 Paris Vistas by Helen Davenport-Gibbons. CHAPTER I. CHILDHOOD VISTAS My Scotch-Irish grandfather was a covenanter. He kept his whiskey in a high cupboard under lock and key. If any of his children were around when he took his nightcap, he would admonish them against the use of alcohol. When he read in the Bible about Babylon, he thought of Paris. To grandpa, all foreign places were pretty bad. But Paris? His children would never go there. The Scotch-Irish are awful about wills. Good life goes so by opposites that when my third baby, born in Paris a year before the war, was christened in the Avenue de l'Alma church, grandpa Brown's children and grandchildren, and some of his great-grandchildren were present. My bachelor uncle had been living in Paris most of the time for thirty years. My mother, my brothers, and my sister were there. We browns had become Babylonians. We were no longer covenanters, and we had no high cupboard for the whiskey. After grandpa's death, the Philadelphia house was sublet for a year. In the twilight we went through all the rooms to say goodbye. Jocco, our monkey doll, was on the sitting-room floor. Papa picked him up and began talking to him. Jocco tried to answer, but his voice was shaky, and he hadn't much to say. Papa took a piece of string out of his desk drawer and tied it around Jocco's neck. He asked Jocco whether it was too tight. The monkey answered, No, sir. Jocco never forgot to say sir. We hung him on the shutter of a window in the west room where I learned to watch the sunset. There we left him. What a parting if we had known that the tenants' children were going to do for Jocco and that we should never see him again. It was bad enough as it was. It is hard for me, even to day, to believe that it was Papa and not Jocco who told us stories about the fairies in Ireland. A carriage drove us to a place called the Lafayette Hotel. It was very dark outside, and we seemed to have been travelling all night. Papa carried me upstairs to a room that had light-green folding doors. My little sister Emily was sound asleep and had to be put right to bed. Papa sat me in a red armchair. Besided were satchels and Papa's black valise. Wide awake I looked around and asked, Is this Paris? I did not see why they had to laugh at me. A steward of my very own on the Atruria told me that she was the biggest transatlantic liner. People gave me chocolates until I was sick, so Mama painted a picture of the poor little fishes that could get no candy in mid-ocean. She made me feel so sorry that when I got more chocolates I would slip to the railing and drop them overboard. Once before I had heard about the fishes I was lying in my berth. After a while I began to feel better and to wish that Papa and Mama had not left me alone. My feelings were hurt because I had to stay all by myself. I found my clothes and put on a good many of them. My steward came and was surprised that I was not on deck. He brought me a wide thin glass of champagne. It was better than lemonade. The steward told me that by staying in my cabin I had missed the chance to see the ship's garden. He buttoned my dress and put on my coat. He found my bonnet. All the time he was telling me how the ship's garden was hitched to the deck. He carried me up those rubber-topped steps that smells so when your stomach feels funny. He hurried all he could and got terribly out of breath, but we did not reach the deck in time to see the garden. The steward said that you had to get there just at a certain time to catch it. I wondered how a ship could have a garden. He replied that he'd like to know where a ship's cook would find vegetables and fruit and how there were so many freshly picked flowers on the dining-room table every day if the ship hadn't a garden. To prove it he brought me a plate of cool white grapes picked before the garden went out of sight a few minutes ago he assured me. So the week at sea passed and the next thing I remember is London. It was not a pretty city. Too much rain and smoke that dirty your frock can pinafore. These funny names for my dress and apron and calling a clock Big Ben and a queer way of speaking English form my earliest memories of London. No, I forgot sources of wonderment. The best orange marmalade was bitter and that tooth-powder was in a round tin hard to open that spilled and wasted a lot when you did succeed in prying the lid off. And in Paris I found that my dress was a robe and my apron a tablier. This was worse than pinafore, but not so astonishing because one expected French words to be different. Which is the greater joy and satisfaction always to have had a thing or when you think of something in your life to be able to remember how and when it came into your possession. Paris is my home city in the sense that I cannot remember first impressions of things in Paris. Of events, yes, and sometimes connected with things, but of things themselves, no, and I am glad of it. My husband did not see Paris until he was twenty and he learned to speak French by hard work. I have always had a little feeling of superiority here of belonging to Paris as my children belong to Paris. But Herbert contests this point of view. He claims that affection for what one adopts by an act of the will is as strong as, if not stronger than, affection for what is yours unwittingly. And he advances in refutation of what I say that he knew Paris before he knew me. S'en compte du roux galélie. I cannot remember learning to speak French. That just came, but standing on a trunk in the corner of a bedroom and repeating, s'en compte du roux galélie after Marie is just as clear in my mind as if it were yesterday instead of thirty years ago. It is a blank to me how and when we came to Paris and how and when we got Marie Guyonne for our nurse. I recall only learning the number and street of our pensions and the impressiveness of Marie telling me how little kids get lost in Paris and that in such a case I mustn't cry when the blue-coated argent came along, but s'en compte du roux galélie. Clear days were rare, days when it didn't look as if it were going to rain. Then I would have my long walk with papa, who didn't stay like Marie on the Champs-Elysées or in the Tuileries, but who would take me, Emily was too little, where there were crowds. We would climb to the roof of the omnibus of the Madeleine and ride to the Place de la République. Then we would walk back along the Grand Boulevard. Down that way is a big clothing store with sample suits and wooden models on the sidewalk. One day papa bumped into a dummy wearing a dress suit. Papa took off his hat, bowed, and said pardon. I thought papa believed it was a real man, so I told him that he had made a mistake. But papa replied that one never makes a mistake in being polite. I used to dance with glee when we came to the Porte Saint-Denis for there at the Place the Boulevard now cuts straight through a hill leaving the houses high above the pavement. The pastry and brioche and waffle stands were sure of my patronage. Papa may not have had regard for my digestion, but he always considered my feelings. I used to pity other little children who were dragged remorselessly past the potent appeal to eye and nose. The pastry places are still there on that corner, and a new generation of kitties passes, tugging, remonstrating, sometimes crying. As for me, I beg the question. I walk my children on the other side of the street. One afternoon Marie took us to buy papa's newspaper. When we got to the front door it was raining, so Marie left us in the bureau and told us to wait until she returned. But the valet de chambre came along with his wood basket empty. He always boasted he could carry any basket of wood, no matter how high they piled it. So we asked if he could carry us. Immediately he made us jump in and told us we must pretend to be good little kittens, and little kittens were never good unless they were quiet, and they were never quiet unless they were asleep. When we got to our room we could look right in at papa and mama through the transom. We reached out and knocked. The sound came from so high up that papa looked curiously at the door. When he opened it we ducked down into the basket, and were not seen until the valet dumped us out on the bed. My first memory of a negro was in Paris. Probably they were common enough in Philadelphia not to have made an impression, and I had forgotten that there were black men. I was paralyzed with fear, thinking I saw Coque Minot, Ancher et Enos. Marie saved me by teaching me on the spot to stick out my index finger and little fingers, doubling over the two between. This charm against evil helped and comforted me greatly. I found it useful later when I saw suspicious looking beggars in Rome, only although the gesture was the same, it was jetatura and not feuillocon in Italy, and the charm was more efficacious if concealed. I was glad my dress had a pocket. Mama and Marie took us to the Louvre. I was filled with anticipation, for had I not heard some what say at our pension that she had bought things there for a song, why spend papa's money if just a song would do, I could sing. Marie had taught me a pretty song about La Fovette. I was willing to sing if I could get a doll's trunk. I'd sing two or three songs for a pair of gloves with white fur on them. But when I sang, La Fovette, they only smiled at me. I asked the sales lady to take me to the toy counter, as I could sing again for things I wanted. I had to explain a whole lot to Mama and Marie and the sales lady. I suppose I cried with disappointment. Then a man in black with a white tie came along and heard the story. He gave me a red balloon, and Mama consoled me by buying me a blue velvet dress. A few months before the war, I was walking in the Rue Saint-Henry with an old American friend who was doing Paris. He was brimming over with French history. Your part was to mention the name of the place you showed him. He would do the rest with enthusiasm and a wealth of detail. What is that church? He asked. Saint Roche, I answered. Saint Roche, Saint Roche, Saint Roche, he cried in crescendo. Of course, of course, because this is the Rue Saint-Henry. The Rue Saint-Henry. Beside himself with excitement, he rushed across the street and up on the steps. I followed mystified. My friend was waving his cane when I reached his side. It was here, he announced, as if he had made a wonderful discovery, right on this spot. In Heaven's name, what, I queried, the beginning of the most glorious epic of French history, the birth of the Napoleonic era. And then he told me the story of how young Bonaparte called upon to prevent a mob from rushing the Toulouse. Put his guns on the steps of Saint Roche, swept the streets in both directions, and demonstrated that he was the first man since 89 who could dominate a Parisian crowd. You wouldn't have thought there was anything interesting about this old church, would you? He had triumphantly. My eyes filled with tears and my lips trembled. It was his turn to be mystified and mine to lead. I took him inside the church and back to the chapel of Saint Joseph. Here I said, on Christmas Eve, I came with my father when I was five years old. It was the first time I remember seeing the nativity pictured. Good old Joseph looked down on the interior of the inn. The three Wisemen were there with the gifts. Le Petit Jésus was in a real cradle, and I counted the jewels around the mother's deck. My father tried to explain to me what Christmas means. He died when I was a little girl. I brought my firstborn here on Christmas Eve and the others as they came along. I never knew about Napoleon's connection with Saint Roche before. And you asked me whether I would have thought there was anything interesting about this old church. The same place can mean so many different things to so many different people. Paris was Babylon to my grandfather who never went there. And to those who go there, Paris gives what they seek. Historical reminiscences, aesthetic pleasure, intellectual profit, inspiration to paint or sing or play, a surfeit of the mundane, a diminution or an increase of the sense of nationality. Pretty clothes and hats and perfumes, rattling good food and drink, or a howl in good time. You can be bored in Paris just as quickly and as completely as in any other place in the world. You can feel your life full of interesting and engrossing pursuits more quickly and completely than in any other place in the world. Best of all, you make your home in Paris with no sense of exile and enjoy what Paris alone offers in material and spiritual values without being abnormal or living abnormally. My childhood vistas seem fragmentary when I put them down on paper, but they have meant so much to me that I could choose for my children no greater blessing than to know Paris's home at the beginning of their lives. End of Chapter 1 of Paris Vistas The Red Hand of Ulster by George A. Birmingham, First Chapter Collection 6. 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 Chad Horner from Ballet Claire in Coutianter, Northern Ireland. Situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. The Red Hand of Ulster, Chapter 1. It was in 1908 that Joseph Peterson Conroy brushed upon London in the full magnificence of his astounding wealth. English society was and had been for many years accustomed to the eruption of millionaires, American or South African. Our aristocracy has learnt to pay these potentates the respect which is their due. Well-born men and women trot along Parklian in obedience to the hooting calls of motorhorns. No one considers himself degraded by groveling before a plutocrat. It has been for some time difficult to start a London by a display of mere wealth. Men respect more than ever fortunes which are reckoned in millions that they have become too common to amaze. But Joseph Peterson Conroy, when he came, excited a great deal of interest. In the first place his income was enormous, larger it was said, than the income of any other living man. In the next place he spent it very splendidly. There were no entertainments given in London during the years 1909, 1910 and 1911 equal in extravagance to those which Conroy gave. He outdid the freak dinners of New York. He invented freak dinners of his own. His horses, animals which he bought at enormous price, won the great races. His yachts flew the white ensign of the Royal Yacht Squadron. His gifts to fashionable charities were princely. English society fell at his feet and worshipped him. The most exclusive clubs were honoured by his desire of membership. Women whose fathers and husbands bore famous names were proud to boast of his friendship. It cannot be said that Conroy abused either his position or his opportunities. He had won his great wealth honestly. That is to say without robbing anyone except other robbers and only robbing them in ways permitted by American law. He used what he had won honourably enough. He neither bought the favours of the women who thronged his entertainments nor degraded more than was necessary the men who sought benefits from him. For a time for nearly four years he thoroughly enjoyed himself exulting with boyish delight in his own splendour. Then he began to get restless. The things he did, the people he knew, ceased to interest him. It was early in 1911 that the crisis came. And before the season of that year was over Conroy had disappeared from London. His name still appeared occasionally in the columns which the newspapers devote to fashionable intelligence. But the house in Park Lane, the scene of many magnificent entertainments, was sold. The dinner parties, balls and card parties ceased. And Conroy entered upon what must have been the most exciting period of his life. Bob Parr, no one ever called him Robert, belonged to an old and respected Irish family. Being a younger son of General Parr of Kilfinora, he was educated at Harrow and afterwards at Trinity College. He was called the Irish Parr and might have achieved in time the comfortable mediocrity of a county court judgeship if he had not become Conroy's private secretary. The post was secured for him by an uncle who had known Conroy in New York in the days before he became a millionaire. While it was still possible for an ordinary man to do him a favour. Bob accepted the post because everybody said he would be a fool to refuse it. He did not, much like writing letters, the making out of schemes for the arrangements of Conroy's guests at the more formal dinner parties worried him. The general supervision of the upper servants was no delight to him. But he did all these things fairly well and his unfailing good spirits carried him safely through periods of very tiresome jury. He became in spite of the 25 years difference of age between him and his patron, the intimate friend of Joseph Peterson Conroy. It was to Bob and Conroy confided the fact that he was tired of the life of a leader of English society. The two men were sitting together in the smoking room at one o'clock in the morning after one of Conroy's most magnificent entertainments. I'm damned well sick of all this said Conroy suddenly. So am I said Bob. Bob Parr was a man of adventurous disposition. He had a reputation in Connacht as a singularly bold radio tick. The London season always bored him. The atmosphere of Conroy's house in Parkland stifled him. Is there anyone thing left in this rotten old world said Conroy that's worth doing? In Bob's opinion there were several things very well worth doing. He suggested one of them at once. Let's get out the Finola. He said and go for a cruise. We've never done the South Sea Islands. The Finola was the largest of Conroy's yachts. A handsome vessel of something over a thousand tons. Cruising in the Finola said Conroy is no earthly good to me. What I want is something that will put me into a nervous sweat. The same as I was when I was up against Eichenstein and the railway bosses. My nerves were like damned fiddle strings for a fortnight when I didn't know whether I was going to come out a pauper or the owner of the biggest pile mortal man ever handled. Bob knew nothing of Eichenstein or the methods by which the pile had been rested from him and his companions but he did know the sensations which Conroy described. He himself arrived at them by hanging on to a sea anchor in a gale of wind off the Galway coast or pushing a vicious horse at a nasty jump. Nervous sweat, stretched nerves and complete uncertainty about the immediate future afford the same delight however you get at them. He sympathised with Conroy. You might fit out a ship or two and try exploring around the South Pole, Bob said. They've got the thing itself of course but there must be lots of places still uncovered in the neighborhood. I should think that hammocking along over the ice flaws in a dog's ledge must be pretty thrilling. Conroy sighed, I'm too fat he said and I'm too darned soft. The kind of life I've led for the last four years isn't good training for camping out on icebergs and feeding on wheels blubber. Bob smiled. Conroy was a very fat man. A camping party on a iceberg will be likely to end in some wheel eating his blubber. I didn't mean you to go yourself, said Bob. Oh, I see. I'm to fit out the expedition and you are to go in command. I don't quite see where the fun would come in for me. It wouldn't excite me any to hear of your shitting Eskimo on penguins. I shouldn't care enough whether you lived or were froze to get any excitement out of a show of that. We'd call it the Jusof P. Conroy expedition, said Bob and the newspapers. Thanks but I'm pretty well fed up with newspaper Tosh. The press has bist at me ever since I landed in this country and I just as soon they stopped now as started fresh. Bob relinquished the idea of a polar expedition with a sigh. It was Conroy himself who made the next suggestion if politics weren't such a rotten game. Bob did not feel attracted to political life but he was loyal to his patron. Clithering, he said, was talking to me tonight. You know the man I mean. Sir Samuel Clithering, he's not in the cabinet but he's what I'd call a pretty intimate hanger on. Does odd jobs for the prime minister. He said the interest of political life was absorbing. I shouldn't care for it, said Conroy. After all, what would it be worth to me? There's nothing for me to gain and I don't see how I could lose anything. It would be like playing bridge for counters. They might make me a lord of course. A title is about the only thing I haven't got but then I don't want it. I quite agree with you said Bob. I merely mentioned politics because Clithering said besides said Conroy it wouldn't be my politics. England isn't my country. It would be rather exciting, said Bob, to run a revolution somewhere. There are lots of small states in the Balkans, you know, which could be turned inside out and upside down by a man with the amount of money you have. There's something in that notion, said Conroy. Get a map will you. Bob Potter did not want to go wandering around the house at half past one o'clock in the morning. Looking for a map of the Balkan states it seemed to him that the idea, the financing of a revolution, was of course a joke. Might be worked out with reference to some country nearer at hand. The geographical conditions of which would be sufficiently well known without the aid of a map. Why not try Ireland, he's said. Then a very curious thing happened. Conroy's appearance, not merely his expression but his actual features, seemed to change. Instead of the shrewd face of a successful American financier, Bob Potter saw the face of an Irish peasant. He was perfectly familiar with the type. It was one which he had known all his life, he knew it at its best. Expressive of lofty idolisms and fantastic dreams of things beyond the world's experience, he knew it at its worst too, when narrow cunning and unquenchable bitterness transform it. The change passed over Conroy's face and then quickly passed away again. By God said Conroy, it's a great notion to buck against the British lion. Bob remembered the things which he had heard and half heeded about Conroy's ancestry. In 1850 another Conroy, a broken peasant, the victim of evil fate and gross injustice, had left Ireland in an immigrant ship with a ragged wife and four half-starved children clinging to him, with an unquenchable hatred of England in his heart. The hate it appeared had lived on in his son, had broken out again in a grandson, dominating the cynical cosmopolitanism of the financial magnet. Bob was vaguely uneasy. He did not like the expression he had seen on Conroy's face. He did not like the tone in which he spoke, but it was obviously absurd to suppose that anyone could take seriously the idea of financing an Irish revolution. Then Conroy began to talk about Ireland. He knew it appeared a great deal about the history of the country, up to a certain point. He had a traditional knowledge of the horrors of the famine period. He was intimately acquainted with the details of the Fynion movement. Either he or his father had been a member of the clan Gael. He understood the Parnell struggle for home rule, but with the fall of Parnell his knowledge stopped abruptly. Of all that happened after that he knew nothing. He supposed that the later Irish leaders had inherited the traditions of Mitchell, O'Leary, David, and the others. Bob laughed at him. If you're thinking of buying guns for the nationalists, he said, you may save your money. They wouldn't use them if they had arsenals full. They're quite the most loyal men. There are, nowadays. Why wouldn't they? They've got most of what they want. And clithering told me the home rule bill was going to knit their hearts to the empire. Awful rot, of course, but his very words. What do you mean, so Conroy? Bob laughed again. He had all the contempt common in his class for those of his fellow countrymen he professed to be nationalists, but he had rather more intelligence than most Irish gentlemen. He quite realized the absurdity of supposing that the Irish parliamentary party consisted of men who had in them the makings of rebels. Read their speeches, he said. Since this talk of home rule began they've been cracking up the glories of the British Empire like, like the Primrose League. Tomorrow morning, said Conroy, you'll fetch me along all the books and pamphlets you can lay hands on dealing with the present state of the Irish question. I want a small card, said Bob. Get a four-horse wagon if you like, said Conroy. End of chapter one of The Red Hand of Ulster. Siddhartha, an Indian tale, by Herman Hess. First chapter collection six. 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 Grace Buchanan. Siddhartha, an Indian tale. The Sun of the Braman. In the shade of the house. In the sunshine of the riverbank near the boats. In the shade of the Salwood Forest. In the shade of the fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up. The handsome son of the Braman. The young falcon. Together with his friend Govinda, son of a Braman. The sun tanned his light shoulders by the banks of the river when bathing, performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings. In the mango grove shade poured into his black eyes when playing as a boy. When his mother sang. When the sacred offerings were made. When his father the scholar taught him. When the wise men talked. For a long time Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men. Practicing debate with Govinda. Practicing with Govinda the art of reflection. The service of meditation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently. The word of words. To speak it silently into himself while inhaling. To speak it silently out of himself while exhaling with all the concentration of his soul. The forehead surrounded by the glow of the clear thinking spirit. He already knew to feel atman in the depths of his being. Indestructible one with the universe. Joy leaped in his father's heart for his son who was quick to learn. Thirsty for knowledge. He saw him growing up to become a great wise man and priest. A prince among the Brahmins. Bliss leaped in his mother's breast when she saw him. When she saw him walking. When she saw him sit down and get up. Siddhartha strong, handsome. He who was walking on slender legs greeted her with perfect respect. Love touched the hearts of the Brahmins young daughters when Siddhartha walked through the lanes of the town with the luminous forehead with the eye of a king. With his slim hips. But more than all the others he was loved by Govinda, his friend, the son of a Brahmin. He loved Siddhartha's eye and sweet voice. He loved his walk and the perfect decency of his movements. He loved everything Siddhartha did and said. And what he loved most was his spirit. His transcendent fiery thoughts. His ardent will. His high calling. Govinda knew he would not become a common Brahmin. Not a lazy official in charge of offerings. Not a greedy merchant with magic spells. Not a vain vacuous speaker. Not a mean deceitful priest. And also not a decent stupid sheep in the herd of the many. No. And he, Govinda as well, did not want to become one of those. Not one of those tens of thousands of Brahmins. He wanted to follow Siddhartha. The beloved. The splendid. And in days to come when Siddhartha would become a god. When he would join the glorious. Then Govinda wanted to follow him as his friend. His companion. His servant. His spear carrier. His shadow. Siddhartha was thus loved by everyone. He was a source of joy for everybody. He was a delight for them all. But he, Siddhartha, was not a source of joy for himself. He found no delight in himself. Walking the rosy paths of the fig tree garden. Sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of contemplation. Washing his limbs daily in the bath of repentance. Sacrificing in the dim shade of the mango forest. His gestures of perfect decency. Everyone's love and joy. He still lacked all joy in his heart. Dreams and restless thoughts came into his mind flowing from the water of the river. Sparkling from the stars of the night. Melting from the beams of the sun. Dreams came to him and a restlessness of the soul. Fuming from the sacrifices. Breathing forth the verses of the Rig Veda. Being infused into him drop by drop from the teachings of the old Brahmans. Siddhartha had started to nurse discontent in himself. He had started to feel that the love of his father and the love of his mother and also the love of his friend Govinda would not bring him joy forever and ever. Would not nurse him, feed him, satisfy him. He had started to suspect that his venerable father and his other teachers. That the wise Brahmans had already revealed to him the most and best of their wisdom. That they had already filled his expecting vessel with their richness. And the vessel was not full. The spirit was not content. The soul was not calm. The heart was not satisfied. The ablutions were good but they were water. They did not wash off the sin. They did not heal the spirit's thirst. They did not relieve a fear in his heart. The sacrifices and the invocation of the gods were excellent but was that all? Did the sacrifices give a happy fortune? And what about the gods? Was it really Prajapati who had created the world? Was it not the Atman? He the only one, the singular one? Were the gods not creations? Created like me and you subject to time? Mortal? Was it therefore good? Was it right? Was it meaningful? And the highest occupation to make offerings to the gods? For whom else were offerings to be made? Who else to be worshiped but him? The only one, the Atman. And where was Atman to be found? Where did he reside? Where did his eternal heart beat? Where else but in one's own self, in its innermost part, in its indestructible part, which everyone had in himself, but where, where was this self, this innermost part, this ultimate part? It was not flesh and bone, it was neither thought nor consciousness, thus the wisest ones taught. So where, where was it? To reach this place, the self, myself, the Atman, there was another way which was worthwhile looking for. Alas, and nobody showed this way, nobody knew it, not the father and not the teachers and wise men, not the holy sacrificial songs, they knew everything the Brahmins and their holy books. They knew everything, they had taken care of everything and of more than everything. The creation of the world, the origin of speech, of food, of inhaling, of exhaling, the arrangement of the senses, the acts of the gods, they knew infinitely much. But was it valuable to know all of this, not knowing that one and only thing, the most important thing, the solely important thing? Surely, many verses of the holy books, particularly in the Upanishads of Samaveda, spoke of this innermost and ultimate thing, wonderful verses. Your soul is the whole world was written there. And it was written that man in his sleep, in his deep sleep, would meet with his innermost part and would reside in the Atman. Marvelous wisdom was in these verses. All knowledge of the wisest ones had been collected here in magic words, pure as honey collected by bees. No, not to be looked down upon was the tremendous amount of enlightenment which lay here, collected and preserved by innumerable generations of wise Brahmans. But where were the Brahmans? Where the priests? Where the wise men or penitents who had succeeded not just knowing this deepest of all knowledge, but also to live it? Where was the knowledgeable one who wove his spell to bring his familiarity with the Atman out of the sleep into the state of being awake, into the life, into every step of the way, into word and deed? Siddhartha knew many venerable Brahmans, chiefly his father, the pure one, the scholar, the most venerable one. His father was to be admired. Quiet and noble were his manners, pure his life, wise his words. Delicate and noble thoughts lived behind its brow, but even he who knew so much did he live in blissfulness? Did he have peace? Was he not also just a searching man, a thirsty man? Did he not again and again have to drink from holy sources as a thirsty man? From the offerings, from the books, from the disputes of the Brahmans? Why did he, the irreproachable one, have to wash off sins every day, strive for cleansing every day, over and over every day? Was not Atman in him? Did not the pristine source spring from his heart? It had to be found, the pristine source in one's own self. It had to be possessed. Everything else was searching, was a detour, was getting lost. Thus were Siddhartha's thoughts. This was his thirst, this was his suffering. Often he spoke to himself from a Chandogya Upanishad, the words, truly the name of the Brahman is Satyam. Verily he who knows such a thing will enter the heavenly world every day. Often it seemed near the heavenly world, but never he had reached it completely, never he had quenched the ultimate thirst, and among all the wise and wisest men he knew and whose instructions he had received, among all of them there was no one who had reached it completely the heavenly world, who had quenched it completely the eternal thirst. Govinda, Siddhartha spoke to his friend. Govinda, my dear, come with me under the banyan tree. Let's practice meditation. They went to the banyan tree. They sat down. Siddhartha, right here, Govinda twenty paces away. While putting himself down ready to speak the om, Siddhartha repeated, murmuring the verse, Om is the bow, the arrow is soul, the brahman is the arrow's target, that one should incessantly hit. After the usual time of the exercise and meditation had passed, Govinda rose. The evening had come. It was time to perform the evening's ablution. He called Siddhartha's name. Siddhartha did not answer. Siddhartha sat there lost in thought. His eyes were rigidly focused toward a very distant target. The tip of his tongue was protruding a little between the teeth. He seemed not to breathe. Thus sat he, wrapped up in contemplation, thinking Om. His soul sent after the brahman as an arrow. Once Samanas had traveled through Siddhartha's town, ascetics on a pilgrimage, three skinny withered men, neither old nor young, with dusty and bloody shoulders, almost naked, scorched by the sun, surrounded by loneliness, strangers and enemies to the world, strangers and lank jackals in the realm of humans. Behind them blew a hot scent of quiet passion, of destructive service, of merciless self-denial. In the evening, after the hour of contemplation, Siddhartha spoke to Govinda. Early tomorrow morning, my friend, Siddhartha will go to the Samanas. He will become a Samana. Govinda turned pale when he heard these words and read the decision in the motionless face of his friend, unstoppable like the arrow shot from the bow. Soon and with the first glance, Govinda realized, now it is beginning. Now Siddhartha is taking his own way. Now his fate is beginning to sprout, and with his, my own. And he turned pale like a dry banana skin. Oh, Siddhartha, he exclaimed, will your father permit you to do that? Siddhartha looked over, as if he was just waking up. Arrow fast he read in Govinda's soul, read the fear, read the submission. Oh, Govinda, he spoke quietly. Let's not waste words. Tomorrow at daybreak I will begin the life of the Samanas. Speak no more of it. Siddhartha entered the chamber where his father was sitting on a mat of baste and stepped behind his father, and remained standing there until his father felt that someone was standing behind him. Quote the Brahman, is that you, Siddhartha? Then say what you came to say. Quote Siddhartha, with your permission, my father, I came to tell you that it is my longing to leave your house tomorrow and go to the ascetics. My desire is to become a Samana. May my father not oppose this. The Brahman fell silent and remained silent for so long that the stars in the small window wandered and changed their relative positions ere the silence was broken. Silent and motionless stood the sun with his arms folded. Silent and motionless sat the father on the mat, and the stars traced their paths in the sky. Then spoke the father. Not proper it is for a Brahman to speak harsh and angry words, but indignation is in my heart. I wish not to hear this request for a second time from your mouth. Slowly the Brahman rose. Siddhartha stood silently, his arms folded. What are you waiting for, asked the father. Quote Siddhartha, you know what? Indignant the father left the chamber. Indignant he went to his bed and lay down. After an hour since no sleep had come over his eyes the Brahman stood up, paced to and fro, and left the house through the small window of the chamber he looked back inside and there he saw Siddhartha standing, his arms folded, not moving from his spot. Pale shimmered his bright robe. With anxiety in his heart the father returned to his bed. After another hour since no sleep had come over his eyes the Brahman stood up again, paced to and fro, walked out of the house and saw that the moon had risen. Through the window of the chamber he looked back inside. There stood Siddhartha, not moving from his spot, his arms folded, moonlight reflecting from his bare shins. With worry in his heart the father went back to bed. And he came back after an hour. He came back after two hours looking through the small window saw Siddhartha standing in the moonlight by the light of the stars in the darkness. And he came back hour after hour silently he looked into the chamber, saw him standing in the same place. Filled his heart with anger. Filled his heart with unrest. Filled his heart with anguish. Filled it with sadness. And in the night's last hour before the day began he returned, stepped into the room, saw the young man standing there who seemed tall and like a stranger to him. Siddhartha he spoke, what are you waiting for? You know what. Will you always stand that way and wait until it becomes morning, noon and evening? I will stand and wait. You will become tired Siddhartha. I will become tired. You will fall asleep Siddhartha. I will not fall asleep. You will die Siddhartha. I will die. And you would rather die than obey your father? Siddhartha has always obeyed his father. So you will abandon your plan. Siddhartha will do what his father will tell him to do. The first light of day shown into the room. The Brahman saw that Siddhartha was trembling softly in his knees. In Siddhartha's face he saw no trembling. His eyes were fixed on a distant spot. Then his father realized that even now Siddhartha no longer dwelt with him in his home. That he had already left him. The father touched Siddhartha's shoulder. You will, he spoke, go into the forest and be a Samana. When you'll have found blissfulness in the forest then come back and teach me to be blissful. If you'll find disappointment then return and let us once again make offerings to the gods together. Go now and kiss your mother. Tell her where you are going to. But for me it is time to go to the river and to perform the first ablution. He took his hand from the shoulder of his son and went outside. Siddhartha wavered to the side as he tried to walk. He put his limbs back under control, bowed to his father, and went to his mother to do as his father had said. As he slowly left on stiff legs in the first light of day the still quiet town, a shadow rose near the last hut who had crouched there and joined the pilgrim. Govinda. You have come, says Siddhartha, and smiled. I have come, said Govinda. End of chapter one of Siddhartha, an Indian tale. Recording by Grace Buchanan. Thomas Andrews. Shipbuilder. By Shan F. Bullock. First chapter, collection six. This is a LibriVox recording. While LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chad Horner from Balli Clare in County Andrew, Northern Ireland. Situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. Thomas Andrews. Shipbuilder. Chapter one. For six generations the Andrews family has been prominent in the life of Cumber. That historic and prospering village near Stanford Lock, on the road from Belfast to Downpatrick. And in almost every generation some one or other of the family has attained distinction. During the eventful times of 1779 to 1782, John Andrews raised and commanded a company of volunteers in which his youngest son James served as lieutenant. Later another John Andrews was high sheriff of Down in 1857. And he also it was who founded the firm of John Andrews and Co. Which today gives employment to some 600 of the villagers. The present head of the family William Drennan Andrews LLD was a judge of the High Court Ireland from 1882. And has been a privy councillor since 1897. His brother Thomas Andrews is a man whose outstanding merits and stern in character have won him the honored place among Ulstermen. One of the famous recess committee of 1895 he is president of the Ulster Liberal Unionist Association. Chairman of the Belfast and County Down Railway Company, a privy councillor, a deputy lieutenant of Down High Sheriff of the same county, and chairman of its county council. Two more brothers James and John were justices of the peace. In 1870 Thomas Andrews married Eliza Perry, a descendant of the Scotch Hamilton's. Lord Perry's sister and herself a woman of the Noobalus type. To these, and of such excellent stock, was born on February 7th 1873 a son named after his father and described in the family record as Thomas Andrews of Dunallon. His eldest brother John Miller born in 1871 and his youngest brother William born in 1886 are now managing directors of John Andrews and Co Ltd under the chairmanship of their father. A third brother James born in 1877 adopted the profession of his distinguished uncle and is now a barrister at law. His only sister Eliza Montgomery married in 1906. Lawrence Arthur the third son of Jesse Hind, Esquire, JP of Edelton Knott and a solicitor of the Supreme Court. Tom was, we are told, a healthy energetic, bonny child and grew into a handsome, plucky and lovable boy. His home training was of the wisest and of a kind one thinks not commonly given to Ulster boys in those most austere times of his youth. No one writes his brother John knew better than Tom how much he owed to that healthy home life in which we were brought up. We were never otherwise treated than with more than kindness and devotion and we learned the difference between right and wrong rather by example than by precept. To Tom his father then and always was an elder brother full of understanding and sympathy nor did his mother even to the end seem to him other than a sister whose life was as his own. He and his elder brother John were inseparable comrades there among the fields of Comber and in their beautiful home with its old lawn and gardens its avenue winding past banks of rotted entrance the farm behind outside the great mill humming busily and in front the gleam of Stanford lock both father and mother being advocates of temperance encouraged their lads to abstain from tobacco and strong drink and to this end their good mother offered to give a tempting prize to such their sons as could on their 21st birthday say they had so abstained. Tom and each of his brothers not only claimed his prize but continued throughout life to act upon the principles it signalized. Doubtless at times being human boys they fell into mischief but only once their father states was bodily punishment given to either and then as fate welded he boxed the ears of the wrong boy. Quite early young Tom like many another lad developed a fondness for boots and because of his manifest skill in the making of these he gained among his friends the nickname of Admiral in other respects also the man who was to be showed himself in the boy he had a beautiful way with children he loved animals of every kind and had over them such influence that they would follow him and come to his call. Still at Ardara in shelter of the hedge you may see his nine hives of bees among which he used to spend many happy hours and to which in later times he devoted much of his hard one letter. Once his mother would tell you spending a whole winter's day and a hunting day to carrying his half famished workers to and fro between hive and kitchen in his cap for horses he had a passion and particularly for the Shetland pony given to him one birthday. The fiercest brute yielded to his quiet mastery he never used whip or spur and in time he was known as one of the straightest and most fearless riders to hounds in county town. Until the age of 11 he was educated privately by a tutor but in September 1884 he became a student at the Royal Academical institution Velfast. The same institution through which some years previously his father and his uncle then Mr Perry had passed. There he showed no special aptitudes being fonder apparently of games than of study and not yet having developed those powers of industry for which soon he became notable. In the institution however was no more popular boy both with masters and school fellows he excelled at the cricket one is glad to know and at all manly sports even then we are told generosity and a fine sympathy were prominent traits in his character. He was always happy writes a playmate even tempered and showed a developing power of impressing everyone with his honesty and simplicity of purpose wherever he went Tom carried his own sunshine all were fond of him one can see him returning with his brother from school big strong well favoured and perhaps with some premonition of what the future had in store lingering sometimes near the station doorway to watch the great ships rising above the island yard close by and to listen for a minute to the hammers beating some great vessel into shape and whilst he stands there grave and thoughtful for a minute one may write here the judgment of his parents upon him he never caused us a moment's anxiety in his life end of chapter one of tomas andrew's shipbuilder with the world's great travelers edited by charles morris and oliver hg lay first chapter collection six this is a libra vox recording all libra vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit libra vox dot org recording by betty b with the world's great travelers chapter one the world's great capitals of today montreal quibbeck melbourne sydney the beautiful city of the royal mount is the largest in the dominion of canada but quibbeck is the capital of the province to which they both belong and toronto is the capital of the province of ontario the federal capital is the smaller city of ottawa 250 years ago the french missions to the indians discovered the advantages of so commanding a site for a settlement the founder of the city named it veal marie desiring it to become a religious center it gradually asserted its value as a port and so developed into a great commercial city getting its present name from the noble mount that crowns its charming terraces those who have made the trip along the broad saint lorence know how montreal stands on the island about 30 miles by seven formed at the junction of that great river and the ottawa from its heights views of great beauty and variety can be enjoyed quibbeck used to catch the trade of the ocean steamers as the channel was too shallow to allow them to go beyond being only 11 feet deep but in 1851 the people of montreal deepened the river to 27 feet and thus secured the bulk of the trade the population of montreal is now about 300 000 while that of quibbeck stands at 63 000 though still a great and thriving seaport an inclined railway conveys the sites here to the summit of mount royal where he can feast his eyes on one of the fairest panoramic landscapes on the continent a highly cultivated and thickly wooded country stretches far on either hand bounded on one side by the two mountains and the lakes of san louis and in the distance by the adirondacks and the green mountains of vermont below the city slopes gracefully to the river the lachine falls above the city add a new feature to the beauty of the scene and a little farther down are the nuns island and saint helens isle both rich in verger and the latter laid out as a public park between these islands the famous victoria bridge crosses the river when this was built in 1860 it was the wonder of the world as a novel feat of engineering it does not add to the picturesqueness of the scenery by its long dead line without attempted ornamentation yet it receives a full mead of admiration from scientific and practical men it is a square tube of wrought iron about two miles long supported by 24 piers of stone sharpened as may be said to cut the floating ice as it rushes down every spring the lachine falls where saint louis rapids are caused by an impediment upstream which diverts the water into the saint louis lake at a height of over 40 feet above the harbor level the channel being thus narrow to about half a mile wide the river rushes through at the rate of 18 miles an hour forming the rapids while no vessels can go up the falls light draft ships come down in safety and the upstream traffic is carried on by means of the lachine canal which makes a detour of nine miles before joining the upper river the water power here gained turns the wheel of many mills and factories the city is impressive by its forest of spires and ecclesiastical landmarks the people are largely if not mainly of french descent and that language is commonly spoken many are the indications of their continued love for the fatherland it is noticeable in the names of streets and churches in the Place d'Arme stands the imposing parish church of Notre Dame in which 10 000 worshippers can assemble the cathedral of saint peter is a noble edifice in friendly rivalry with these is the Protestant Christ church cathedral in the gothic style and in its precincts stands a handsome memorial cross to its first bishop there are a great number of admirable catholic institutions charities and schools which add to the dignity of the city's appearance as to comfort the Bol Secours market is easily known by its dome and on its busy days the scene is reminiscent of market days in the old towns of France to name all the institutions which do honor to the city would be to fill these pages with the mere catalogue but the McGill University founded by a Scotchman early in the century as a claim to special mention for the vast benefit it has been to Canada and also as one of the lions of the city Quebec is a pleasant sale down the Saint Lawrence from Montreal as the ancient capital of Canada it has many features of peculiar interest historical literary and social it is also the most picturesque and strongly fortified city in North America like the Rock of Gibraltar the Rock of Quebec bristles with engines of war and on the opposite bank of the river are forts ready to challenge any foreign invader the traveler whose passion is history makes his way first to the memorable Plains of Abraham where both heroes fell the English general Wolf and the French general Montcombe on the field of battle a stately column marks the spot where Wolf died in the hour of victory on September 13th 1759 in the governor's garden overlooking the Saint Lawrence a similar monument commemorates Montcombe the Citadel covers 40 acres and is a strong fortification one of the favorite sites is the daily drill of the regiments and the general military activity changing centuries bodies of troops moving through the streets and the splendid music by the regimental bands is a great delight to the people the old town streets are as narrow and tortuous as those in the provincial towns of France the popular mode of threading these irregular thoroughfares is by riding in the Calache a vehicle peculiar to Quebec on two wheels there is a quaint charm and wandering over the ups and downs of the famous old city and plenty to keep one wide awake the glory of Quebec is in its famous promenade Dufourin Terrace named in honor of the former governor general this grand terrace runs for 1400 feet along the edge of a cliff 200 feet high commanding a magnificent prospect several of the old gates remain as memorials of the time when it was a walled city Toronto is a flourishing city of 200,000 inhabitants its streets are in contrast with those of Montreal and Quebec being planned to cross at right angles on the American model it is situated on a sheltered bay which affords a commodious harbor its central thoroughfare Yong Street was constructed as a military road in 1796 and it goes as far as Lake Simcoe 30 miles away the provincial legislature meets in the Handsome Building in Queens Park with the university as a near neighbor a handsome edifice in the Norman style Toronto has a great interest in the shipping trade on the lakes and is rapidly adding to its industries Canadian winters are warmed up by the love of sport which characterizes the people in Montreal it has long been the custom to erect a huge and thoroughly artistic palace with ice blocks for stones thousands come from near and far to the festivals held in the palace grounds when the electric lights add their brilliance the scene is entrancing snowshoe clubs are popular each with its blanket uniform and they combine choral music with their moon-like games the Canadian toboggan is found a welcome in many lands during recent years a winter holiday has more attractions than terrors for most strangers after the first few days the air is cold dry and bracing the energy of the people is remarkable Canada has its titled magnets its great philanthropists its scholars and writers and has sent its volunteer soldiers to share the perils and honors of England's wars it also offers the finest mountain scenery in the Selkirk range as another inducement to travelers to make its closer acquaintance Melbourne is the most populous city in Australasia to appreciate its position fairly it is necessary to consider its age which is to say its youth and the good use that is made of it Chicago has in Melbourne a worthy rival claimant for the distinction of being the champion city in rapidity of development Melbourne stands as advantageously at the head of Port Phillip Bay as Chicago does on Lake Michigan it was in 1835 that John Faulkner the first white man who went there to live sailed up the Yara in his boat happily named the Enterprise he had not gone far before he was stopped by a waterfall he found himself in a forest of wattle trees in full bloom sending the air all around here he decided to stay and watch results the blows of his axe as he felled a tree frightened flocks of beautiful white cockatoos that flew around like so many winged harbingers of good luck the little space Faulkner cleared is the center of Melbourne the largest city of the largest island in the world within 15 years it had a population of 25,000 little short of that of Chicago at the same date now it numbers half a million considering that Australia lies right across the globe and was as blank a land as darkest Africa the record of Melbourne is phenomenal like Chicago it's first took the native name Dutegala for reasons of its own very practical its more fashionable quarter called itself Williams Town after the King the inland district chose to be known as Melbourne in honor of Queen Victoria's first premiere the province was separated from New South Wales in 1851 and retains the name Victoria the discovery of gold about that time gave Melbourne its rank as capital of the colony the traveler who lands at Melbourne as it is today might fancy himself in an American city as to the arrangement of the streets and general character of the people the streets cross at right angles and the general run of the public and private buildings indicate prosperity and excellent taste Collins Street will hold its own against the chief shopping street in any town of its size Work Street is as busy over commercial transactions on large lines as London and New York in their degree as a city Melbourne is well and wisely planned the streets are 99 feet wide and there are squares and parks in abundance the public buildings have been put where they can be seen to advantage the usual civic halls and institutions are on the English model the town hall for instance is not only a home for the city authorities but it provides a handsome hall for public gatherings in which is a splendid organ public titles being frequently given each of the suburbs that rank as independent municipalities has a town hall of its own the colonists carried with them the love of the old country's time-honored sports costly cricket grounds and race courses flourish the annual race for the Melbourne Cup attracts between one and 200,000 spectators Australian cricketers have always equaled and frequently surpassed the English players in skill the Protestants and Catholics have a cathedral each the university, the museum and art galleries keep pace with the times the working population largely own their homes snow is unknown in general the climate is fine and equitable the people have prospered despite a fair share of the troubles from which no community is free when trade and politics come into conflict there is sure to be temporary stagnation the Melbourne press is influential brilliant and clean-handed not a few of the ableist among prominent English statesmen took active part in the earlier public life of the colony notably Robert Lowe afterwards Lord Sherbrooke Sir Hugh Childress Sir Charles Gavin Duffy and the premier of Queen Victoria and King Edward VII Lord Salisbury Melbourne has given several conspicuously gifted writers to the world it is done little in the way of boasting until a recent claim startled American ears the following is taken from a London daily America is proud of its big trees but Australia would probably be awarded first prize in a competition between the two continents under this head has a church service ever been held in America in the hollow of a tree that event recently took place in Gypseland the eastern province of Victoria a giant eucalyptus or gum tree has been cut through at a distance of 20 feet from the ground the remaining part of the trunk was then hollowed out and roofed overhead a room 25 feet in breadth was thus formed it was found capable of accommodating a congregation of 50 but it is not to be permanently used as a church its owner intends converting it soon into a creamery Sydney the capital of New South Wales is the oldest of Australian cities having been founded in January 1788 the celebrated Captain Cook named the entire eastern part of Australia New South Wales in 1770 England determined to make it a penal settlement the first fleet with its cargo of convicts had to push past a barrier of cliffs in search of fresh water and on finding it the human freight was unloaded which was the origin of Sydney the little colony of unwilling pilgrims numbered 756 persons by the influx of British capitalists and settlers the population is now well on to half a million the capital stands on the shore of Port Jackson one of the great harbors of the world and the surrounding scenery is exceedingly fine its sea frontage is over 12 miles of bold cliffs and charming beaches it is the only capital whose inhabitants have to go no farther than their own outskirts for seashore resorts of the most attractive character on the shore are the inner and outer domains on which our government house with its grounds and a grand public park the principal race course is that of Hyde Park with statues of Prince Albert and Captain Cook the botanical gardens overlook the anchorage of the men of war the colony owns a substantial fleet by arrangement with the home government differing from Melbourne and other new cities Sydney in the old quarters at least has an irregularity characteristic of English towns the newer portions conform to the latest ideals of handsome town building the Sydney people enjoy life with the hardiness that contrasts with the grim monotony observable in so many large cities in England and America nature has lavished its best gifts in such perfusion that the population cannot help being happy a new departure of the first importance in the history of the colony was signalized on the first day of the new century by the formal initiation of the new commonwealth of Australia the policy of federation has been discussed for years but many difficulties had to be met the general sentiment was that if federated the several colonies are strong enough to manage their own affairs without submitting everything to the home government New Zealand was urged to join but for some reasons to be noticed later on that colony decided to remain independent the five continental colonies and Tasmania joined the federation as original states the new constitution is like that of Canada except that the powers of the central parliament are limited by the provincial bodies the capitals of the two larger states have been described next comes Queensland the northeastern portion of the continent which has quite a number of flourishing ports and towns besides its capital Brisbane a city of 125,000 inhabitants Tasmania is an island which lies off the southern coast the last of the aboriginal natives died in 1876 it was also a penal settlement under its original name Van Diemen's land transportation of convicts was abolished in 1853 and its name changed to Tasmania the island is free from the hot winds of the continent there is general prosperity and an increasing population the capital is Hobart with about 42,000 inhabitants western Australia explains itself the land is rich in valuable timber of its great trees the several varieties of eucalyptus are found in great abundance the climate is exceedingly healthy and delightful country life is in joy to the full always with the possibility of a gold mine being found under the back garden the famous koolarty gold fields are in this region and the soil is as fertile as any in the world Perth is a capital a flourishing city of 35,000 people south Australia came into formal existence as a separate province in 1836 it has an area of over 900,000 square miles being twice that of Germany and France combined and 15 times that of England and Wales the climate is that of southern France and Italy its capital the city of Adelaide ranks next after Melbourne and Sydney with a population of 150,000 these six provinces form the new Commonwealth New Zealand is a colony consisting of three islands in the South Pacific Ocean east of New South Wales in the first convention to promote federation the representative from New Zealand stated that there were 1200 reasons against the inclusion of his colony in the scheme these being the 1200 miles of sea that separate its capital Wellington from Melbourne it is a remarkable colony and has made remarkable progress it was explored by Tasman as far back as 1642 and was visited in 1777 by Captain Cook but its colonization dates from 1839 its area is about 105,000 square miles a little smaller than Great Britain and Ireland and it is a splendid agricultural and grazing country cheap grazing is one of its chief sources of wealth there is a population of three quarters of a million of whom 40,000 are native Maori's Wellington has about 50,000 inhabitants Auckland 66 Dunedin 50 Christchurch 55 with several smaller cities and towns New Zealand has a wealth of scenery unsurpassed anywhere its wonderful hot springs and natural terraces are described elsewhere in this work by James Anthony Frude an earthquake has since destroyed some of the scenes he so eloquently depicts the traveler will find the climate and natural charms of New Zealand very fascinating not less remarkable are its people in respect of their progressive spirit the legislation of the colony has been more daring its people more unconventional and its trade more prosperous for a long period than has been the case with any other British colony its isolation from Australia has developed an independence and an originality supposed to be peculiar to Americans climate and the kindness of nature in yielding abundance of her store have wrought upon the spirit of the people they have enjoyed in the fullest sense of the word absolute freedom in self-government unaffected by the legislation or bias of the Australian government their land laws have surprised some of the older and less venturous legislatures in commercial affairs they have played for their own hand even in minor matters if social life is to be so classed in this connection New Zealand has boldly adopted policies which the outer world would not have dared to try even if the idea had occurred but which it adopted when New Zealand showed the way as instances take the short skirt bicycle costume for women and the surplaced and capped women choirs in churches both of which originated in New Zealand end of chapter one of the world's great capitals chapter one of youth's way by Kail Young Rice first chapter collection six this is the LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org chapter one of youth's way most people kindled at sight at David Anson long for children if they had none the stricter of them simple former folk felt at the same time that a boy of 12 had better think more of fields at his feet than of what went on inside his small head but this was rather because they distrusted his ardent imaginativeness which stirred to hunger if not dissatisfaction the dull monotony of their meager lives no good they were sure would come of it a full measure of this ardor was certainly to be seen in David's gray eyes under their shock of red brown hair on the most expectant morning of his young years after an early farm breakfast he had not gone with Uncle William to the barn where the day's work was beginning nor had he hung questioningly about while Aunt Mary cleared away and made ready to churn steady hastened around the long low house made of soundest logs to three great oaks his playfellows by the gate there seated on a fence post he was gazing up the white dust row that stretched away to the hills the sun had just risen above these Kentucky hills rimming ants and farm and was as Aunt Mary once told him laughing away the pretense of the June wheat that dew drops hanging on its ears were diamonds the corn breast high was whispering with fresh green briskeness Dot was trying David Chuckle to ask who's coming the jay and the oak leaves overhead egotistically shrieked a right to make as much noise as any boy in between assertions of the jay there came from a rail fence dividing Wheatland and Woodland a clear glad lark note that caused David to look yearningly down the road again though he knew that Haley and Ronald with her could not come for hours yet David had lived at Anson Farm with Uncle William and Aunt Mary ever since his mother and father died seven years before mother he was told because a little baby brother the doctor was going to bring didn't come and father because mother died and because he was wounded in the civil war after four more of these years Uncle William was perhaps going to send him to the city where Uncle George lived and where he was to go to school with Haley and Ronald whom he was to greet for the first time today what would Haley and Ronald be like Aunt Mary said that if girls were flowers Haley would be a wild rose or if birds a lark though she did live in a city she showed David Haley's picture too sent by Aunt Sylvia and said Haley was fair with ripples of hair that had not decided yet whether to be gold or brown because it's not always possible to tell until later what your life's going to be and which color will suit you best the picture faced you with large eyes that seem ready to wonder at you and possibly if you gave them good reason to admire from the moment of beholding this picture David had determined that if heroism or slavery could avail those eyes should admire him and as is the way with us man and boy he thereupon took stock of his own and farmed most winsome resources consequently he had not been a bash last night when Uncle William told him the meaning of the scripture reading and Jacob served for Rachel seven years he was prepared even for that though it occurred to him for some reason that there was an incalculable factor in the situation Haley's stepbrother Ronald for Aunt Sylvia Haley's mother had first married a widower whatever that meant David swung his legs from the fence until cousin Noah Uncle William's grown-up son had locked the corn crib and harnessed brown vests for tobacco plowing and then he decided he had better discuss Haley's probable likes and dislikes with Aunt Mary again for Aunt Mary it's strange ways of knowing things nobody else did as if they were being whispered to her like in the Bible but as he slid off the railing he saw the dust of an approaching vehicle far up the road and joy quivered tumultuously down to his heart where he heard in to spread the news they're coming at Mary he called capering up to the serene woman who was churning in the dog truck that divided dining room and kitchen from the rest of the house they're coming Aunt Mary looked up out of what David had heard uncle William call her inner abiding place and smiled her lips were always as ready with sweetness and gentle humor as were her spectacle eyes with sympathy and clear understanding not yet child she replied it's still too early that woodpecker there hasn't found four ripe cherries yet but they are Aunt Mary fast exclaimed David the dust is just flying up at him I guess she wants to get here to us quick maybe Jeb's driving his racehorse Aunt Mary was going to say maybe in the soft way that made people look twice at her but suddenly she changed stopped churning in her inner abiding place seen clouded why something is the matter she said and untying her apron which she hung on the churn she hurried through the living room to the gate the vehicle which David had seen was a dust-wrapped buggy reeling hardly toward them a hundred yards away almost before the lad could see that Haley was not in it the lathered horse was jerked up panting at the gate the driver now recognizable as farmer led better lean from it with red streaming face and agonized lips I'm asking you to come again Mrs. Ants and he guests I'm begging you she's had another attack and only you and your faith can save her I'm begging you for Christ's sake to come David gazing at the bloodshot desperate eyes of the pleader was not surprised at these words for the neighborhood around had long regarded Aunt Mary as a faith healer on certain days in summer the boy had seen afflicted folk come from far and near with wends, goiters, rheumatism and various other elements to be healed along the roads in the fields or in the courthouse yard at foxton her cures were discussed with reverent awe and admiration and you farmer led better have caused the attack she demanded very quietly you've been drinking again do you want to kill her struggling face so that she can't be cured the stammering reply was pitiful sell me God Mrs. Ants and I have but I won't know more not if my bowels flame with thirst I won't if you'll come Aunt Mary turned toward David tell them at dinner child where I've gone she said getting into the buggy without more ado and added as the horse turned about keep the chickens out of the garden and show Haley and Ronald where to put their things when they come David promised obedience and watched them drive away he was fascinated as usual by Aunt Mary's strange manner it effected him as did the invisible power of stars were of heat lightning at night he turned away from his seat at the gate and began to wander musingly around the yard to Aunt Mary's loom house first where the loom seemed lonesomely quiet and then to the rain barrel and whose opaque water smelly and shingles and suit his startled fancy scene for a moment to see Haley you wondered if Haley too would be a healer when she grew up noon came in a mirage of heat wavered over everything but Haley and Ronald did not appear Mammy Caroline who had been the boy's nurse and who had come to the farm to cook when he was brought there told him to ring the big bell high and an oak prong outside the dining room to let Mars William and Mars Noah no dinner was ready Uncle William came first he was also amazingly silent except in camp meetings at Shiloh on Sunday yet his silence was not oppressive or terrifying it was rather like that of a tree and David thought his high cheekbones and gnarled knuckles were like tree knots too knots that grew around with sap swelling under the bark Kazanoa who also was lean and wiry was far from silent he had jerky blue eyes that always seemed to be thinking of queer little things inside his head he was constantly breaking into snatches of song like rats in the sugar bowl skipped to my loo or I won't have none of your weevly wheat and he would do funny little dance steps to them if Uncle William wasn't looking sometimes however he was speechless and gloomy that was when he wanted to go away to be a cowboy in Texas which Uncle William opposed well if Uncle William and Kazanoa dipped water into the tin wash basin with a gourd that hung on the log wall and were soon ready for the fried chicken which had been odorously teasing David's appetite for 10 minutes the dinner table that awaited them was large and round with an elevated revolving center on which jellies bread preserves and vegetables were placed so that everyone could turn it and help himself when they sat down Uncle William said grace which David always thought should come after the meal as country hunger is not loquacious and as Aunt Mary's message had been delivered David's tongue was wholly free to make other speed but when he was about ready for preserves the startling thought suddenly struck his mind and ended appetite what if the train which was to bring Haley and Ronald to Foxton once they were to drive to Hanson Farm had run off the track or what if Jesse James whose deeds Kazanoa had often related to him had held up the cars and run away with Haley to make her his wife the possibility caused him to spring up wipe his hands on his shirt and scatter knife and napkin on the floor why boy said Uncle William looking up and while surprised with four poised in space what's airing you we we must stop him Uncle William cried David quite possessed by his imagining I I mean Jesse James if he's held up the train we could go across the bottoms with your gun before before now bless my bones Uncle William stared astonished are you getting the Texas fever too he'll run away with her Uncle William and make her marry him David explained and Haley doesn't want to I know she doesn't Uncle William looked at Kazanoa and said uh-huh Kazanoa chuckled a bit sheepishly then about solemnly that as he had been told Jesse James already had a wife he really guessed there wasn't much danger and that anyhow he heard the sound of wheels David who had been all fierce was now all ears in a moment later all legs when you reached the gate with Shep Kazanoa's colleague at his heels he found that wheels were indeed near a Surrey was coming up and on the front seat with Jeb Jason who kept the livery stable at Foxton was Haley then a strange thing happened at sight of Haley heaven and earth instantly became a wild throbbing blur to David and before he knew it he was flying panic-stricken though without knowing why from the scene Uncle William against whom he tumbled was amazed and exclaimed what addles the boy on the orchard grass where he flung himself down David was soon asking the same question he tried to tell himself that his soil shirt had been the cause of his ignominious flight but that it was not was evidenced by his gallant return a few minutes later to meet Haley's round dubious eyes and Ronald's hang-lip cynicism that he had merely run away instinctively from the first enthralling tentacles of femininity was an explanation he could no more have comprehended at the time than a larva can comprehend that it will one day become a butterfly end of chapter one of youth's way