what counsel were best. There is none of the remedy, said Merlin, but God will have his will. But look ye all barons, be before King Yuthera to mourn, and God and I shall make him to speak, so on the mourn all the barons with Merlin came to forward the king. Then Merlin said aloud unto King Yuthera, Sir, shall your son Arthur be king after your days of this realm with all thee. I pretended, then Yuthera's pin dragons turned him, and said in hearing of them all, I give him God's blessing in mind, and bid him pray for my soul, and righteously, and worshipfully, that he claim the crown upon forfeiture of my blessing. And therewith he yielded up the ghost, and then was he interred as long to aching, wherefore the queen, fair and green, made great sorrow in all the barons. Chapter 5. How Arthur was chosen king, and all wonders and marvels of a sword taken out of a stone by the said Arthur. Then stood the realm in great jeopardy long while, for every Lord that was was mighty of men, made him strong, and many weaned to have been king. Then Merlin said to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and counseled him for the sin for all the lords of the realm, and all the gentlemen of arms, that they should to London come by Christmas upon pain of cursing, for this cause that Jesus that was born on that night, that he would of his great mercy show some miracle as he was come to be king of mankind, for to show some miracle who should be right wise, king of this realm. So the Archbishop, by the advice of Merlin, said for all the lords and gentlemen of arms, that they should be, they should come by Christmas even unto London, and many of them made clean of their life, that they pray might be more acceptable unto God. So in the greatest church of London, whether it was Paul's or not the French book marking no mention, all the estates were long or day in the church for to pray, and when matins and the first mass was done, there was seen in the churchyard against the high altar a great stone for square, like unto a marble stone, and in midst thereof was like an anvil of steep, a high on foot, and therein stuck a fair sword naked by the point, and letters there were written in gold about the sword that said thus, whoso pull it out this sword of this stone in anvil is right wise king born of all in it. Then the people marvel and told it to the Archbishop, I command, said the Archbishop, that ye keep you within the church and pray unto God still, that no man touch the sword till the high mass be all done. So when all masses were done, all the lords went to behold the stone and the sword, and when they saw the scriptures some assayed, such as would have been king, but none might stir the sword nor move it. He is not here, said the Archbishop, that shall achieve the sword, but doubt not God will make him known. But this is my counsel, said the Archbishop, that we let her be ten night men of good fame and they to keep the sword. So it was ordained, and then there was made a cry, that every man should assay that would for to win the sword. And upon New Year's Day the baron let make a just and a tournament, that all night that would just and turning there might play. And all this was ordained to keep the lords together and the common, for the Archbishop trusted that God would make him know that should win the sword. So upon New Year's Day when the service was done, the barons rolled unto the field, some to joist and some to turn, and so it happened that Sir Ekton, that had great livelihood about London, rolled unto the just, and with him rolled Sir K his son, and young Arthur that was his nourished brother, and Sir K was made night at all hollow mass of four. So as they rolled to the just war, Sir K lost his sword, for he had left it at his father's lodging. And so he prayed young Arthur for to ride for his sword. I will well say Arthur and rolled fast after the sword, and when he came home the lady and all were out to see the just. Then was Arthur walked, and he said to himself, I will ride to the churchyard, and take the sword with me that stick is in the stone, for my brother Sir K shall not be without a sword this day. So when he came to the churchyard, Sir Arthur alighted and tied his horse to the style, and so he went to the tent and found no night there, for they were out justing. And so he handed the sword by the hand, and lightly and fiercely pulled it out of the stone, and took his horse and rolled his way until he came to his brother Sir K. and delivered him the sword. And as soon as Sir K saw the sword, he wish well it was the sword of the stone. And so he rolled to his father Sir Arthur and said, Sir, no here is the sword of the stone, wherefore I must be king of this land. Sir Arthur beheld the sword, he returned again, and came to the church, and there they alighted, all three, and went into the church, and in him he made Sir K swear upon the book how he came to the sword. Sir said Sir K, by my brother Arthur, for he bought it to me. How got ye this sword, said Sir Arthur. Sir I will tell you, when I came home from my brother's sword I found nobody at home to deliver me his sword. And so I thought my brother Sir K should not be sorely. So I came hither, eagerly, and pulled it out of the stone without any pain. Found ye any night about the sword, said Sir Ector. Nay, said Arthur. Now, said Sir Ector. To Arthur I understand ye must be the king of this land. Wherefore I, said Arthur, and for what cause, Sir, said Ector, for God will have it so. For there should never man have drawn out this sword, but he that shall be right wise king of this land. Now let me see whether ye can put the sword there as it was, and pull it out again. That is no mastery, said Arthur. And so he put it in the stone. Wherewithal, said Sir Ector, a say to pull out the sword, and fail. End of Limor-Darther, Volume 1, Chapters 1-5 Every boy with a knowledge of adventurous literature, otherwise novels of action, knows of the phantom ship, the spook of the high seas. But it has not been known that ships themselves are haunted, and that in the service of the United States Coast Survey there is a vessel now in commission, that is, by her own officers, supposed to be haunted. Yet the angry, a 140-foot schooner of the Coast Survey is looked upon in the service as a very undesirable vessel to be aboard of. About her there is an atmosphere of gloom that wordroom jest cannot dispel. Duty on board her has been shunned as would be a pestilence, and stories have been told by officers who have cruised aboard her that are not good for timid people to hear. Officers have hesitated about telling these uncanny stories, but they have become sufficiently well known to make a billet to duty aboard the agrie unwelcome among the Coast Survey men. The Mohawk was launched June 10th, 1875 at Greenpoint, and she was then the largest sailing yacht afloat. William T. Garner, her young millionaire owner, was very proud of his new craft, and all the then leaders of New York Society were invited to participate in the good time afloat with which her launching was celebrated. Commodore Garner, then but 33 years old, and his young wife entertained charmingly, and the trim Speedy Mohawk was christened with unusually merry festivities. Soon after that she was capsized by a sudden squall off the landing at Stapleton, New York, and six people were drowned like rats in her cabin and forecastle. Then the Mohawk was raised at a cost of twenty-five thousand dollars and purchased by the United States government for the service of the Coast Survey. Her name was changed to agrie, for Jack Tarr is proverbially superstitious, and with the old name it would have been impossible to ship a crew. Lieutenant Higby King describes his initial experience when he was assigned to duty on the agrie in this way. She had her full complement of officers minus one when I boarded her at Newport to complete the list. Every cabin was occupied but the port cabin by the companion way, and to that I was assigned. We had a jolly wardroom mess that night and I retired from it early as I was tired by my journey to join the vessel. The others who were still at the table regarded my retirement to the port cabin in absolute silence, having bidden me good night. Their silence did not lead me to suspect anything though I knew the agrie had once been the Mohawk. My cabin door had the usual cabin lock of brass, and a porthole was also securely fastened. There could have been no one under the bed or sofa, as beneath each was a facing of solid oak paneling. I undressed lazily and left the light burning dimly in my bracket lamp. I tried conscientiously to go to sleep, for I don't know how long, with my back turned to the light. The noise ceased in the wardroom after a time, and I knew the others had turned in, but I felt unaccountably nervous and restless. I turned over and faced the light, thoroughly wide awake, and there in the single chair sat an elderly man seemingly wrapped in deep thought. He was dressed in a blue yachting reefer and had a long gray beard. His hands were clasped in his lap, and his eyes were downcast. His face was not pale and ghastly, as the faces of ghosts are popularly supposed to be, but ruddy and weather-beaten. I regarded him in scared silence, for I don't know how long, though it seemed an hour. When he, or it, or whatever it was, disappeared. During that time the ghost, and such I now believe it to have been, made not a motion, nor did it say anything. Presently I looked again, and it was gone. At breakfast the others watched me critically, as I took my seat. I had not intended to say anything about my experience, for I thought then I had seen some sort of hallucination, and strongly suspected that I was verging on insanity. Lieutenant Irving asked me if I had slept well. I replied that I had. Didn't you see anything, he inquired. I then frankly admitted that I had, and described my experience. Then I learned that each one of the seven others present had tried the port cabin at one time or another, and each had seen the self-same apparition. It had acted in exactly the same way in each case, except in the case of Irving, who shot at it with his pistol, when it immediately disappeared. Some of the others had been led by their curiosity to inquire if anyone lost on the Mohawk resembled the figure, and found that none of the unfortunate ones, at all, fitted the description. It had been dubbed by them the misfit ghost. That experience was enough for me, and after that I, by courtesy, shared a cabin with another fellow. Lieutenant Irving and others corroborated the story of Lieutenant King, and as additional evidence that the Egg Ray is haunted, Lieutenant Irving describes a New Year's Eve experience of the Egg Ray's officers, that is, to say the least, novel in the way of supernatural manifestations. It was at the mess. The first toast, sweethearts and wives, had been drunk, as it always is by Yankee sailors, the world over, on the occasions of festivities. Everyone was feeling happy, or, as Thackeray has put it, pleasant, when suddenly the sliding doors separating the wardroom from the companion way closed slowly with a loud, squeaking noise. They had seldom been closed, and it took the entire strength of a man to start them from their rusty fastenings. Yet upon this occasion they started easily and closed tightly, while the officers jumped to their feet in breathless astonishment. Half a dozen men hauled them open in haste, but not a soul was behind them, or anywhere about. It must be our old friend from the Port Cabin suggested one, and in awestruck silence the health of the misfit ghost was drunk. End of A Misfit Ghost, from Twenty-Five Ghost Stories, compiled and edited by W. Bob Holland. We buried old Bill today. As we came back to the house, it seemed almost as if we had laid away a member of the family. All afternoon I have been thinking of him, and this evening I want to tell you the story. Old Bill was a horse, and he was owned by four generations of our family. He was forty-one years old when he died, so you will understand that for many years he was what some might call a deadbeat border. But long ago he had paid in advance for his board as long as he might stay with us. In winter a warm corner of the stable was his as a matter of right, and not a day went by but a lump of sugar and apple or some other tidbit found its way to him from the hands of those who loved him. Old Bill was never in the slightest danger of meeting the sad fate of many a faithful old horse in the hands of the huckster or trader. My grandfather liked a good horse. He loved to draw the lines over a team that trotted up into the bits as if they enjoyed it. He had such a team in a span of eleven hundred pound mirrors, full sisters, and well matched both as to appearance and disposition. The old gentlemen said they were Morgan bread. Whether they were or not, they had a lot of warm blood in them. He raised several colts from these mirrors by light horses, but none of them had either the spirit or the quality of their dams. One year a neighbor brought in a perchurron horse, a rangey fellow weighing about seventeen hundred and fifty pounds, clean of limb and with plenty of life, as were most of the earlier horses of that breed, and grandfather bred these mirrors to him. The colts fold the next spring, developed into a fine span, weighing about twelve hundred and fifty each, sound as nuts, willing workers and free movers. Grandfather gave this team to my father the spring he started to farm for himself. They were then three years old, and one of them was old Bill. In those days the young farmer's capital was not very large, a team of horses, a cow, two or three pigs, and a few farm implements, the horses being by far the most important part of it. I shall not try to tell of the part these horses played in helping father win out. They were never sick, they were always ready for work. And well do I remember father's grief when Bill's mate slipped on the ice in the barnyard one cold winter day and had to be shot. It was that evening that my father talked of the important part a good horse plays in the life of a farmer, and gave us a little lecture on the treatment of horses and other animals. I was but a lad of ten at that time, but something father said, or the way he said it, made a deep impression on me, and from that time forward I looked upon horses as my friends and treated them as such. What a fine thing it would be if all parents would teach the youngsters at an early age the right way to treat our dumb animals. Bill was already old, Bill, when he became mine. He was four years older than I when we started courting together, and my success must have been due in large part to his age and experience. We had but a mile and a half to go, and of a summer evening Bill would trot this off at a pace equal to a much younger horse. When the girl of my affection was snugly seated in the buggy, he would move off briskly for half a mile, after which he dropped to a dignified walk, understanding full well the importance of the business in hand. He knew where it was safe to leave the beaten track, and walk quietly along the turf at the side, and he had a positive genius for finding nice shady places where he could browse the overhanging branches, looking back once in a while to see that everything was going along as it should be. I suppose I am old-fashioned, but I don't see how a really first-class job of courting can be done without such a horse's old Bill. He seemed to take just about as much interest in the matter as I did. One night Jenny brought out a couple of lumps of sugar for him, a hopeful sign to me by the way, and after that there was no time lost in getting to her house where Bill very promptly announced our arrival by two or three knickers. One time I jokingly said to my wife that evidently she married Bill as much as she did me. That remark was a mistake. She admitted it more cheerfully than seemed necessary, and on sundry occasions afterward made free to remind me of it. Sometimes she drew comparisons to my discredit, and if old Bill could have understood them, he would have enjoyed a real horse-laugh. Jenny always said Bill knew more than some real folks. After the wedding, old Bill took us on our honeymoon trip—not a very long one, you may be sure—and the three of us settled down to the steady grind of farm life. We asked nothing hard of old Bill, but he helped chore around and took Jenny safely where she wanted to go. I felt perfectly at ease when she was driving him. I wish I had a picture of the three of them when she brought out the boy to show to old Bill. I can close my eyes and see her standing in front of the old horse with the boy cuddled up in a blanket in her arms. I can see the proud light in her eyes, and I can see old Bill's sensitive upper lip nuzzling at the blanket. He evidently understood Jenny perfectly, and seemed just as proud as she was. The youngster learned to ride old Bill at the age most children are riding broomsticks. Jenny used to put him on old Bill's back and lead him around, but old Bill seemed so careful that, before a great while, she would trust him alone with the boy in the front yard, she's sitting on the porch. I remember as scare I had one summer evening. Old Bill did not have much hair left on his withers, but he had a long main lock just in front of the collar mark, and the youngster held on to this. I was walking up toward the house where Bill was marching the youngster around in front, Jenny sitting on the porch. Evidently, a bot fly was bothering Bill's front legs, for he threw his head down quickly, whereupon the youngster, holding tightly to this main lock, slid down his neck and flopped to the ground. You may be sure I got there in a hurry, almost as quickly as Jenny, who was but a few steps away, calling as I ran. Did he step on him? You should have seen the look of scorn Jenny gave me. Such an insult to old Bill deserved no answer. The old horse seemed as much concerned as we were, and Jenny promptly replaced the boy on his back, and the ride was resumed, with me relegated to the corner of the porch in disgrace, as if old Bill would hurt her boy. Old Bill's later years were full of contentment and happiness, if I know what constitutes horse happiness. In the winter he had the best corner in the stable. In the summer he was the autocrat of the small pasture where we kept the colts. He taught the boy to ride properly, and with due respect for his steed. He would give him a gallop now and then, but as a rule he insisted upon a dignified walk, and if the youngster armed himself with the switch and tried to have his way about it, the old fellow would quickly show who was boss by nipping his little legs just hard enough to serve as a warning of what he could do. Bill had a lot of fun with the mares and colts. We never allowed the colts to follow the mares in the fields, but kept them in the five-acre pasture with Bill for company. At noon we would lead the mares in after they had cooled off and let the colts suck, and at night we turned the mares into the pasture with them. Bill had a keen sense of humor. He would fool around until the colts had finished, and then gallop off with all the colts in full tilt after him. Naturally the mares resented this. They followed around in great indignation, but it did them no good. We used to walk over to the pasture fence and watch this little byplay, and I think Bill enjoyed having us there, for he kept up the fun as long as we would watch. He surely was not popular with the mares. They regarded him about as the proud mother regards grandfather when he entices away her darling boy and teaches him tricks of which she does not approve. Although Bill took delight in teaching the colts mean little tricks during their days of irresponsibility, when they reached the proper age he enjoyed the part he had to play in their training with a grim satisfaction. For more than twenty-five years he was our main reliance in breaking the colts to work. It was amusing to watch a colt the first time he was harnessed and hooked up to the wagon alongside Bill, his halter strap being tied back to the hams on Bill's collar. Our colts were always handled more or less from infancy, and we had little trouble in harnessing them. When led out to the wagon with Bill, the colt invariably assumed he was out for a good time. But the Bill he found now was not the Bill he had known in the pasture, and he very quickly learned that he was in for real business. Bill was a very strict disciplinarian. He tolerated no familiarities. With his teeth he promptly suppressed any undue exuberance of spirit. He was kind but firm. As he grew older he would lose patience now and then with the colts that persisted in their unruly ways. When they lunged forward he settled back against their plunges with a bored air as much as to say. Take it easy, my young friend. You surely don't think you can run away with old Bill. When they sulked he pulled them along for a bit. But if they continued obstreperous he turned upon them with his teeth in an almost savage manner, and the way he would bring them out of the sulky spell was a joy to see. Finally when the tired and bewildered colt had settled down to an orderly walk and had learned to respond to the guiding rains, Bill would reward him with a caress on the neck and other evidences of his esteem. Old Bill knew the game thoroughly and was invaluable in this work of training the young ones, but after the first round at the wagon with him the colts always seemed to feel as if they had lost a boon companion. They kept their friendship for him but they maintained a very respectful attitude, and never after took liberties thus assured by his manner that they would be tolerated. I got a collie-dog for the youngster when he was about three years old. When he was riding old Bill, Jack would rush back and forth in front and behind, barking joyously. Old Bill disliked such frivolity. To him it was a serious occasion. I think he never forgot the time the boy fell off, for nothing could tempt him out of a steady walk until the youngster got to an age when his seat was reasonably secure. When the ride was over, Old Bill would lay back his ears and go after Jack so viciously that the collie would seek refuge under the porch. Except when the boy was about, however, Old Bill and Jack were good friends, and in very cold weather Jack would beg a place in Bill's stall curling up between his legs to the apparent satisfaction of both. There was a very real friendship between them, but just as real jealousy for the favors of the little fellow. They were much like human beings in this respect. Until the last year of his life Bill was a most useful member of the family. Jenny liked a good garden and used to say before we were married that when we had our own home she would have a garden that was a garden, and that she did not propose to wear herself out with a hoe as her mother had done. She laid out a garden in a long narrow strip of ground between the pasture and the windbreak, just back of the house, and with Bill's help she had the garden she talked about. Bill plowed the ground and cultivated it, and the care with which he walked the long narrow rose was astonishing. This was another place where he did not want to be bothered with Jack. He was willing Jack should sit at one end and watch the proceedings, but he must keep out of the way. During the school season Bill's regular job was to take the children to school a mile away. They rode him, turning him loose to come home alone. He learned to go back for them in the afternoon, and he delivered them at the porch with an air as much as to say, There are your little folks safe and sound thanks to old Bill. Jenny always met him with an apple or a lump of sugar. She and old Bill seemed to be in partnership in about everything he could have a part in. They understood each other perfectly, and I don't mind confessing now that once in a great while I felt rather jealous of old Bill. Well, as I said in the beginning, we buried old Bill today. He died peacefully, and as we say of some esteemed citizen full of honors, he was buried on the farm he helped pay for, and foolish as it may seem to some folks, before long a modest stone will mark his last resting place. And sometimes of a summer afternoon, if I find Jenny sitting with her needlework in the shade of the big oak tree under which old Bill rests, I will know that tender memories of a faithful servant are being woven into her neat stitches. End of Old Bill by Henry C. Wallace The Open Window by Saki This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Daniel The Open Window by Saki My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttle, said a very self-possessed young lady of 15. In the meantime, you must try and put up with me. Frempton Nuttle endeavored to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately, he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing. I know how it will be, his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat. You will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul and your nerves will be worse than ever for moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them as far as I can remember were quite nice. Frempton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction, came into the nice division. Do you know many of the people around here? asked the niece when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion. Hardly a soul, said Frempton. My sister was staying here at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here. He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret. Then you know practically nothing about my aunt, pursued the self-possessed young lady. Only her name and address admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation. Her great tragedy happened just three years ago, said the child, that would be since your sister's time. Her tragedy, asked Frempton. Somehow in this restful country spot, tragedies seemed out of place. You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon, said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened onto a lawn. It is quite warm for the time of year, said Frempton, but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy? Out that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favorite snipe shooting ground, they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it. Here the child's voice lost its self-possessed tone and became falteringly human. Poor Aunt always thinks that they will come back someday, they in the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear Aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing, birdie why do you bound, as he always did to tease her because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window. She broke off with a little shutter. It was a relief to Frempton when the Aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance. I hope Vera has been amusing you, she said. She has been very interesting, said Frempton. I hope you don't mind the open window, said Mrs. Sappleton briskly. My husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting and they always come in this way. They've been out for snipe in the marshes today so they'll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. So like you menfolk, isn't it? She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds and the prospects for a duck in the winter. To Frempton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk onto a less ghastly topic. He was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary. The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, an avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise, announced Frempton, who labored under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement, he continued. No, said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention, but not to what Frempton was saying. Here they are at last, she cried, just in time for tea and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes. Frempton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with days at horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear, Frempton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction. In the deepening twilight, three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window. They all carried guns under their arms and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk. I said, Bertie, why do you bound? Frempton grabbed wildly at a stick and hat. The hall door, the gravel drive and the front gate were dimly noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the page to avoid an imminent collision. Here we are, my dear, said the bear of the white Macintosh, coming in through the window. Fairly muddy, but most of it's dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up? A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttle, said Mrs. Sappleton, could only talk about his illnesses and dashed off without a word of goodbye or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost. I expected it was the spaniel, so the niece calmly told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve. Romance at short notice was her specialty. End of The Open Window by Saki, read by Janu. Poison Mouth by Anonymous This is a LibriVox recording, a LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Poison Mouth There was once a poor father and mother who had a little daughter called Poison Mouth. And it happened on a day that a great number of cows came into the garden, and when the mother saw them she cried angrily, You but destroy our garden. I would you were all dead. Poison Mouth, hearing her mother's angry words, called out, Die all of you, for you are destroying our garden. And immediately all the cattle dropped dead. Upon another day the bees were swarming and great companies flew over the house, and the mother said complainingly, Why do you never come to us that we may have honey? Little Poison Mouth called, Come to us that we may have honey, and lo! Before the eye of day had closed the house was filled with bees and the poor people had more honey than they could use. Word of Poison Mouth reached a great chow, and, prompted by the God of Love to sweeten the poisoned mouth, he sent ten men with this message to the child's parents. Take good care of your child, let her hear no evil, and when she is old I will take her to wife. When the men approached the home of Poison Mouth they said, Oh poor people! But the mother would not permit them to finish, as their words angered her, and she exclaimed, You are bad dogs! And the men were no longer men, but dogs, snapping and snarling, for Little Poison Mouth had also cried, Bad dogs are you! Though greatly distressed the child sent yet another twenty men with his message. And again when the mother beheld these men she exclaimed, See the dogs coming yonder? Poison Mouth echoed, Yes, twenty dogs are coming now, and they also changed into dogs, fighting on the streets. Who can help me? cried the child, distressed though not despairing. An old man answered, I will help you, I will go to the child. And while the mother was absent he sought the little one, and thus softly said, My child, thy tongue is given thee to bless with, and not to curse. Come with me, and learn only what is good. The little one answered, I will come. And the old man took her to the child, who from that time forth spoke no evil, and Little Poison Mouth, hearing none but beautiful and good words, grew beautiful and good, and her words brought blessings ever. End of Poison Mouth by Anonymous Alexander Afanasyev This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Smith and the Demon Once upon a time there was a Smith, and he had one son, a sharp, smart, six-year-old boy. One day the old man went to church, and as he stood before a picture of the last judgment, he saw a demon painted there, such a terrible one, black, with horns and a tail. Oh my, says he to himself, suppose I get just such another painted for the smithy. So he hired an artist, and ordered him to paint on the door of the smithy exactly such another demon as he had seen in the church. The artist painted it. Thence forward the old man, every time he entered the smithy, always looked at the demon, and said, Good morning, fellow countryman, and then he would lay the fire in the furnace and begin his work. Well, the Smith lived in good accord with the demon for some ten years. Then he fell ill and died. His son succeeded to his place as head of the household, and took the smithy into his own hands. But he was not disposed to show attention to the demon as the old man had done. When he went into the smithy in the morning, he never said, Good morning to him. Instead of offering him a kindly word, he took the biggest hammer he had handy, and thumped the demon with it three times, right on the forehead, and then he would go to his work. And when one of God's holy days came round, he would go to church and offer each saint a taper, but he would go up to the demon and spit in his face. Thus three years went by, he all the while favoring the evil one every morning, either with a spitting or a hammering. The demon endured it, and endured it, and at last found it past all endurance. It was too much for him. I've had quite enough of this insolence from him, thinks he. Suppose I make use of a little diplomacy, and play him some sort of a trick. So the demon took the form of a youth, and went to the smithy. Good day, uncle, says he. Good day. What should you say, uncle, to take me as an apprentice? At all events, I could carry fuel for you, and blow the bellows. The smith liked the idea. Why shouldn't I, he replied. Two are better than one. The demon began to learn his trade. At the end of a month, he knew more about the smith's work than his master did himself, and was able to do everything that his master couldn't do. It was a real pleasure to look at him. There's no describing how satisfied his master was with him, how fond he got of him. Sometimes the master didn't go into the smithy at all, but trusted entirely to his journeyman, who had complete charge of everything. Well, it happened one day that the master was not at home, and the journeyman was left all by himself in the smithy. Presently he saw an old lady driving along the street in her carriage, whereupon he popped his head out of doors, and began shouting, Hey, sirs, be so good as to step in here. We've opened a new business here. We turn old folks into young ones. Out of her carriage jumped the lady in a trice, and ran into the smithy. What's that you're bragging about? Do you mean to say it's true? Can you really do it? she asked the youth. We haven't got to learn our business, answered the demon. If I hadn't been able to do it, I wouldn't have invited people to try. And how much is the cost? asked the lady. Five hundred rubles altogether. Well, then, there's your money. Make a young woman of me. The demon took the money. Then he sent the lady's coachman into the village. Go, says he, and bring me here two buckets full of milk. After that he took a pair of tongs, caught hold of the lady by the feet, flung her into the furnace, and burnt her up. Nothing was left of her but bare bones. When the buckets of milk were brought, he emptied them into a large tub. Then he collected all the bones and flung them into the milk. Just fancy. At the end of about three minutes the lady emerged from the milk, alive and young and beautiful. Well, she got into her carriage and drove home. There she went straight to her husband, and he stared hard at her, but didn't know she was his wife. What are you staring at? says the lady. I'm young and elegant, you see, and I don't want to have an old husband. Be off at once to the smithy, and get them to make you young. If you don't, I won't so much as acknowledge you. There was no help for it. Off set the senior. But by that time the smith had returned home, and had gone into the smithy. He looked about. The journeyman wasn't to be seen. He searched and searched. He inquired and inquired. Never a thing came of it. Not even a trace of the youth could be found. He took to his work by himself, and was hammering away when at that moment up drove the senior, and walked straight into the smithy. Make a young man of me, says he. Are you in your right mind, Baron? How can one make a young man of you? Come now, you know all about that. I know nothing of the kind. You lie, you scoundrel, since you made my old woman young. Make me young too, otherwise there will be no living with her for me. Why, I haven't so much as seen your good lady. Your journeyman saw her, and that's just the same thing. If he knew how to do the job, surely you, an old hand, must have learned how to do it a long time ago. Come now, set to work at once. If you don't, it'll be the worst for you. I'll have you rubbed down with a birch tree towel. The smith was compelled to try his hand at transforming the senior. He held a private conversation with the coachman, as to how his journeyman had set to work with the lady, and what he had done to her. Then he thought, so be it, I'll do the same. If I fall on my feet, good. If I don't, well, I must suffer all the same. So he set to work at once, stripped the senior naked, laid hold of him by the legs with the tongs, popped him into the furnace, and began blowing the bellows. After he had burned him to a cinder, he collected his remains, flung them into the milk, and then waited to see how soon a youthful senior would jump out of it. He waited one hour. Two hours. But nothing came of it. He made a search in the tub. There was nothing in it but bones, and those charred ones. Just then the lady sent messages to the smithy to ask whether the senior would soon be ready. The poor smith had to reply that the senior was no more. When the lady heard that the smith had only turned her husband into a cinder, instead of making him young, she was tremendously angry, and she called together her trusty servants, and ordered them to drag him to the gallows. No sooner said than done, her servants ran to the smith's house, laid hold of him, tied his hands together, and dragged him off to the gallows. All of a sudden they came up with them the youngster who used to live with the smith, as his journeyman, who asked, Where are they taking you, master? They're going to hang me, replied the smith, and straight away related all that had happened to him. Well, uncle, said the demon, swear that you will never strike me with your hammer, but that you will pay me the same respect your father always paid, and the senior shall be alive and young too in a trice. The smith began promising and swearing that he would never again lift his hammer against the demon, but would always pay him every attention. Thereupon the journeyman hastened to the smithy, and shortly afterwards came back again, bringing the senior with him, and crying to the servants, Hold, hold, don't hang him, here's your master. Then they immediately untied the cords, and let the smith go free. From that time forward the smith gave up spitting at the demon, and striking him with his hammer. The journeyman disappeared, and was never seen again, but the senior and his lady entered upon a prosperous course of life, and if they haven't died, they're living still. End of THE SMITH AND THE DEMON A Russian Folktale recorded by Alexander Afanasyev Recording by Liam Borgstrom A Story From Confucius Confucius once heard two of his pupils quarreling. One was of a gentle nature, and was called by all the students a peaceful man. The other had a good brain and a good heart, but was given to great anger. If he wished to do a thing he did it, and no man could prevent. If anyone tried to hinder him, he would show sudden and terrible rage. One day, after one of these fits of temper, the blood came from his mouth, and in great fear he went to Confucius. What shall I do with my body? he asked. I fear I shall not live long. It may be better that I no longer study and work. I am your pupil, and you love me as a father. Tell me what to do for my body. Confucius answered, Tsilu, you have a wrong idea about your body. It is not the study, not the work and school, but your great anger that causes the trouble. I will help you to see this. You remember when you and Nohu quarreled? He was at peace and happy again, in a little time, but you were very long in overcoming your anger. You cannot expect to live long if you do that way. Every time one of the pupils says a thing you do not like, you are greatly enraged. There are a thousand in this school. If each offends you only once, you will have a fit of temper a thousand times this year. And you will surely die if you do not use more self-control. I want to ask you some questions. How many teeth have you? I have thirty-two, teacher. How many tongues? Just one. How many teeth have you lost? I lost one when I was nine years old, and four when I was about twenty-six years old. And your tongue? Is it still perfect? Oh, yes. You know Mun Gunn, who is quite old? Yes, I know him well. How many teeth do you think he had at your age? I do not know. How many has he now? Two, I think, but his tongue is perfect, though he is very old. You see, the teeth are lost because they are strong and determined to have everything they desire. They are hard and hurt the tongue many times, but the tongue never hurts the teeth. Yet it endures until the end. While the teeth are the first of man to decay, the tongue is peaceful and gentle with the teeth. It never grows angry and fights them, even when they are in the wrong. It always helps them do their work in preparing man's food for him, although the teeth never help the tongue and they always resist everything. And so it is with man. The strongest to resist is the first to decay, and you, Tsilu, will be even so if you learn not the great lesson of self-control. End of a story from Confucius by Confucius.