 Section one of three stories and ten poems. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Three stories and ten poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway. Up in Michigan. Jim Gilmore came to Horton's Bay from Canada. He bought the blacksmith shop from old man Horton. Jim was short and dark with big moustaches and big hands. He was a good horseshoer and did not look much like a blacksmith even with his leather apron on. He lived upstairs above the blacksmith shop and took his meals at A.J. Smith's. Liz Coates worked for Smith's. Mrs. Smith, who was a very large clean woman, said Liz Coates was the neatest girl she had ever seen. Liz had good legs and always wore clean gingham aprons. Jim noticed that her hair was always neat behind. He liked her face because it was so jolly. But he never thought about her. Liz liked Jim very much. She liked it the way he walked over from the shop and often went to the kitchen door to watch for him to start down the road. She liked it about his moustache. She liked it about how white his teeth were when he smiled. She liked it very much that he didn't look like a blacksmith. She liked it how much A.J. Smith and Mrs. Smith liked Jim. One day she found that she liked it the way the hair was black on his arms and how white they were above the tan line when he washed up in the wash basin outside the house. Liking that made her feel funny. Horton's Bay, the town, was only five houses on the main road between Boine City and Charlevoix. There was the general store and post office with a high false front and maybe a wagon hitched out in front. Smith's house, Stroud's house, Fox's house, Horton's house, and then Hooson's house. The houses were in a big grove of elm trees and the road was very sandy. There was farming country and timber each way up the road. Up the road aways was the Methodist Church and down the road the other direction was the township school. The blacksmith shop was painted red and faced the school. A steep, sandy road ran down the hill to the bay through the timber. From Smith's back door you could look out across the woods that ran down to the lake and across the bay. It's very beautiful in the spring and summer. The bay blue and bright and usually whitecaps on the lake out beyond the point from the breeze blowing in from Charlevoix and Lake Michigan. From Smith's back door Liz could see ore barges way out in the lake going toward Boine City. When she looked at them they didn't seem to be moving at all but if she went in and dried some more dishes and then came out again they would be out of sight beyond the point. All the time now Liz was thinking about Jim Gilmore. He didn't seem to notice her much. He talked about the shop to AJ Smith and about the Republican Party and about James G. Blaine. In the evenings he read the Toledo Blade and the Grand Rapids Paper by the lamp in the front room or went out spearing fish in the bay with a jack light with AJ Smith. In the fall he and Smith and Charlie Wyman took a wagon and tent. Grub accessed the rifles and two dogs went on a trip to the Pine Plains beyond Vanderbilt, deer hunting. Liz and Mrs. Smith were cooking for four days for them before they started. Liz wanted to make something special for Jim to take but she didn't finally because she was afraid to ask Mrs. Smith for the eggs and flour and afraid if she bought them Mrs. Smith would catch her cooking. Would have been alright with Mrs. Smith but Liz was afraid. All the time Jim was gone on the deer hunting trip Liz thought about him. It was awful while he was gone. She couldn't sleep well from thinking about him. But she discovered it was fun to think about him too. If she let herself go it was better. The night before they were to come back she didn't sleep at all. That is she didn't think she slept because it was all mixed up in the dream about not sleeping and really not sleeping. When she saw the wagon coming down the road she felt weak and sick sort of inside. She couldn't wait till she saw Jim and it seemed as though everything would be alright when it came. The wagon stopped outside under the big elm and Mrs. Smith and Liz went out. All the men had beards and there were three deer in the back of the wagon. The thin legs sticking stiff over the edge of the wagon box. Mrs. Smith kissed Alonzo and he hugged her. Jim said hello Liz and grinned. Liz hadn't known just what would happen when Jim got back but she was sure it would be something. Nothing had happened. The men were just home that was all. Jim pulled the burlap sacks off the deer and Liz looked at them. One was a big buck with stiff and hard to lift out of the wagon. Did you shoot it Jim? Liz asked. Yeah ain't it a beauty. Jim got it onto his back to carry to the smokehouse. That night Charlie Wyman stayed to supper at Smith's. It was too late to get back to Charlevoix. The men washed up and waited in the front room for supper. Ain't there something left in that crock Jimmy? AJ Smith asked and Jim went out to the wagon and the barn and fetched in the jug of whiskey the men had taken hunting with him. It was a four gallon jug and there was quite a little slot back and forth in the bottom. Jim took a long pull on his way back to the house. It's hard to lift such a big jug up to drink out of it. Some of the whiskey ran down on his shirt front. The two men smiled when Jim came in with the jug. AJ Smith sent for glasses and Liz brought them. AJ poured out three big shots. Well here's looking at you AJ said Charlie Wyman. The damn big buck Jimmy said AJ. Here's all the ones we missed AJ said Jim and downed his liquor. Tastes good to a man. Nothing like it this time of year for what ills you. How about another boys? Here's how AJ down the creek boys. Here's the next year. Jim began to feel great. He loved the taste and the feel of whiskey. He was glad to be back to a comfortable bed and warm food in the shop. He had another drink. The men came in to supper feeling hilarious but acting very respectable. Liz sat at the table after she put on the food and ate with a family. It was a good dinner. The men ate seriously. After supper they went into the front room again and Liz cleaned off with Mrs. Smith. Then Mrs. Smith went upstairs and pretty soon Smith came out and went upstairs too. Jim and Charlie were still in the front room. Liz was sitting in the kitchen next to the stove pretending to read a book and thinking about Jim. She didn't want to go to bed yet because she knew Jim would be coming out. She wanted to see him as he went out so she could take the way he looked up to bed with her. She was thinking about him hard and then Jim came out. His eyes were shining and his hair was a little rumpled. Liz looked down at her book. Jim came over back of her chair and stood there and she could feel him breathing. Then he put his arms around her. Her breasts felt plump and firm and the nipples were erect under his hands. Liz was terribly frightened. No one had ever touched her but she thought, He's come to me finally. He's really come. She held herself stiff because she was so frightened and did not know anything else to do. Then Jim held her tight against the chair and kissed her. It was such a sharp aching, hurting feeling that she thought she couldn't stand it. She felt Jim right through the back of the chair and she couldn't stand it. And then something clicked inside of her and the feeling was warmer and softer. Jim held her tight hard against the chair and she wanted it now and Jim whispered, Come on for a walk. Liz took her coat off the peg on the kitchen wall and they went out the door. Jim had his arm around her and every little way they stopped and pressed against each other and Jim kissed her. There was no moon and they walked ankle deep in the sandy road through the trees down to the dock in the warehouse on the bay. The water was lapping in the piles and the point was dark across the bay. It was cold but Liz was hot all over from being with Jim. They sat down in the shelter of the warehouse and Jim pulled Liz close to him. She was frightened. One of Jim's hands went inside her dress and stroked over her breast and the other hand was in her lap. She was very frightened and didn't know how he was going to go about things but she snuggled close to him. Then the hand that felt so big in her lap went away and was on her leg and started to move up it. Don't Jim, Liz said. Jim slid the hand further up. You mustn't Jim, you mustn't. Neither Jim nor Jim's big hand paid any attention to her. The boards were hard. Jim had her dress up and was trying to do something to her. She was frightened but she wanted it. She had to have it but it frightened her. You mustn't do it Jim, you mustn't. I got to, I'm going to. You know we got to. No we haven't Jim, we ain't got to. Oh it isn't right. Oh it's so big and it hurts so. You can't. Oh Jim, Jim, oh. The hemlock planks of the dock were hard and splintery and cold and Jim was heavy on her and he had hurt her. Liz pushed him. She was so uncomfortable and cramped. Jim was asleep. He wouldn't move. She worked out from under him and sat up and straightened her skirt and coat and tried to do something with her hair. Jim was sleeping with his mouth open a little. Liz leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He was still asleep. She lifted his head a little and shook it. He rolled his head over and swallowed. Liz started to cry. She walked over to the edge of the dock and looked down to the water. It was a mist coming up from the bay. She was cold and miserable and everything felt gone. She walked back to where Jim was lying and shook him once more to make sure she was crying. Jim she said. Jim, please Jim. Jim stirred and curled a little tighter. Liz took off her coat and leaned over and covered him with it. She tucked it around him neatly and carefully. Then she walked across the dock and up the steep sandy road to go to bed. A cold mist was coming up through the woods from the bay. End of Up in Michigan. End of section one. Section two of three stories in ten poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Out of season. On the four lira he had earned by spading the hotel garden. He got quite drunk. He saw the young gentleman coming down the path and spoke to him mysteriously. The young gentleman said he had not eaten yet but would be ready to go as soon as lunch was finished. Forty minutes or an hour. At the cantina near the bridge they trusted him for three more grappas because he was so confident and mysterious about his job for the afternoon. It was a windy day with the sun coming out from behind clouds and then going under in sprinkles of rain. A wonderful day for trout fishing. The young gentleman came out of the hotel and asked him about the rods. Should his wife come behind with the rods? Yes said Peduzzi. Let her follow us. The young gentleman went back into the hotel and spoke to his wife. He and Peduzzi started down the road. The young gentleman had a musette over his shoulder. Peduzzi saw the wife who looked as young as the young gentleman and was wearing mountain boots and a blue beret. Start out to follow them down the road carrying the fishing rods. Unjointed one in each hand. Peduzzi didn't like her to be way back there. Sinorina he called, winking at the young gentleman. Come up here and walk with us. Signora, come up here. Let us all walk together. Peduzzi wanted them all three to walk down the street of Cortina together. The wife stayed behind, following rather sullenly. Sinorina, Peduzzi called tenderly. Come up here with us. The young gentleman looked back and shouted something. The wife stopped laggy behind and walked up. Everyone they met walking through the main street of the town, Peduzzi greeted elaborately. When thee, Orturo, tipping his hat, The bank clerk stared at him from the door of the fascist café. Groups of three and four people standing in front of the shop stared at the three. The workmen in their stone-powdered jackets working on the foundations of the new hotel looked up as they passed. Nobody spoke or gave any sign to them, except the town beggar, lean and old with a spittle thickened beard who lifted his hat as they passed. Peduzzi stopped in front of a store with the window full of bottles and brought his empty grappa bottle from an inside pocket of his old military coat. A little to drink, some Marsala for the sinora. Something, something to drink. He gestured with the bottle. It was a wonderful day. Marsala, you like Marsala, Sinorina. A little Marsala. The wife stood sullenly. You'll have to play up to this, she said. I can't understand a word he says. He's drunk, isn't he? The young gentleman appeared not to hear Peduzzi. He was thinking what in hell makes him say Marsala is what Max Bierbohm drinks. He yelled, Peduzzi said, finally, taking hold of the young gentleman's sleeve, Viri. He smiled reluctant to press the subject but needing to bring the young gentleman into action. The young gentleman took out his pocketbook and gave him a tenderly re-note. Peduzzi went up the steps to the door of the specialty of domestic and foreign wine shop. It was locked. It is closed until two, someone passing in the street said scornfully. Peduzzi came down the steps. He fell hurt. Never mind, he said, we can get it at the Concordia. They walked down the road to the Concordia, three abreast. On the porch of the Concordia where the rusty bobsleds were stacked, the young gentleman said, Washwallenzi, Peduzzi handed him the tenderly re-note folded over and over. Nothing, he said. Anything. He was embarrassed. Marsala, maybe? I don't know, Marsala? The door of the Concordia shut on the young gentleman and the wife. Three Marsalas said the YG to the girl behind the pastry counter. Two you mean, she asked. No, he said one for a vacuole. Oh, she said, a vacuole and laughed getting down the bottle. She poured out the three muddy looking drinks into three glasses. The wife was sitting at a table under the line of newspapers on sticks. The YG put one of the Marsalas in front of her. You might as well drink it, he said. Maybe it'll make you feel better. She sat and looked at the glass. The YG went outside the door with a glass for Peduzzi but could not see him. I don't know where he is, he said, coming back into the pastry room carrying the glass. He wanted a quart of it, said the wife. How much is a quarter liter? the YG asked the girl. Of the Bianco? One lira. No, of the Marsala. Put these two in two, he said, giving her his own glass and the one poured for Peduzzi. She filled the quarter liter wine measure with a funnel. A bottle to carry it, said the YG. She went to hunt for a bottle. It all amused her. I'm sorry you feel so rotten, Tiny, he said. I'm sorry I talked away I did at lunch. We're both getting at the same thing from different angles. It doesn't make any difference, she said. None of it makes any difference. Are you too cold? he asked. I wish you'd worn another sweater. I've got on three sweaters. The girl came in with a very slim brown bottle and poured the Marsala into it. The YG paid five lira more. They went out of the door. The girl was amused. Peduzzi was walking up and down at the other end out of the wind and holding the rods. Come on, he said. I will carry the rods. What difference does it make if anybody sees them? No one will trouble us. No one will make any trouble for me and Cortina. I know them at the Munich Cheapview. I've been a soldier. Everybody in this town likes me. I sell frogs. What if it is forbidden to fish? Not a thing. Nothing. No trouble. Big trout, I tell you. Lots of them. They were walking down the hill toward the river. The town was in back of them. The sun had gone under and it was sprinkling rain. There, said Peduzzi, pointing to a girl in the doorway of the house they passed. My daughter. His doctor, the wife said. Has he got to show us his doctor? He said his daughter said the YG. The girl went into the house as Peduzzi pointed. They walked down the hill across the fields and then turned to follow the riverbank. Peduzzi talked rapidly with much winking and knowingness. As they walked through your breast, the wife caught his breath across the wind. Once he nudged her in the ribs. Part of the time he talked in Dampeso dialect and sometimes in Tiroler German dialect. He could not make out which the young gentleman and his wife understood the best, so he was being bilingual. But as the young gentleman said, Ya, ya, Peduzzi decided to talk altogether in Tiroler. The young gentleman and the wife understood nothing. Everybody in the town saw us going through with these rods. We're probably being followed by the game police now. I wish we weren't in on this damn thing. This damn old fool is so drunk, too. Of course you haven't got the guts to just go back, said the wife. Of course you have to go on. Why don't you go back? Go on back, tiny. I'm going to stay with you. If you go to jail, we might as well both go. They turned sharp down the bank and Peduzzi stood, his coat blowing in the wind gesturing at the river. It was brown and muddy. Off on the right there was a dump heap. Say it to me in Italian, said the young gentleman. Un mes ora. Piude un mes ora. He says it's at least a half hour more. Going back, tiny, you're cold in this wind anyway. It's a rotten day and we aren't going to have any fun anyway. All right, she said and climbed up the grassy bank. Peduzzi was down at the river and did not notice her till she was almost out of sight, over the crest. Frau, he shouted. Frau, Fraulein. You're not going. She went on over the crest of the hill. She's gone, said Peduzzi. It shocked him. He took off the rubber bands that held the rod segments together and commenced to joint up one of the rods. But you said it was half an hour further. Oh yes, it is good half an hour down. It is good here too. Really? Of course, it is good here and good there too. The YG sat down on the bank and jointed up the rod, put on the reel and threaded the line through the guides. He felt uncomfortable and afraid that any minute a gamekeeper or a posse of citizens would come over the bank from the town. He could see the houses of the town and the company lay over the edge of the hill. He opened his leader box. Peduzzi leaned over and dug his flat-hard thumb and forefinger and entangled the moistened leaders. Have you some lead? No. You must have some lead. Peduzzi was excited. You must have pionbo. Pionbo. A little pionbo. Just here. Just above the hook or your bait will float on the water. We must have it. Just a little pionbo. Have you got some? No. He looked through all his pockets desperately, sifting through the cloth dirt and the linings of his inside military pockets. I haven't any. We must have pionbo. We can't fish then, said the YG and unjointed the rod, reel in the line back through the guides. We'll get some pionbo and fish tomorrow. But listen, Kato. You must have pionbo. The line will lie flat on the water. Peduzzi's day was going to pieces before his eyes. You must have pionbo. A little is enough. Your stuff is all clean and new, but you have no lead. I would have brought some. You said you had everything. The YG looked at the stream discolored by the melting snow. I know, he said. We'll get some pionbo and fish tomorrow. At what hour in the morning? Tell me that. It's seven. The sun came out. It was warm and pleasant. The young gentleman felt relieved. He was no longer breaking the law. Sitting on the bank, he took the bottle of Marsala out of his pocket and passed it to Peduzzi. Peduzzi passed it back. The YG took a drink of it and passed it to Peduzzi again. Peduzzi passed it back again. Drink, he said. Drink. It's your Marsala. After another short drink, the YG handed the bottle over. Peduzzi had been watching it closely. He took the bottle very hurriedly and tipped it up. The gray hairs in the folds of his neck oscillated as he drank. His eyes fixed on the end of the narrow brown bottle. He drank it all. The sun shone while he drank. It was wonderful. This was a great day after all. A wonderful day. Sent the Kato. In the morning at 7, he had called the young gentleman Kato several times and nothing had happened. It was good Marsala. His eyes glistened. Days like this stretched out ahead. Begin again at 7 in the morning. They started to walk up the hill towards the town. The YG went on ahead. He was quite a way up the hill. Peduzzi called to him. Listen Kato, can you let me take 5 Lira for a favor? For today? Asked the young gentleman frowning. No, not today. Give it to me today for tomorrow. I will provide everything for tomorrow. Pane, salami, formaggio, good stuff for all of us. You and I and the Sinora. Bait for fishing, minnows, not worms only. Perhaps I can get some Marsala. All for 5 Lira. 5 Lira for a favor. The young gentleman looked through his pocketbook and took out a 2 Lira note and 2 ones. Thank you Kato. Thank you said Peduzzi in the tone of one member of the Carlton Club accepting the morning post from another. This was living. He was through with the hotel garden breaking up frozen manure with a dung fork. Life was opening out. Until 7 o'clock then Carl he said slapping the YG on the back promptly at 7. I may not be going said the young gentleman putting his purse back in his pocket. What said Peduzzi? I will have minnows senor. Salami, everything. You and I and the Sinora. The three of us. I may not be going said the YG or not. I will leave word with the Padrone at the hotel office. End of out of season. Chapter 3 of 3 stories in 10 poems. This is a LibriVox recording while LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org 3 stories in 10 poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway. My old man. I guess looking at it now my old man was cut out for a fat guy. One of those regularly little roly fat guys you see around. But he sure never got that way. Set a little toward the last and then it wasn't his fault. He was riding over the jumps only and he could afford to carry plenty of weight then. I remember the way he'd pull on a rubber shirt over a couple of jerseys and a sweatshirt over that get me to run with him in the forenoon in the hot sun. He'd have maybe taken a trial trip with one of Razo's skins early in the morning after just getting in from Torino at four o'clock in the morning and beating him out to the stables in the cab and then with the dew all over everything and the sun just starting to get going I'd help him pull off his boots and he'd get into a pair of sneakers all those sweaters and we'd start out come on kid he'd say stepping up and down on his toes in front of the jock stressing room let's get moving then we'd start off jogging around the infield once maybe with him I had running nice and then turn out the gate and along one of those roads with all the trees along both sides of them that run out from San Siro I'd go ahead of him when we hit the road and I could run pretty stout and I'd look around and he'd be jogging easy just behind me after a little while I'd look around again and he'd begun to sweat sweating heavy and he'd just be dogging it along with his eyes on my back but when he'd catch me looking at him he'd grin and say sweating plenty when my old man grinned nobody could help but grin too we'd keep right on running out toward the mountains and then my old man would yell hey Joe and I'd look back and he'd be sitting under a tree with a towel he had around his waist wrapped around his neck I'd come back and sit down beside him and he'd pull a rope out of his pocket and start skipping rope out in the sun with a sweat pouring off his face and him skipping rope out in the white dust with a rope going cloppity cloppity clop clop clop and the sun hotter and him working harder up and down a patch of the road say it was a treat to see my old man skip rope too he could wear it fast or lop it slow and fancy say you ought to have seen Wops look at us sometimes when they'd come by going into town walking along with big white steers hauling the cart they sure looked as though they thought the old man was nuts he'd start the rope whirring till they'd stop dead still and watch him then give the steers a clock and a poke with a goat and get going again when I'd sit watching him working out in the hot sun I sure felt fond of him he sure was fun and he'd done his work so hard and he'd finish up with a regular whirring that'd drive the sweat out of his face like water and then sling the rope at the tree and come over and sit down with me and lean back against the tree with a towel and a sweater wrapped around his neck sure as hell keeping it down Joe he'd say and lean back and shut his eyes and breathe long and deep it ain't like when you're a kid then he'd get up before he started to cool and we jog along back to the stables that's the way it was keeping down the weight he was worried all the time most jocks can just about ride off all they want to the jock loses about a kilo every time he rides but my old man was sort of dry it out and he couldn't keep down his kilos without all that running I remember once at San Siro Rejoli a little wop that was riding for Buzoni came out across the paddock going to the bar for something cool and flicking his boots with his whip after he just weighed in and my old man had just weighed in too and came out with a saddle under his arm looking red faced and tired and too big for his silks he stood there looking at young Rejoli standing up to the outdoors bar cool and kid looking and I says what's the matter dad because I thought maybe Rejoli had bumped him or something and he just looked at Rejoli and said oh to hell with it and went on to the dressing room well would have been alright maybe if we stayed in Milan and ridden at Milan and Torino because if there ever were any easy courses it's those two Pianola Joe my old man said when he dismounted in the winning stall after what the Wops thought was a hell of a steeple chased I asked him once this course rides itself the pace you're going at that makes riding the jumps dangerous Joe we ain't going any pace here and they ain't any real bad jumps either but it's the pace always not the jumps that makes the trouble San Siro was the swellest course I'd ever seen but the old man said it was a dog's life going back and forth between Mira Fiore and riding just about every day in the week with a train ride every other night I was nuts about the horses too there's something about it when they come out and go up the track to the post sort of dancy and tight looking the jock keeping a tight hold on them and maybe easing off a little and letting them run a little going up then once they were at the barrier it got me worse than anything especially at San Siro with that big green infield and the mountains way off and the fat Wops starter with his big whip and the jocks fiddling them around and then the barrier snapping up and that bell going off and them all getting off in a bunch and then commencing to string out you know the way a bunch of skins gets off you're up in the stand with a pair of glasses all you see is them plunging off and then that bell goes off and it seems like it rings for a thousand years then they come sweeping around the turn there wasn't ever anything like it for me but my old man said one day in the dressing room when he was getting into his street clothes none of these things are horses Joe they'd kill that bunch of skates for their hides and hoofs up at Paris that was the day he won the Premio Comercio with Lantorna shooting her out of the field the last hundred meters like pulling a cork out of a bottle right after the Premio Comercio that we pulled out and left Italy my old man and Holbrook and a fat Wop in a straw hat that kept wiping his face with a handkerchief were having an argument at a table in the Galleria they were all talking French and the two of them were after my old man about something finally didn't say anything anymore but just sat there and looked at Holbrook and the two of them kept after him first one talking and then the other and the fat Wop always budding in on Holbrook you go out and buy me a sportsman will you Joe? my old man said and handed me a couple of soldy without looking away from Holbrook so I went out of the Galleria and walked over in front of the Scala and bought a paper came back and stood a little way away because I didn't want to bud in and my old man was sitting back in his chair looking down at his coffee and pooling with a spoon and Holbrook and the big Wop were standing and the big Wop was wiping his face and shaking his hand and I came up and my old man acted as though the two of them weren't standing there and said want a nice Joe? Holbrook looked down at my old man and said slow and careful you son of a bitch and he and the Wop went out through the tables my old man sat there and sort of smiled at me but his face was white and he looked sick as hell and I was scared and felt sick inside because I knew something had happened and I didn't see how anybody could call my old man a son of a bitch and I sat with it my old man opened up the sportsman and studied the handicaps for a while and then he said you got to take a lot of things in this world Joe and three days later we left Milan for good on the tour and train for Paris after an auction sale out in front of Turner's stables of everything we couldn't get into a trunk in a suitcase we got into Paris early in the morning in a long dirty station the old man told me was the Paris was an awful big town after Milan seems like in Milan everybody is going somewhere and all the trains run somewhere and there ain't any sort of mix up but Paris is all balled up and they never do straighten it out I got to like it though part of it anyway and say it's got the best race courses in the world seems as though that were the thing that keeps it all going and about the only thing you can figure on is that every day the buses will be going out to whatever track they're running at going right out through everything to the track I never really got to know Paris well because I just came in about once or twice a week with the old man from Massons and he always sat at the café De La Pice on the opera side with the rest of the gang from Missons and I guess the busiest parts of town but say it is funny that a big town like Paris wouldn't have a Galleria isn't it well we went out to live in Missons La Fite where just about everybody lives except the gang at Chantilly with the Mrs. Myers that runs a boarding house Missons is about the swellest place to live I've ever seen in all my life the town ain't so much but there's a lake and a swell forest where you go off bumming in all day a couple of us kids and my old man made me a slingshot and we got a lot of things with it but the best one was a magpie young Dick Atkinson shot a rabbit with it one day and we put it under a tree and we were all sitting around and Dick had some cigarettes and all of a sudden the rabbit jumped up and beat it into the brush and we chased it but we couldn't find it gee we had fun at Missons Myers used to give me lunch in the morning and I'd be gone all day I learned to talk French quick it's an easy language as soon as we got to Missons my old man wrote to Milan for his license and he was pretty worried till it came he used to sit around the café de Paris in Missons with a gang there there were lots of guys he'd known when he rode up at Paris before the war lived at Missons and there's a lot of time to sit around because the work around a racing stable for the jocks that is is all cleaned up by 9 o'clock in the morning they take the first batch of skins out to gallop them at 5 30 in the morning and they work the second lot at 8 o'clock that means getting up early alright and going to bed early too if a jock's riding for somebody too he can't go boozing around because the trainer always has an eye on him he's a kid and if he ain't a kid he's always got an eye on himself so mostly if a jock ain't working he sits around the café de Paris with the gang and they can all sit around about 2 or 3 hours in front of some drink like a vermouth and seltz and they talk until stories and shoot pool and it's sort of like a club or the Galleria in Milan only it ain't really like the Galleria because there everybody is going by all the time and there's everybody around at the tables well my old man got his license alright they sent it through to him without a word and he rode a couple of times my man's up country and that sort of thing but he didn't seem to get any engagement everybody liked him and whenever he'd come into the café and the forenoon I'd find somebody drinking with him because my old man wasn't tight like most of these jockeys that got the first dollar they made riding at the world's fair in St. Louis in 1904 that's what my old man would say when he'd kid George Burns but it seemed like everybody steered clear of giving my old man any mounts we went out to wherever they were running every day with the car from Missons and that was the most fun of all the horses came back from Dove Hill in the summer even though it met no more bombing in the woods because then we'd ride to Hanye or Tremblay or St. Claude and watch them from the trainers and jockeys stand I sure learned about racing from going out with that gang in the fun of it was going every day I remember once going out at St. Claude it was a big 200,000 franc race with seven entries and Czar a big favorite I went around to the paddock to see the horses with my old man and you never saw such horses and Czar is a great big yellow horse that looks like just nothing but run I never saw such a horse he was being led around the paddock with his head down and when he went by me I felt all hollow inside he was so beautiful such a wonderful lean running built horse and he went around the paddock putting his feet just so and quiet and careful and moving easy like he knew just what he had to do not jerking and standing up on his legs and getting wild eyed like you see these selling platers with a shot of dope in them the crowd was so thick I couldn't see him again except just his legs going by and some yellow and my old man started out through the crowd and followed him over to the jock's dressing room back in the trees and there was a big crowd around there too but the man at the door in a derby nodded to my old man and we got in and everybody was sitting around and getting dressed and pulling shirts over their heads and pulling boots on and it all smelled hot and sweaty and linen minty and outside was the crowd looking in the old man went over to the garage gardener that was getting into his pants and said what's the dope George just in an ordinary tone of voice because there ain't any use in feeling around because George either can tell him or he can't tell him he won't win George says very low leaning over and buttoning the bottoms of his pants who will my old man says leaning over close so nobody can hear Cure Coving George says and if he does save me a couple of tickets my old man says something in a regular voice to George and George says don't ever bet on anything I tell you kidding leg and we beat it out and threw all the crowd that was looking in over to the 100 Frank Mutual machine but I knew something big was up because George is our jockey with the starting prices on and Kazar is only paying $5 for 10 Sephiji Dought is next at $3 to 1 and 5th down the list this Curcuban at $8 to 1 my old man bets $5,000 on Curcuban to win and puts on $1000 to place where we went around back of the grandstand to go up the stairs and get a place to watch the race we were jammed in tight And first a man in a long coat with a grey tall hat and a whip pulled it up and his hand came out, and then one after another the horses, with the jocks up and a stable boy holding the bridle on each side and, walking along, followed the old guy. That big yellow horse Tsar came first. He didn't look so big when you first looked at him until you saw the length of his legs and the whole way he's built and the way he moves. Gosh, I never saw such a horse. George Gardner was riding him and they moved along slow, back of the old guy in the grey tall hat that walked along like he was the ringmaster in a circus. Back of Tsar, moving along smooth and yellow in the sun, was a good looking black with a nice head with Tommy Archibald riding him, and after the black was a string of five more horses, all moving along slow in a procession past the grandstand in the passage, my old man said the black was curcuban and I took a good look at him, and he was a nice looking horse all right, but nothing like Tsar. Everybody cheered Tsar when he went by and he sure was one swell looking horse. The procession of them went around on the other side past the payloads and then back up to the newer end of the course and the circus master had the stableboys turn them loose one after another so they could gallop by the stands on their way up to the post and let everybody have a good look at them. They weren't at the post hardly any time at all when the gongs started and you could see them way off across the infield all in a bunch starting on the first swing like a lot of little toy horses. I was watching them through the glasses and Tsar was running well back with one of the bays making the pace. They swept down and around it came pounding past and Tsar was way back when they passed us in this curcuban horse in front and going smooth. Gee it's awful when they go by you and then you have to watch them go farther away and get smaller and smaller and then all bunched up on the turns and then come around towards into the stretch and you feel like swearing and god damning worse and worse. Finally they made the last turn and came into the straightaway with this curcuban horse way out in front everybody was looking funny and saying Tsar and sort of a sick way and they pounding nearer down the stretch then something came out of the pack right into my glasses like a horse head at Yellow Street and everybody began to yell Tsar as though they were crazy. Tsar came on faster than I'd ever seen anything in my life and pulled up on curcuban that was going fast as any black horse could with the jock flogging hell out of them with a gad and they were right dead neck and neck for a second but Tsar seemed going about twice as fast with those great jumps in that head out but it was while they were neck and neck that they passed the winning post and when the numbers went up in the slots the first one was two and that meant curcuban had won. I felt all trembling and funny inside and then we were all jammed in with the people going downstairs to stand in front of the board where they posed what curcuban paid. Honest watching the race I'd forgot how much my old man had bet on curcuban. I'd wanted Tsar to win so damn bad but now it was all over it was swell to know we had the winner. Wasn't it a swell race dad I said to him? He looked at me sort of funny with his derby on the back of his head. George Gardner's a swell jock you'll write he said. Sure took a great jock to keep that Tsar horse from winning. Of course I know it was funny all the time but my old man saying that right out like that sure took the kick all out of it for me and I didn't get the real kick back again ever even when they posted the numbers up on the board and the bell rang to pay off and we saw that curcuban paid sixty seven fifty for ten. All around people were saying poor Tsar poor Tsar and I thought I wish I were a jockey and could have rode him instead of that son of a bitch and that was funny thinking of George Gardner as a son of a bitch because I'd always liked him and besides he'd given us the winner but I guess that's what he is all right. My old man had a lot of money after that race and he took to come me into Paris oftener they raced at Tremblay he'd have them drop him in town on their way back to Masons and he and I'd sit out in front of the café de l'épée and watch the people go by. It's funny sitting there there's streams of people going by and all sorts of guys come up and want to sell you things and I love to sit there with my old man that was when we'd have the most fun. Guys would come up by selling funny rabbits that jumped if you squeezed a bulb and they'd come up to us and my old man would kid with them he could talk French just like English and all those kind of guys knew him because you can always tell the jockey then we always sat at the same table and they got used to seeing us there. There were guys selling matrimonial papers and girls selling rubber eggs that when you squeezed them a rooster came out of them and one old wormy looking guy that went by with postcards of Paris showing them to everybody and of course nobody ever bought any then he would come back and show the underside of the pack and they would all be smutty postcards and lots of people would dig down and buy them. Gee I remember the funny people that used to go by. Girls around suppertime looking for somebody to take them out to eat and they'd speak to my old man and he'd make some joke at them in French and they pat me on the head and go on. Once there was an American woman sitting with her kid daughter at the next table to us and they were both eating ices and I kept looking at the girl and she was awfully good looking and I smiled at her and she smiled at me but that was all that ever came of it because I looked for her mother and her every day and I made up ways that I was going to speak to her and I wondered if I ever got to know her if her mother would let me take her out to you or turn play but I never saw either of them again. Anyway I guess it wouldn't have been any good in any way because looking back on it I remember the way I thought out would be best to speak to her was to say pardon me but perhaps I can give you a winner at Ang Hien today and after all maybe she would have thought I was a tout instead of really trying to give her a winner. We'd sit at the café de la paix, my old man and me and we had a big drag with the waiter because my old man drank whiskey and it cost five francs and that meant a good tip when the sauces were counted up. My old man was drinking more than I'd ever seen him but he wasn't riding at all now and besides he said that whiskey kept his weight down but I noticed he was putting it on all right just the same. He'd busted away from his old gang out at Maison's and seemed to like just sitting around on the boulevard with me but he was dropping money every day at the track. It feels sort of doleful after the last race if he lost on the day till we'd get to our table and he'd have his first whiskey and then he'd be fine. He'd be reading the Paris Sport and he'd look over at me and say where's your girl Joe? To kid me on account I had told him about the girl that day at the next table and I'd get read but I liked being kidded about her. Gave me a good feeling. Keep your eye peeled for her Joe he'd say she'll be back. He'd ask me questions about things and some of the things I'd say he'd laugh and then he'd get started talking about things about riding down in Egypt or at St. Moritz on the ice before my mother died and about during the war when they had regular races down in the south of France without any purses or bedding or crowd or anything just to keep the breed up. Regular races with the jocks riding hell out of the horses. Gee I could listen to my old man talk by the hour especially when he had a couple or so of drinks. He'd tell me about when he was a boy in Kentucky and going coon hunting in the old days in the states before everything went on the bum there and he'd say Joe when we've got a decent state you're going back there to the states and go to school. What do I got to go back there to go to school for when everything's on the bum there? I'd ask him. That's different he'd say and get the waiter over and pay the pile of saucers and we'd get a taxi to the Garret Saint-Lazare and get on the train out to Missons. One day I'd ought to you after a selling steeple chase my old man bought in the winter for 30,000 francs. He had to bid a little to get him but the stable let the horse go finally. My old man had his permit and his colors in a week. Gee I felt proud when my old man was an owner. He fixed it up for stable space with Charles Drake and cut out coming into Paris and started his running and sweating out again and him and I were the whole stable gang. Our horse's name was Guilford. He was Irish bred and a nice sweet jumper. My old man figured that training him and riding him himself he was a good investment. I was proud of everything and I thought Guilford was as good a horse as Gar. He was a good solid jumper, a bay with plenty of speed on the flat if you asked him for it and he was a nice looking horse too. Gee I was fond of him. The first time he started with my old man up he finished third in a 2,500 meter hurdle race and when my old man got off him all sweating and happy in the play stall and went into way I felt as proud of him as though it was the first race he'd ever placed in. You see when a guy ain't been riding for a long time you can't make yourself really believe that he has ever rode. The whole thing was different now because down in Milan even big racists never seemed to make any difference to my old man. The one he wasn't ever excited or anything. And now it was so I couldn't hardly sleep the night before a race and I knew my old man was excited too even if he didn't show it. Riding for yourself makes an awful difference. Second time Guilford and my old man started was a rainy day at Atau in the pre-day Marat a 4500 meter steeple chase. Soon as he'd gone out I beat it up in the stand with a new glasses my old man had bought for me to watch them. They started their way over at the far end of the course and there was some trouble at the barrier. Something with goggle blinders on was making a great fuss and rearing around and busted the barrier once. But I could see my old man in our black jacket with a white cross and a black cap sitting up on Guilford and patting him with his hand. Then they were off in the jump and out of sight behind the trees and the gong going for dear life and the parry mutual wickets rattling down. Gosh I was so excited. I was afraid to look at them but I fixed the glasses on the place where they would come out back of the trees and then out they came with the old black jacket going third and they all sailing over the jump like birds. Then they went out of sight again and then they came pounding out and down the hill and all going nice and sweet and easy and taking the fence smooth and a bunch and moving away from us all silent. Looked as though you could walk across on their backs they were also bunched and going so smooth. Then they bellied over the big double bullfinch and something came down. I couldn't see who it was but in a minute the horse was up and galloping free and the field all bunched still sweeping around the long left turn into the straight away. They jumped the stone wall and came jammed down the stretch toward the big water jump right in front of the stands. I saw them coming and hollered at my old man as he went by and he was leading by about a length and riding way out over and light as a monkey and they were racing for the water jump. They took off over the big hedge of the water jump in a pack and then there was a crash and two horses pulled sideways off of it kept on going three others were piled up. I couldn't see my old man anywhere. One horse kneaded himself up and the jock had hold of the bridle and mounted and went slamming on after the place money. The other horse was up and away by himself jerking his head and galloping with the bridle rain hanging and the jock staggered over to the one side of the track against the fence. Then Guilford rolled over to one side off my old man and got up and started to run on three legs with his off hoof dangling and there was my old man lying there on the grass flat out with his face up and blood all over the side of his head. I ran down the stand and bumped into a jam of people and got to the rail and a cop grabbed me and held me and two big stretcher bearers were going out after my old man and around the other side of the course I saw three horses strung way out coming out of the trees and taking the jump. My old man was dead when they brought him in and while the doctor was listening to his heart with a thing plugged in his ears I heard a shot up the track that meant they killed Guilford. I lay down beside my old man when they carried the stretcher into the hospital room and hung on to the stretcher and cried and cried and he looked so white and gone and so awfully dead and I couldn't help feeling that if my old man was dead maybe they didn't need to have shot Guilford. His hoof might have got well. I don't know. I love my old man so much. Then a couple of guys came in and one of them patted me on the back and then went over and looked at my old man and then pulled a sheet over the cot and spread it out over him. The other was telephoning in French for them to send the ambulance to take him out to Maison's and I couldn't stop crying crying a choking sort of and George Gardner came in and sat down beside me on the floor and put his arm around me and says come on Joe old boy get up and we'll go out and wait for the ambulance. George and I went to the gate and I was trying to stop bawling and George wiped off my face with his handkerchief. We were standing back a little ways while the crowd was going out of the gate and a couple of guys stopped near us while we were waiting for the crowd to get through the gate and one of them was counting a bunch of mutual tickets and he said well Butler got his all right. The other guy said I don't give a good goddamn if he did the crook he had it coming to him on the stuff he's pulled. I'll say he had said the other guy and tore the bunch of tickets in two and George Gardner looked at me to see if I'd heard and I heard all right and he said don't you listen to what those bumps said Joe your old man was once well a guy but I don't know seems like when they get started they don't leave a guy nothing and of chapter three my old man section four of three stories in ten poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Mitraig Iletrisse the mills of the gods grind slowly but this mill chatters in mechanical staccato ugly short infantry of the mine advancing over difficult terrain make this corona their mill travis end of section four section five of three stories in ten poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway this LibriVox recording is in the public domain Oklahoma all of the Indians are dead the good Indian is a dead Indian we're riding in motor cars the oil lands you know they're all rich smoke smarts my eyes cottonwood twigs and buffalo dumb smoke gray and the teepee where is it myopic trachoma the prairies are long the moon rises ponies drag at their pickets the grass is gone brown in the summer where is it the hay crop failing pull an arrow out if you break it the wound closes salt is good too and wood ashes pounding it throbs in the night or is it the gonorrhea end of section five section six of three stories in ten poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway this LibriVox recording is in the public domain oily weather the sea desires deep hulls it swells and rolls the screw churns a throb driving throbbing progressing the sea rolls would love surging caressing undulating its great loving belly the sea is big and old throbbing ships scorn it end of section six section seven of three stories in ten poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway this LibriVox recording is in the public domain Roosevelt working men believed he busted truss and put his picture in their windows what he'd have done in France they said perhaps he would he could have died perhaps though generals rarely die except in bed as he did finally and all the legends that he started in his life live on and prosper unhampered now by his existence end of section seven section eight of three stories in ten poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway this LibriVox recording is in the public domain captives some came in chains unrepentant but tired too tired but to stumble thinking and hating were finished thinking and fighting were finished retreating and hoping were finished cures thus a long campaign making death easy end of section eight section nine of three stories in ten poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway this LibriVox recording is in the public domain shunts they undo soldiers never do die well crosses mark the places wouldn't crosses where they fell stuck above their faces soldiers pitch and cough and twitch all the world roars red and black soldiers smother in a ditch choking through the whole attack end of section nine section ten of three stories in ten poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway this LibriVox recording is in the public domain reparto da salto drum their boots on the camion floor hobnail boots on the camion floor sergeant stiff corporal sore lieutenant thought of a maestri whore warm and soft and sleepy whore cozy warm and lovely whore damned cold bitter rotten ride winding road up the grappa side arditi on benches stiff and cold pride of their country stiff and cold bristly faces dirty hides infantry marches arditi rides gray cold bitter sullen ride to splinter pines on the grappa side at as alone they were the truckload died end of section 10 section 11 of three stories in ten poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway this LibriVox recording is in the public domain Montparnasse there were never any suicides in the quarter among people one knows no successful suicides a chinese boy kills himself and is dead they continue to place his male in the letter rack at the domain a Norwegian boy kills himself and is dead no one knows where the other Norwegian boy is gone they find a model dead alone in bed and very dead made almost unbearable trouble for the concierge sweet oil the white of eggs mustard and water soap suds and stomach pumps rescue the people one knows every afternoon the people one knows can be found at the cafe end of section 11 section 12 of three stories in ten poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway this LibriVox recording is in the public domain along with youth a porcupine skin stiff with bad tanning must have ended somewhere stuffed horned owl pompous yellow eyed chuck will's widow on a biased twig suited with dust piles of old magazines drawers of boys letters in the line of love they must have ended somewhere yesterday's tribune is gone along with youth and the canoe that went to pieces on the beach the year of the big storm when the hotel burned down it's sanny michigan end of section 12 section 13 of three stories in ten poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway this LibriVox recording is in the public domain chapter heading we have thought the longer thoughts and gone the shorter way and we have danced to devil's tunes shivering home to pray to serve one master in the night another in the day end of section 13 end of three stories in ten poems by Ernest Miller Hemingway