 The Oval Portrait by Edgar Allan Poe This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are on the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Maya Tafidis The Oval Portrait The Chateau into which my valley had ventured to make forcible entrance rather than permit me in my desperately wounded condition to pass a night in the open air was one of those piles of commingled blue and grandeur which have so long frowned among the apennines not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Ratcliffe To all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned We established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments It lay in a remote turret at the building Its decorations were rich yet tattered and antique Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with many-fold and multi-fold amoreal trophies together with an unusual great number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque In these paintings, which depended from the walls, not only in the main surfaces but in very many nukes which the bizarre architecture of the Chateau rendered necessary In these paintings, my incipient delirium perhaps had caused me to take deep interest so that I bait Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room since it was already night to light the tones of a tall candelabra which stood by the head of my bed and to throw open far and wide the fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself I wish all this done that I might resign myself if not to sleep at least alternately to the contemplation of these pictures and the perusal of a small volume which had been found upon the pillow and which purported to criticize and describe them long, long I read and devoutly, devotedly aghast rapidly and gloriously the hours flew by and the deep midnight came the position of the candelabrum displaced me and outreaching my hand with difficulty rather than disturb my slammering valley I placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book but the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated the rays of the numerous candles, for there were many now fell within a niche of the room which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the bed posts I thus saw in vivid light a picture all unnoticed before it was the portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood I glanced at the painting hurriedly and then closed my eyes why I did this was not at first apparent even to my own perception but while my leads remained thus shut I ran over in my mind my reason for so shutting me it was an impulsive movement to gain time for thought to make sure that my vision had not deceived me to calm and subdue my fancy for more sober and more certain gaze in a very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting that I now saw a right I could not and would not doubt for the first flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the extreme stupor which was stealing over my senses and the thought on me had wanted to wake in life the portrait I have already said was that of a young girl it was a mere head and shoulders done in what is technically termed a vignette manner much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully the arms, the boson and even the ends of the radiant hair put it imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the background of the whole the frame was over, richly gilded and filigreed in moresk as a thing of art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself but it could have been neither the execution of the work nor the immortal beauty of the countenance which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me least of all could it have been that my fancy shaken from its half slumber had mistaken the head for that of a living person I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design of the vignetting and of the frame must have instantly dispelled such idea must have prevented even its momentary entertainment thinking earnestly upon these points I remained for an hour perhaps half sitting half reclining with my vision riveted upon the portrait at length satisfied with the true secret of its effect I fell back within the bed I had found the spell of the picture an absolute life-likeliness of expression which at first settling finally confounded subdued and appalled me with deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabra in its form-position the cause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view I sought eagerly the volume just the paintings and the histories turning to the number which designated the oval portrait I there read the vague and quaint words which follow she was a maiden of rarest beauty and at more lovely than full of gleam and the evil was the hour when she saw and loved and wedded the painter he, passionate, studious austere and having already a bride in his art she a maiden of rarest beauty and not more lovely than full of gleam or light and smiles and frolicsome at a young phone loving and cherishing all things hating only the art which was her rival dreading only the palette and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the contents of a lover it was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even his own bride but she was humble and obedient and sat meekly for many weeks a dark, high towered chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead but he, the painter, took glory in his work which went on from hour to hour from day to day and he was a passionate and wild and moody man who became lost in reverie so that he would not see which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and a spirit of his bride who pined visibly to all but him but she smiled on and still on uncomplainingly because she saw that the painter who had high renown took a fervent and burning pleasure in his task and wrote day and night to depict her who so loved him yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak and in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words as of a mighty marvel and a proof not less of the power of the painter that of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well better length as the labor drew nearer to its conclusion there were admitted none into the turret for the painter had grown wild with the ardour of his work and turned his eyes from canvas merely even to regard the kindness of his wife and he would not see the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her side beside him and when many weeks had passed then but little remained to do save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within a socket of the lamp and then the brush was given and then the tint was placed and for one moment the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrote but in the next while he yet gazed he grew tremulous and very pallid and aghast the crying with a loud voice this is indeed life itself turned suddenly to regard his beloved she was dead End of the Odle Portrait by Edgar Allen Poe This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org This reading by Deborah Lynn in Northern Lower Michigan February 2007 Rallo Learning to Play by Robert J. Burdette Early in the afternoon of the same day Mr. Holiday came home bearing a large package in his arms Not only seldom but rarely did anything come into the holiday homestead that did not afford the head of the family a text a sermonic instruction if not indeed rational discourse Depositing the package upon a hall table he called to his son in a mandatory manner Rallo, come to me Rallo approached but started with reluctant steps He became reminiscently aware as he hastily reviewed the events of the day that in carrying out one or two measures for the good of the house He had laid himself open to an investigation by a strictly partisan committee and the possibility of such an inquiry with its subsequent report grieved him However, he hoped for the worst so that in any event he would not be disagreeably disappointed and came running to his father calling Yes sir, in his cheeriest tones This is the correct form in which to meet any possible adversity which is not yet in sight because if it should not meet you, you are happy anyhow and if it should meet you, you have been happy before the collision See? Now Rallo said his father you are too large and strong to be spending your leisure time playing baby games with your little brother Fanny It is time for you to begin to be athletic What is athletic? asked Rallo Well, replied his father who was an alumnus who pronounced alumnus himself In a general way it means to wear a pair of pantaloons either 18 inches too short or 6 inches too long for you and stand around and yell while other men do your playing for you The reputation for being an athlete may also be acquired by wearing a golf suit to church or carrying a tennis racket to your meals However, as I was about to say I did not wish you to work all the time like a woman or even a small part of the time like a hired man I wish you to adopt for your recreation games of sport and pastime Rallo interrupted his father to say that indeed he preferred games of that description to games of toil and labor but as he concluded little Fanny who was sitting on the porch step with his book suddenly read aloud in a staccato measure I believe you my boy replied the man heartily Read to yourself Fanny said his father kindly and do not speak your syllables in that jerky manner Fanny subsided into silence after making two or three strange gurgling noises in his throat which Rallo after several efforts succeeded in imitating quite well Being older than Fanny Rallo of course could not invent so many new noises every day as his little brother but he could take Fanny's noises they being unprotected by copyright and not only reproduce them but even improve upon them This shows the advantage of the higher education A little learning is a dangerous thing It is well for every boy to learn that dynamite is an explosive of great power after which it is still better for him to learn of how great power Then he will not hit a cartridge or a hammer in order to find out and when he dines in good society he can still lift his pie gracefully in his hand and will not be compelled to harpoon it with an iron hook at the end of his forearm Rallo's father looked at the two boys attentively as they swallowed their noises and then said Now Rallo there is no sense in learning to play a man's game with a toy outfit Here are the implements of a game which is called Baseball So saying he opened the package and handed Rallo a bat a wagon-tongue terror that would knock the leather off a planet and Rallo's eyes danced as he balanced it and pronounced it a lala It is a bat as father said sternly a baseball bat Is that a baseball bat? exclaimed Rallo innocently Yes my son replied his father and here is a protector for the hand Rallo took the large leather pillow and said that's an infielder It is a mitt as father said and here is the ball As Rallo took the ball in his hands he danced with glee That's a peach he cried It is a baseball as father said that is what you play baseball with Is it? exclaimed Rallo inquiringly Now said Mr. Holiday as they went into the backyard followed by Fanny I will go to bat first and I will let you pitch so that I may teach you how I will stand here at the end of the barn then when you miss my bat with the ball as you may sometimes do for you do not yet know how to pitch accurately the barn will prevent the ball from going too far That's the backstop said Rallo Do not try to be funny my son replied his father The president of the United States has permitted to coin phrases which nobody can understand Now observe me When you are at bat you stand in this manner and Mr. Holiday assumed the attitude of a timid man who has just stepped on the tail of a strange and irascible dog and is holding his legs so that the animal, if he can pull his tail out can escape without biting either of them He then held the bat up before his face and he was carrying a banner Now Rallo you must pitch the ball directly toward the end of my bat Do not pitch too hard at first or you will tire yourself out before we begin Rallo held the ball in his hands and gazed at it thoughtfully for a moment He turned and looked at the kitchen windows as though he had half a mind to break one of them Then wheeling suddenly he sent the ball whizzing through the air like a bullet It passed so close to Mr. Holiday's face He dropped the bat and his grammar and his nervousness and shouted What are you throwing at? There's no way to pitch a ball? Pitch it as though you were playing a gentleman's game Not as though you were trying to kill a cat Now pitch it right here right at this place on my bat and pitch more gently First thing you know you'll sprain your wrist and have to go to bed Now try again This time Rallo needed the ball gently as though he suspected that it had been pulled out of the pipe He made an offer as though he would throw it to Thani Thani made a rush back to an imaginary first and Rallo turning quickly fired the ball in the general direction of Mr. Holiday It passed about ten feet to his right but nonetheless he made what Thani called a swipe at it that turned him around three times before he could steady himself It then hit the end of the barn with a resounding crash that made Cotton Mather, the horse snort with terror in his lonely stall Thani called out in nasal sing-song tone Strike one Thani said his father severely do not let me hear a repetition of such language from you If you wish to join our game you may do so if you will play in a gentlemanly manner but I will not permit the use of slang about this house Now Rallo that was better much better but you must aim more accurately and pitch less violently You will never learn anything until you acquire it unless you pay attention while giving your mind to it Now play ball as we say This time Rallo stooped and rubbed the ball in the dirt until his father sharply reprimanded him saying, you untidy boy that ball will not be fit to play with Then Rallo looked about him over the surrounding country Rallo admiring the pleasant view and with the same startling abruptness as before faced his father and shot the ball in so swiftly that Thani said he could see it smoke It passed about six feet to the left of the batsman but Mr. Holliday judging that it was coming dead for him dodged and the ball struck his high silk hat with a boom like a drum carrying it on to the backstop in its wild career Take your base shouted Thani for remembering the new rules on the subject of his umpiring Rallo exclaimed his father why do you not follow my instructions more carefully that was a little better but still the ball was badly aimed you must not stare around all over creation when you are playing ball how can you throw straight when you look at everything in the world except at the bat you are trying to hit you must aim right at the bat try to hit it that's what the pitcher does and Thani say to you and for the last time that I will not permit the slang of the slums to be used about this house now Rallo try again and be more careful and more deliberate father said Rallo did you ever play baseball when you were a young man did I play baseball repeated his father did I play ball well say I belong to the sacred nine out in old Peoria and I was a holy terror on third tell you one day but just at this point in the history it occurred to Rallo to send the ball over the plate Mr. Holiday saw it coming he shot both eyes and dodged for his life but the ball hit the bat and went spinning straight up in the air Thani shouted foul ran under it reached up took it out of the atmosphere and cried out Thani said his father sternly another word and you should go straight to bed if you do not improve in your habit of language I will send you to the reform school now Rallo continued kindly that was a great deal better very much better I hit that ball with almost no difficulty you are learning but you will learn more rapidly if you do not expend so much unnecessary strength and throwing the ball once more now and gently I do not wish you to injure your arm Rallo leaned forward and tossed the ball toward his father very gently indeed much as his sister Mary would have done only of course in a more direct line Mr. Holiday's eyes lit up with their old fire as he saw the oncoming sphere he swept his bat around his head in a fierce semi-circle caught the ball fair on the end of it and sent it over Rallo's head crashing into the kitchen window amid a jingle of glass and a crash of crockery wild shrieks from the invisible maid servant and the lighted howls from Rallo and Thanny of good boy you own the town all the way round Mr. Holiday was a man whose nervous organism was so sensitive that he could not endure the lightest shock of excitement the confusion and general uproar distracted him Thanny he shouted go into the house go into the house and go right to bed Thanny said Rallo in a low tone you're suspended that's what you get for jolying the umpire Rallo said his father I will not have you quarreling with Thanny I can correct him without your interference and besides you have wrought enough mischief for one day just see what you have done with your careless throwing you have broken the window and I do not know how many things on the kitchen table you careless inattentive boy I would do right if I should make you pay for all this damage out of your own pocket money and I would if you had any I may do so nevertheless and there is Jane bathing her eye at the pump you have probably put it out by your wild pitching if she dies I will make you wash the dishes until she returns I thought all boys could throw straight naturally without any training you discourage me now come here and take this bat and I will show you how to pitch a ball without breaking all the glass in the township and see if you can learn to bat any better than you can pitch Rallo took the bat raised himself lightly and kept up a gentle oscillation of the stick while he waited hold it still yelled his father whose nerves were sorely shaken how can I pitch a ball to you when you keep flourishing that club like an anarchist in procession hold it still I tell you Rallo dropped the bat to an easy slant over his shoulder and looked attentively at his father the ball came in Rallo caught it right on the nose of the bat and said it whizzing directly at the pitcher Mr. Holliday held his hand straight out before him and spread his fingers I've got her he shouted and then the ball hit his hands, scattered them and passed on against his chest with a jolt that shook his system to its foundations a melancholy howl, rent the air as he doubled up and tried to rub his chest and need all his fingers on both hands at the same time Rallo he gasped you go to bed too go to bed and stay there six weeks and when you get up put on one of your sister's dresses and play golf you'll never learn to play ball if you practice a thousand years I never saw such a boy you've probably broken my lung and I do not suppose I shall ever use my hands again you can't play tiddly weeks oh dear, oh dear Rallo sadly laid away the bat and the ball and went to bed where he and Thanny sparred with pillows until tea time when they were bailed out of prison by their mother Mr. Holliday had recovered his good humor his fingers were multifariously bandaged and he smelled of Arnica like a drugstore but he was reminiscent and animated he talked of the old times and the old days and of Peoria and Hinman's as was his want off as he felt boyish and town ball he said good old town ball there was no limit to the number on a side the ring was anywhere from 300 feet to a mile in circumference according to whether we played on a vacant pingrillot or out in the open prairie we tossed up a bat wet or dry for first choice and then chose the whole school on the sides the bat was a board about the general shape of a Roman galley ore not quite so wide as a barn door the ball was of solid india rubber a little fellow could hit it 100 yards and a big boy with a hickory club hit it clear over the bluffs or across the lake we broke all the windows in the school house the first day and finished up every pane of glass in the neighborhood before the season closed the side that got its innings first kept them until school was out or the last boy died fun? good game oh boy of these golden days paying 50 cents an hour for the privilege of watching a lot of hired men do your playing for you old cat spell and define instruction instantonati liniment miscalculation pastime contusion paralysis hasty super irrigation can a boy learn anything without a teacher? does the pupil ever know more than the instructor? and why not? why does it require one to learn and to speak and write the spanish language correctly in six easy lessons at home without a master? and in how many lessons can one be taught to walk spanish? what is meant by a ruder? what is the difference between a ruder and a fan? parse hoodoo what is the philology of crank? describe a closely contested game of one old cat with diagrams what is meant by a rank decision? translate into colloquial English the phrase good eye Bill put into bleaching board Latin, rotten umpire why is he so called? end of Rallo learning to play this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org this reading by Debra Lynn Northern Lower Michigan February 2007 Rallo Learning to Read by Robert J. Burdette when Rallo was five years young, his father said to him one evening Rallo put away your roller skates and bicycle carry that rowing machine out into the hall and come to me it is time for you to learn to read then Rallo's father opened the book which he had sent home on a truck and talked to the little boy about it it was Bancroft's history of the United States half complete in 23 volumes Rallo's father explained to Rallo and Mary his system of education with special reference to Rallo's learning to read his plan was that Mary should teach Rallo ten hours a day for ten years and by that time Rallo would be half through the beginning of the first volume and would like it very much indeed Rallo was delighted at the prospect he cried aloud, oh Papa thank you very much when I read this book clear through all the way to the end of the last volume may I have another little book to read no, replied his father that may not be because you will never get to the last volume of this one for as fast as you read one volume the author of this history or his heirs, executors, administrators or assigns will write another as an appendix so even though you should live to be a very old man like the boy preacher this history will always be 23 volumes ahead of you now Mary and Rallo this will be a hard task pronounced toss for both of you and Mary must remember that Rallo is a very little boy and must be very patient and gentle the next morning after the one preceding it Mary began the first lesson in the beginning she was so gentle and patient that her mother went away and cried because she feared her dear little daughter was becoming too good for this sinful world and might soon spread her wings and fly away and be an angel but in the space of a short time the novelty of the expedition wore off and Mary resumed running her temper which was of the old fashioned low pressure kind just forward of the firebox on its old schedule when she pointed to A for the seventh time and Rallo said W she tore the page out by the roots hit her little brother such a whack over the head with the big book that it said his birthday back six weeks slapped him twice and was just going to bite him when her mother came in Mary told her that Rallo had fallen downstairs and torn his book and raised that dreadful lump on his head this time Mary's mother restrained her emotion and Mary cried but it was not because she feared her mother was pining away oh no it was her mother's rugged health and virile strength that grieved Mary as long as the seance lasted which was during the entire performance that evening Rallo's father taught Rallo his lesson and made Mary sit by and observe his methods he said that would be normal instruction for her he said Mary you must learn to control your temper and curb your impatience if you want to wear low neck dresses and teach school you must be sweet and patient or you will never succeed as a teacher now Rallo what is this letter I don't know said Rallo resolutely that is A said his father sweetly huh replied Rallo so I knowed that then why did you not say so replied his father so sweetly that Jonas the hired boy sitting in the corner licked his chops Rallo's father went on with the lesson what is this Rallo I don't know said Rallo hesitatingly sure has his father you do not know what it is knuck said Rallo it is A said his father what asked Rallo A nothing replied his father it is just A now what is it just A said Rallo do not be flipped my son said Mr. Holiday but attend to your lesson what letter is this I don't know said Rallo don't fib to me said his father gently you said a minute ago that you knew that is N yes sir Rallo meekly although he was a little boy was no slouch if he did wear bibs he knew where he lived without looking at the door plate when it came time to be meek there was no boy this side of the planet Mars who could be meeker on shorter notice so he said yes sir with that subdued and well pleased alacrity of a boy who has just been asked to guess the answer to the conundrum will you have another piece of pie well said his father rather suddenly what is it M said Rallo confidently N yelled his father in three line gothic N echoed Rallo in lower case nonpareil B A N said his father what does that spell cat suggested Rallo a trifle uncertainly cat snapped his father with a sarcastic inflection B A N cat where were you raised B N B N say it or I'll get at you with a skate strap B A M band said Rallo who was beginning to wish that he had a rain check and could come back and see the remaining innings some other day B N shouted his father B A N B N B N now say B N B N B N that's right his father said in an encouraging tone you will learn to read one of these years if you give your mind to it all he needs you see Mary is a teacher who doesn't lose patience with him the first time he makes a mistake now Rallo how do you spell B A N band Rallo started out timidly on C A then changed to D O compromised on H E N Mr. Holiday made a pass at him with volume one but Rallo saw it coming and got out of the way B A N his father shouted B A N band band band band now go on if you think you know how to spell that what comes next oh you're enough to tire the patience of Job I have a good mind to make you learn by the Pollard system and begin where you leave off go ahead why don't you read on what comes next I croft of course anybody ought to know that C R O F T croft band croft what does that apostrophe mean I mean what does that punctuation mark between T and S stand for you don't know take that then whack what comes after band croft spell it spell it I tell you and don't be all night about it can't a well read it then if you can't spell it read it H I S T O R Y R E history band croft's history of the United States now what does that spell I mean spell that spell it oh go away go to bed stupid stupid child he added as the little boy went weeping out of the room he'll never learn anything so long as he lives I declare he has tired me all out and I used to teach school and trivially township to taught one whole winner in district number three when Nick Worthington was county superintendent and had my salary look here Mary what do you find in that English grammar to giggle about you go to bed too and listen to me if Ralo can't read that whole book clear through without making a mistake tomorrow night you'll wish you had been born without a back that's all the following morning when Ralo's father drove away to business he paused the moment as Ralo stood at the gate for a final goodbye kiss for Ralo's daily goodbyes began at the door and lasted as long as his father was in sight Mr. Holiday said someday Ralo you will thank me for teaching you to read yes sir replied Ralo respectfully and then added but not this day Ralo's head though it had here and there transient bumps consequent upon football practice was not naturally or permanently hilly on the contrary it was quite level spell and define exasperation lamb imperturbability red-hot philosopher abolition naut terrier which end of a retan hurts the more why does reading make a full man is an occasional whipping good for a boy at precisely what age does corporal punishment cease to be effective and why state in exact terms how much better are grown-up people without the rod than little people with it and why when would a series of good sound whippings have been of the greatest benefit to Solomon when he was a godly young man or an idolatrous old one in order to reform this world thoroughly then whom should we thrash the children or the grown-up people and why if then the whipping post should be abolished in Delaware why should it be retained in the nursery and the school room write on the board in large letters the following sentence if a boy ten years old should be whipped for breaking a window what should be done to a man thirty-five years old for breaking the third commandment end of Rallo learning to read all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer visit LibriVox.org A Sea of Troubles by P. G. Woodhouse Mr. Megs' mind was made up he was going to commit suicide there had been moments in the interval which had elapsed between the first inception of the idea and his present state of fixed determination when he had wavered in these moments he had debated with Hamlet the question whether it was nobler in the mind to suffer or to take up arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them but all that was over now he was resolved Mr. Megs' point the main plank as it were in his suicidal platform was that with him it was beside the question whether or not it was nobler to suffer in the mind the mind hardly entered into it at all what he had to decide was whether it was worthwhile putting up any longer with the perfectly infernal pain in his stomach for Mr. Megs was a martyr to indigestion as he was also devoted to the pleasures of the table life had become for him one long battle in which whatever happened he always got the worst of it he was sick of it he looked back down the vista of the years and found therein no hope for the future one after the other all the patent medicines in creation had failed him Smith's supreme digestive pellets he had given them a more than fair trial Blankensop's liquid life-giver he had drunk enough of it to float a ship Perkins's premier pain-preventer strongly recommended by the sword-swallowing lady at Barnum and Bailey's he had wallowed in it and so on down the list his interior organism had simply sneered at the lot of them Death, where is thy sting? thought Mr. Megs and forthwith began to make his preparations those who have studied the matter say that the tendency to commit suicide is greatest among those who have passed their fifty-fifth year and that rate is twice as great for unoccupied males as for occupied males unhappiness unhappiness with只 themselves unhappy Mr. Megs, accordingly got it, so to speak with both barrels he was 56 and he was perhaps the most unoccupied adult to be found in the length and breadth of the United Kingdom he toiled not neither did he spin twenty years before an unexpected legacy had placed him in a position natural taste for idleness to the utmost. He was at that time, as regards his professional life, a clerk in a rather obscure shipping firm. Out of office hours he had a mild fondness for letters, which took the form of meaning to read right through the hundred best books one day, but actually contending himself with the daily paper and an occasional magazine. Such was Mr. Meggs at thirty-six. The necessity for working for a living, and a salary too small to permit of self-indulgence among the more expensive and deleterious dishes on the bill of fare, had up to that time kept his digestion within reasonable bounds. Sometimes he had twinges, more often he had none. Then came the legacy, and with it Mr. Meggs let himself go. He left London, and retired to his native village, where with a French cook and a series of secretaries, to whom he dictated at long intervals occasional paragraphs of a book on British butterflies, on which he imagined himself to be at work, he passed the next twenty years. He could afford to do himself well, and he did himself extremely well. Nobody urged him to take exercise, so he took no exercise. Nobody warned him of the perils of lobster and Welsh rabbits to a man of sedentary habits, for it was nobody's business to warn him. On the contrary, people rather encouraged the lobster side of his character, for he was a hospitable soul, and liked to have his friends dine with him. The result was that nature, as is her want, laid for him and got him. It seemed to Mr. Meggs that he woke one morning to find himself a chronic dyspeptic. That was one of the hardships of his position, to his mind. The thing seemed to hit him suddenly out of a blue sky. One moment all appeared to be peace and joy. The next, a lively and irritable wildcat with red hot claws, seemed somehow to have introduced itself into his interior. So Mr. Meggs decided to end it. In this crisis of his life the old methodical habits of his youth returned to him. A man cannot be a clerk in even an obscure firm of shippers for a great length of time without acquiring system, and Mr. Meggs made his preparations calmly and with a forethought worthy of a better cause. And so we find him, one glorious June morning, seated at his desk, ready for the end. Outside the sun beat down upon the orderly streets of the village, dogs dozed in the warm dust. Men who had to work went about their toil moistly, their minds far away in shady public houses. But Mr. Meggs in his study was cool both in mind and body. Before him on the desk lay six little slips of paper. They were banknotes, and they represented, with the exception of a few pounds, his entire worldly wealth. Beside them were six letters, six envelopes, and six postage stamps. Mr. Meggs surveyed them calmly. He would not have admitted it, but he had had a lot of fun writing those letters. The deliberation as to who should be his heirs had occupied him pleasantly for several days, and indeed had taken his mind off his internal pains at times so thoroughly that he had frequently surprised himself in almost cheerful mood. Yes, he would have denied it, but it had been great sports sitting in his armchair, thinking whom he should pick out from England's teaming millions to make happy with his money. All sorts of schemes had passed through his mind. He had a sense of power which the mere possession of the money had never given him. He began to understand why millionaires make freak-wills. At one time he had toyed with the idea of selecting someone at random from the London Directory, and bestowing on him all he had to bequeath. He had only abandoned the scheme when it occurred to him that he himself would not be in a position to witness the recipient's stunned delight. And what was the good of starting a thing like that if you were not to be in it at the finish? Sentiment succeeded whimsicality. His old friends of the office, those were the men to benefit. What good fellows they had been! Some were dead, but he still kept intermittently in touch with half a dozen of them. And, an important point, he knew their present addresses. This point was important because Mr. Megs had decided not to leave a will, but to send the money direct to the beneficiaries. He knew what wills were. Even in quite straightforward circumstances they often made trouble. There had been some slight complication about his own legacy twenty years ago. Somebody had contested the will, and before the thing was satisfactorily settled the lawyers had got away with about twenty percent of the whole. No, no wills. If he made one and then killed himself it might be upset on a plea of insanity. He knew of no relative who might consider himself entitled to the money, but there was the chance that some remote cousin existed, and then the comrades of his youth might fail to collect after all. He declined to run the risk. Finally, and by degrees, he had sold out the stocks and shares in which his fortune was invested, and deposited the money in his London bank. Six piles of large notes, dividing the total into six equal parts. Six letters couched in a strain of reminiscent pathos and manly resignation. Six envelopes legibly addressed, six postage stamps, and that part of his preparations was complete. He licked the stamps and placed them on the envelopes, took the notes and inserted them in the letters, folded the letters and thrust them into the envelopes, sealed the envelopes, and, unlocking the drawer of his desk, produced a small, black, ugly looking bottle. He opened the bottle and poured the contents into a medicine-glass. It had not been without considerable thought that Mr. Megs had decided upon the method of his suicide. The knife, the pistol, the rope, they all presented their charms to him. He had further examined the merits of drowning and of leaping to destruction from a height. There were flaws in each. Either they were painful, or else they were messy. Mr. Megs had a tidy soul, and he revolted from the thought of spoiling his figure, as he would most certainly do if he drowned himself. Or the carpet, as he would if he used the pistol. Or the pavement, and possibly some innocent pedestrian, as must infallibly occur should he leap off the monument. The knife was out of the question. Instinct told him that it would hurt like the very dickens. No poison was the thing. Easy to take, quick to work, and on the whole rather agreeable than otherwise. Mr. Megs hid the glass behind the ink-pot and rang the bell. "'Has Miss Pillinger arrived?' he inquired of the servant. "'She has just come, sir. Tell her that I am waiting for her here.' Jane Pillinger was an institution. Her official position was that of private secretary and typist to Mr. Megs. That is to say, on the rare occasions when Mr. Megs's conscience overcame his indolence to the extent of forcing him to resume work on his British butterflies, it was to Miss Pillinger that he addressed the few rambling and incoherent remarks which constituted his idea of a regular, hard, slogging spell of literary composition. When he sank back in his chair, speechless and exhausted, like a marathon runner who has started his sprint a mile or two too soon, it was Miss Pillinger's task to unscramble her shorthand notes, type them neatly, and place them in their special drawer in the desk. Miss Pillinger was a wary spinster of austere views, uncertain age, and a deep-rooted suspicion of men. A suspicion which, to do an abused sex justice, they had done nothing to foster. Men had always been almost coldly correct in their dealings with Miss Pillinger. In her twenty years of experience as a typist and secretary, she had never had to refuse with scorn and indignation so much as a box of chocolates from any of her employers. Nevertheless, she continued to be icily on her guard. The clenched fist of her dignity was always drawn back, ready to swing on the first male who dared to step beyond the bounds of professional civility. Such was Miss Pillinger. She was the last of a long line of unprotected English girlhood which had been compelled by straightened circumstances to listen for hire to the appallingly dreary nonsense which Mr. Megs had to impart on the subject of British butterflies. Girls had come and girls had gone. Blonds, ex-blonds, brunettes, ex-brunettes, near-blonds, near-brunettes. They had come buoyant, full of hope and life, tempted by the lavish salary which Mr. Megs had found himself after a while compelled to pay, and they dropped off, one after another, like exhausted bivalves, unable to endure the crushing boredom of life in the village which had given Mr. Megs to the world. For Mr. Megs' hometown was no city of pleasure. Remove the vicar's magic lantern and the trier-weight machine opposite the post-office, and you practically eliminated the temptations to tread the primrose path. The only young men in the place were silent, gaping youths, at whom lunacy commissioners looked sharply and suspiciously when they met. The tango was unknown, and the one step. The only form of dance extant, and that only at the rarest intervals, was a sort of polka, not unlike the movements of a slightly inebriated boxing kangaroo. Mr. Megs' secretaries and typists gave the town one startled horrified glance, and stampeded for London like frightened ponies. Not so, Miss Pillinger. She remained. She was a businesswoman, and it was enough for her that she received a good salary. For five pounds a week she would have undertaken a post as secretary and typist to a polar expedition. For six years she had been with Mr. Megs, and doubtless she looked forward to being with him at least six years more. Perhaps it was the pathos of his thought which touched Mr. Megs, as she sailed, notebook in hand, through the doorway of his study. Here he told himself was a confiding girl, all unconscious of impending doom, relying on him as a daughter relies on her father. He was glad he had not forgotten Miss Pillinger when he was making his preparations. He had certainly not forgotten Miss Pillinger. On the desk beside the letters lay a little pile of notes, amounting in all to five hundred pounds, her legacy. Miss Pillinger was always businesslike. She sat down in her chair, opened her notebook, moistened her pencil, and waited expectantly for Mr. Megs to clear his throat and begin work on the butterflies. She was surprised when, instead of frowning, as was his invariable practice when bracing himself for composition, he bestowed upon her a sweet, slow smile. All that was maidenly and defensive in Miss Pillinger leaped to arms under that smile. It ran in and out among her nerve centers. It had been long and arriving, this moment of crisis, but here it undoubtedly was at last. After twenty years an employer was going to court disaster by trying to flirt with her. Mr. Megs went on smiling. You cannot classify smiles. Nothing lends itself so much to a variety of interpretations as a smile. Mr. Megs thought he was smiling the sad, tender smile of a man who, knowing himself to be on the brink of the tomb, bids farewell to a faithful employee. Miss Pillinger's view was that he was smiling like an abandoned old rep who ought to have been ashamed of himself. No, Miss Pillinger, said Mr. Megs. I shall not work this morning. I shall want you, if you will be so good, to post these six letters for me. Miss Pillinger took the letters. Mr. Megs surveyed her tenderly. Miss Pillinger, you have been with me a long time now. Six years, is it not? Six years. Well, well. I don't think I have ever made you a little present, have I? You give me a good salary. Yes, but I want to give you something more. Six years is a long time. I have come to regard you with a different feeling from that which the ordinary employer feels for his secretary. You and I have worked together for six long years. Surely I may be permitted to give you some token of my appreciation of your fidelity. He took the pile of notes. These are for you, Miss Pillinger. He rose and handed them to her. He eyed her for a moment with all the sentimentality of a man whose digestion has been out of order for over two decades. The pathos of the situation swept him away. He bent over, Miss Pillinger, and kissed her on the forehead. Smiles accepted, there is nothing so hard to classify as a kiss. Mr. Megs's notion was that he kissed Miss Pillinger much as some great general, wounded unto death, might have kissed his mother, his sister, or some particularly sympathetic aunt. Miss Pillinger's view, differing substantially from this, may be outlined in her own words. She cried as, dealing Mr. Megs's conveniently placed jaw, a blow, which had it landed an inch lower down might have knocked him out, she sprang to her feet. How dare you! I've been waiting for this, Mr. Megs. I have seen it in your eye. I have expected it. Let me tell you that I am not at all the sort of girl with whom it is safe to behave like that. I can protect myself. I am only a working girl." Mr. Megs, who had fallen back against the desk as a stricken pugilist falls on the ropes, pulled himself together to protest. Miss Pillinger, he cried aghast. You misunderstand me. I had no intention. Misunderstand you? Bah! I am only a working girl. Nothing was farther from my mind. Indeed, nothing was farther from your mind. You give me money. You shower your vile kisses on me. Nothing was farther from your mind than the obvious interpretation of such behavior. Before coming to Mr. Megs, Miss Pillinger had been secretary to an Indiana novelist. She had learned style from the master. Now that you have gone too far, you are frightened at what you have done. You well may be, Mr. Megs. I am only a working girl. Miss Pillinger, I implore you. Silence! I am only a working girl. A wave of mad fury swept over Mr. Megs. The shock of the blow and still more of the frightful ingratitude of this horrible woman nearly made him foam at the mouth. A wave of mad fury swept over Mr. Megs. The shock of the blow and still more of the frightful ingratitude of this horrible woman nearly made him foam at the mouth. Don't go on saying you're only a working girl, he bellowed. You'll drive me mad. Go. Go away from me. Get out. Go anywhere, but leave me alone. Miss Pillinger was not entirely sorry to obey the request. Mr. Megs's sudden fury had startled and frightened her, so long as she could end the scene victorious she was anxious to withdraw. Yes, I will go, she said with dignity as she opened the door. Now that you have revealed yourself in your true colors, Mr. Megs, this house is no fit place for a work. She caught her employer's eye and vanished hastily. Mr. Megs paced the room in a ferment. He had been shaken to his core by the scene. He boiled with indignation. That his kind thought should have been so misinterpreted it was too much. Of all ungrateful worlds this world was the most. He stopped suddenly in his stride, partly because his shin had struck a chair, partly because an idea had struck his mind. Hopping madly he added one more parallel between himself and Hamlet by soliloquizing aloud. I'll be hanged if I commit suicide, he yelled. And as he spoke the words a curious peace fell on him as on a man who was awakened from a nightmare. He sat down at the desk. What an idiot he had been ever to contemplate self-destruction. What could have induced him to do it? By his own hand to remove himself merely in order that a pack of ungrateful brutes might wallow in his money, it was the scheme of a perfect fool. He wouldn't commit suicide, not if he knew it. He would stick on and laugh at them. And if he did have an occasional pain inside, what of that? Napoleon had them and look at him. He would be blowed if he committed suicide. With the fire of a new resolve lighting up his eyes he turned to seize the six letters and rifle them of their contents. They were gone. It took Mr. Megs perhaps thirty seconds to recollect where they had gone to. And then it all came back to him. He had given them to the demon Pillinger. And if he did not overtake her and get them back, she would mail them. Of all the mixed thoughts which seetheed in Mr. Megs' mind at that moment, easily the most prominent was the reflection that from his front door to the post office was a walk of less than five minutes. This Pillinger walked down the sleepy street in the June sunshine, boiling, as Mr. Megs had done, with indignation. She, too, had been shaken to the core. It was her intention to fulfill her duty by posting the letters which had been entrusted to her, and then to quit for ever the service of one who, for six years, a model employer, had at last forgotten himself and showed his true nature. Her meditations were interrupted by a horse shout in her rear, and, turning, she perceived the model employer running rapidly towards her. His face was scarlet, his eyes were wild, and he wore no hat. Miss Pillinger's mind worked swiftly. She took in the situation in a flash. Unrequited, guilty love had sapped Mr. Megs' reason, and she was to be the victim of his fury. She had read of scores of similar cases in the newspapers. How little she had ever imagined that she would be the heroine of one of these dramas of passion! She looked for one brief instant up and down the street. Nobody was in sight. With a loud cry, she began to run. Stop! It was the fierce voice of her pursuer. Miss Pillinger increased to third speed. As she did so, she had a vision of headlines. Stop! roared Mr. Megs. Unrequited passion made this man murderer, thought Miss Pillinger. Stop! crazed with love he slays beautiful blonde, flashed out in letters of crimson on the back of Miss Pillinger's mind. Stop! Spurned, he stabs her thrice. To touch the ground at intervals of twenty yards or so, that was the idea she strove for. She addressed herself to it with all the strength of her powerful mind. In London, New York, Paris, and other cities where life is brisk, the spectacle of a hatless gentleman with a purple face pursuing his secretary through the streets at a rapid gallop would of course have excited little, if any, remark. But in Mr. Megs's hometown events were of rarer occurrence. The last milestone in the history of his native place had been the visit two years before of Bing Lee's stupendous circus, which had paraded along the main street on its way to the next town, while zealous members of its staff visited the back premises of the houses and removed all the washing from the lines. Since then, deep peace had reigned. Gradually therefore as the chase warmed up, citizens of all shapes and sizes began to assemble. Miss Pillinger screams and the general appearance of Mr. Megs gave food for thought. Having brooded over the situation, they decided at length to take a hand, with the result that as Mr. Megs's grasp fell upon Miss Pillinger, the grasp of several of his fellow townsmen fell upon him. Save me! said Miss Pillinger. Mr. Megs pointed speechless to the letters, which she still grasped in her right hand. He had taken practically no exercise for twenty years, and the pace had told upon him. Constable Gooch, guardian of the town's welfare, tightened his hold on Mr. Megs's arm and desired explanations. He was going to murder me, said Miss Pillinger. Kill him, advised an austere bystander. What do you mean you are going to murder the lady, inquired Constable Gooch? Mr. Megs found speech. I only wanted those letters. What for? They're mine. You charge her with stealing them? He gave them me to post with his own hands, cried Miss Pillinger. I know I did, but I want them back. By this time the Constable, though age had to some extent dimmed his sight, had recognized, beneath the perspiration, features which, though they were distorted, were nevertheless those of one whom he respected as a leading citizen. Why, Mr. Megs, he said. This identification by one in authority calmed if it a little disappointed the crowd. What it was they did not know, but it was apparently not a murder, and they began to drift off. Why don't you give Mr. Megs his letters when he asks you, ma'am? Said the Constable, Miss Pillinger drew herself up haughtily. Here are your letters, Mr. Megs. I hope we shall never meet again. Mr. Megs nodded. That was his view, too. All things worked together for good. The following morning Mr. Megs awoke from a dreamless sleep with a feeling that some curious change had taken place in him. He was abominably stiff, and to move his limbs was pain, but down in the center of his being there was a novel sensation of lightness. He could have declared that he was happy. Winsing, he dragged himself out of bed and limped to the window. He threw it open. It was a perfect morning. A cool breeze smote his face, bringing with it pleasant scents and the soothing sound of God's creatures beginning a new day. An astounding thought struck him. Why, I feel well. Then another. It must have been the exercise I took yesterday. By George, I'll do it regularly. He drank in the air luxuriously. Inside him the wildcat gave him a sudden claw, but it was a half-hearted effort, the effort of one who knows that he is beaten. Mr. Megs was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not even notice it. London, he was saying to himself, one of these physical culture places, comparatively young man, put myself in their hands. Mild regular exercise. He limped to the bathroom. End of A Sea of Troubles by PG Woodhouse. This recording is in the public domain. Settling on the land. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Bergoyne. Settling on the land by Henry Lawson. The worst bore in Australia just now is the man who raves about getting the people on the land and buttonholes you in the street with a little scheme of his own. He generally does not know what he is talking about. There is in Sydney a man named Tom Hopkins who settled on the land once and sometimes you can get him to talk about it. He did very well at his trade in the city years ago until he began to think that he could do better upcountry. Then he arranged with his sweetheart to be true to him and wait whilst he went west and made a home. She drops out of the story at this point. He selected on a run at Dry Hole Creek and for months awaited the arrival of the government surveyors to fix his boundaries, but they didn't come. And as he had no reason to believe they would turn up within the next 10 years, he grubbed and fenced at a venture and started farming operations. Does the reader know what grubbing means? Tom does. He found the biggest, ugliest and most useless trees on his particular piece of ground, also the greatest number of Adam and team stumps. He started without experience or with very little, but with plenty of advice from men who knew less about farming than he did. He found a soft place between two roots on one side of the first tree, made a narrow, irregular hole and burrowed down till he reached a level where the tap root was somewhat less than four feet in diameter and not quite as hard as flipped. Then he found he hadn't room to swing the axe. So he heaved out another ton or two of earth and rested. Next day, he sunk a shaft on the other side of the gum. And after tea, over a pipe, it struck him that it would be a good idea to burn the tree out and so use up the logs and lie to rubbish lying round. So he widened the excavation, rolled in some logs and set fire to them with no better result than to scorch the roots. Tom persevered. He put the trace harness on his horse, drew in all the logs within half a mile and piled them on the windward side of that gum. And during the night, the fire found a soft place and the tree burned off about six feet above the surface, falling on a squatter's boundary fence and leaving the ugliest kind of stump to occupy the selector's attention, which it did for a week. He waited till the whole cool and then he went to work with pick shovel and axe. And even now he gets interested in drawings of machinery, such as are published in the agricultural weeklies for getting out stumps without graft. He thought he would be able to get some posts and rails out of that tree, but found reason to think that a cast iron column would split sooner and straighter. He traced some of the surface roots to the other side of the selection and broke most of his trace chains trying to get them out by horsepower. So they had other roots going down from underneath. He cleared a patch in the course of time. And for several seasons, he broke more player shares than he could pay for. Meanwhile, the squatter was not idle. Tom's tent was robbed several times. And his hut burnt down twice. Then he was charged with killing some sheep and a steer on the run and converting them to his own use. But got off mainly because there was a difference of opinion between the squatter and the other local JP concerning politics and religion. Tom plowed and sowed wheat, but nothing came up to speak of. The ground was too poor. So he carted stable manure six miles from the nearest town, manure the land, sowed another crop and prayed for rain. It came. It raised a flood which washed the crop, clean off the selection, together with several acres of manure and a considerable portion of the original surface soil. And the water brought down enough sand to make a beach and spread it over the field to a depth of six inches. The flood also took half a mile of fencing from along the creek bank and landed it in a bend three miles down on a dummy selection where it was confiscated. Tom didn't give up. He was energetic. He cleared another piece of ground on the siding and sowed more wheat. It had the rust in it or the smut and average three shillings per bushel. Then he sowed lucen and oats and bought a few cows. He had an idea of starting a dairy. First the cows eyes got bad and he sought the advice of a German cocky and acted upon it. He blew powdered alum through paper tubes into the bad eyes and got some of it snorted and butted back into his own. He cured the cows eyes and got the sandy blight in his own. And for a week or so he couldn't tell one end of a cow from the other, but sat in a dark corner of the hut and groaned and soaked his glued eyelashes in more water. Germany stuck to him and nursed him and saw him through. Then the milkers got bad others and Tom took his life in his hands whenever he milked them. He got them all right presently and butter fell to four pence a pound. He and the aforesaid cocky made arrangements to send their butter to a better market and then the cows contracted a disease which was known in those parts as Pluriprimonia, but generally referred to as the Plura. Again Tom sought advice acting upon which he slipped the cow's ears, cut their tails half off to bleed them, and poured pints of painkiller into them through their nostrils. But they wouldn't make an effort except perhaps to rise and poke the selector when he tried to tempt their appetites with slices of immature pumpkin. They died peacefully and persistently until all were gone, so the certain dangerous baron slab sided loony bovine with white eyes and much agility in jumping fences who was known locally as Queen Elizabeth. Tom shot Queen Elizabeth and turned his attention to agriculture again. Then his plough horses took bad with something the tooton called deshrangles. He submitted them to a course of treatment in accordance with Jacob's advice and they died. Even then Tom didn't give in. There was grit in that man. He borrowed a broken down stray horse in return for its keep, coupled it with his own old riding hack, and started to finish plowing. The team wasn't a success. Whenever the draught horse's knees gave way and he stumbled forward he juiced the lighter horse back into the plough and something would break. Then Tom would blaspheme till he was refreshed, mend up things with wire and bits of clothesline, fill his pockets with stones to throw at the team and start again. Finally he hired a dummy's child to drive the horses. The brat did his best he tugged at the head of the team, prodded it behind. He rocked at it, cut a sapling, got up his enthusiasm, and wildly whacked the light horse whenever the other showed signs of moving. But he never succeeded in starting both horses at one and the same time. Moreover the youth was cheeky and the selector's temper had been soured. He cursed the boy along with the horses, the plough, the selection, the squatter, and Australia. Yes he cursed Australia. The boy cursed back, was chestised, and immediately went home and brought his father. Then the dummy's dog tackled the selector's dog and this precipitated things. The dummy would have gone under had his wife not arrived on the scene with the eldest son and the rest of the family. They all fell foul of Tom. The woman was the worst. The selector's dog chored the other and came to his master's rescue just in time, or Tom Hopkins would never have lived to become their inmate of a lunatic asylum. Next year there happened to be good grass on Tom's selection and nowhere else and he thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to get a few poor sheep and fatten them up for market. Sheep were selling for about seven and sixpence a dozen at that time. Tom got a hundred or two but the squatter had a man stationed at one side of the selection with dogs to set on the sheep directly. They put their noses through the fence. Tom's was not a sheep fence. The dogs chased the sheep across the selection and into the run again on the other side where another man waited ready to pound them. Tom's dog did his best but he felt sick while chewing up the fourth capitalistic canine and subsequently died. The dummies had robbed that kerr with poison before starting it across. That was the only way they could get a Tom's dog. Tom thought the two might play at the game and he tried but his nephew who happened to be up from the city on a visit was arrested at the instigation of the squatter for alleged sheep stealing and sentenced to two years hard during which time the selector himself got six months for assaulting the squatter with intent to do him grievous bodily harm which indeed he more than attempted. If a broken nose a fractured jaw and the loss of most of the squatter's teeth amounted to anything. The squatter by this time had made peace with the other local justice and had become his father-in-law. When Tom came out there was little left for him to live for but he took a job offencing, got a few pounds together and prepared to settle on the land some more. He got a missus and a few cows during the next year. The missus robbed him and ran away with the dummy and the cows died in the drought or were impounded by the squatter while on their way to water. Then Tom rented an orchard up the creek and a hail storm destroyed all the fruit. Germany happened to be represented at the time Jacob having sought shelter at Tom's but on his way home from town. Tom still leaning against the doorpost with the hail beating on him through it all. His eyes were very bright and very dry and every breath was a choking sob. Jacob let him stand there and sat inside with a dreamy expression on his hard face thinking of childhood and fatherland perhaps. When it was over he led Tom to a stool and said you wait there Tom I must go home for some dings. You sit there still and wait twenty minutes. Then he got on his horse and rode off muttering to himself dot man must cry dot man must cry. He was back inside of twenty minutes with a bottle of wine and a cornet under his overcoat. He poured the wine into two pint pots made Tom drink drank himself and then took his cornet stood up at the door and played a German march into the rain after the retreating storm. The hail had passed over his vineyard and he was a ruined man too. Tom did cry and was all right he was a bit disheartened but he did another job of fencing and was just beginning to think about putting in a few vines and fruit trees when the government surveyors whom he'd forgotten all about had a resurrection and came and surveyed and found that the real selection was located amongst some barren ridges across the creek. Tom reckoned it was lucky he didn't plant the orchard and he set about shifting his home and fences to the new site but the squatter interfered at this point entered into possession of the farm and all on it and took action against the selector for trespass laying the damages at 25 pound. Tom was admitted to the lunatic asylum at Parramatta next year and the squatter was sent there the following summer having been ruined by the drought the rabbits the banks and a warring. The two became very friendly and had many a sociable argument about the feasibility or otherwise of blowing open the floodgates of heaven in a dry season with dynamite. Tom was discharged a few years since he knocks about certain suburbs a great deal he is seen in daylight seldom and at night mostly in connection with the dray and a lantern he says his one great regret is that he wasn't found to be of unsound mind before he went up country. End of Settling on the Land by Henry Lawson. This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org this reading by Deborah Lin in Northern Lower Michigan March 2007 The Sorrows of a Summer Guest from Frenzied Fiction by Stephen Leacock. Let me admit as I start to write that the whole thing is my own fault I should never have come I knew better I have known better for years I have known that it is sheer madness to go and pay visits in other people's houses yet in a moment of insanity I have let myself in for it and here I am there is no hope no outlet now till the first of September when my visit is to terminate either that or death I do not greatly care which I write this where no human eye can see me down by the pond they call it the lake at the foot of Beverly Jones's estate it is six o'clock in the morning no one is up for a brief hour or so there is peace but presently Miss Larkspur the jolly English girl who arrived last week will throw open her casement window and call across the lawn hello everybody what a ripping morning and young Poppleson will call back in a Swiss yodel from somewhere in the shrubbery and Beverly Jones will appear on the piazza with big towels around his neck and shout who's coming for an early dip and so the day's fun and jollity heaven help me well begin again presently they will all come trooping into breakfast in colored blazers and fancy blouses laughing and grabbing at the food with mimic rudeness and bursts of hilarity and to think that I might have been breakfasting at my club with the morning paper propped against the coffee pot in a silent room in the quiet of the city I repeat that it is my own fault that I am here for many years it had been a principle of my life to visit nobody I had long since learned that visiting only brings misery if I got a card or telegram that said won't you run up to the Adirondacks and spend the weekend with us I sent back word no not unless the Adirondacks can run faster than I can are words to that effect if the owner of a country house wrote to me our man will meet you with a trap any afternoon that you care to name I answered in spirit at least no he won't not unless he has a bear trap or one of those traps in which they catch wild antelope if any fashionable lady friend wrote to me in the peculiar jargon that they use can you give us from July the 12th at half after three till the 14th at four I replied madam take the whole month take a year but leave me in peace such at least was the spirit of my answers to invitations in practice I used to find it sufficient to send a telegram that read crushed with work impossible to get away and then stroll back into the reading room of the club and fall asleep again but my coming here was my own fault it resulted from one of those unhappy moments of expansiveness such as a cur I imagined everybody moments when one appears to be something quite different from what one really is when one feels oneself a thorough good fellow sociable merry appreciative and finds the people around one the same such moods are known to all of us some people say that it is the super self asserting itself others say it is from drinking but let it pass that at any rate was the kind of mood that I was in when I met Beverly Jones and when he asked me here it was in the afternoon at the club as I recall that we were drinking cocktails and I was thinking what a bright genie old fellow Beverly Jones was and how completely I had mistaken him for myself I admit it I am a brighter better man after drinking two cocktails than at any other time quicker kindly or more genial and higher morally I had been telling stories in that inimitable way that one has after two cocktails in reality I only know four stories and a fifth that I don't quite remember but in moments of expansiveness they feel like a fund or flow it was under such circumstances that I sat with Beverly Jones and it was in shaking hands at leaving that he said I do wish old chap that you could run up to our summer place and give us the whole of august and I answered as I shook him warmly by the hand my dear fellow I'd simply loved you by God then it's a go he said you must come up for august and wake us all up wake them up ye gods me wake them up one hour later I was repenting of my folly and wishing when I thought of the two cocktails that their prohibition wave could be hurried up so as to leave us all high and dry bone dry silent and unsociable then I clung to the hope that Beverly Jones would forget but no in due time his wife wrote to me they were looking forward so much she said to my visit they felt she repeated her husband's ominous phrase that I should wake them all up what sort of alarm clock did they take me for anyway ah well they know better now it was only yesterday afternoon that Beverly Jones found me standing here in the gloom of some cedar trees beside the edge of the pond and took me back so quietly to the house that I realized he thought I meant to drown myself so I did I could have stood it better my coming here I mean if they hadn't come down to the station in a body to meet me and one of those long vehicles with seats down the sides silly-looking men in colored blazers and girls with no hats all making a hullabaloo of welcome we are quite a small party Mrs. Beverly Jones had written small great heavens what would they call a large one and even those at the station turned out to be only half of them there were just as many more all lined up on the piazza of the house as we drove up all waving a full welcome with tennis rackets and golf clubs small party indeed why after six days there are still some of the idiots whose names I haven't got straight that fool with a fluffy mustache which is he and that jackass that made the salad at the picnic yesterday is he the brother of the woman with the guitar or who but what I mean is there is something in that sort of noisy welcome that puts me to the bad at the start it always does a group of strangers all laughing together and with a set of catch words and jokes all their own always throws me into a fit of sadness deeper than words I had thought when mrs. Beverly Jones said a small party she really meant small I had had a mental picture of a few sad people greeting me very quietly and gently and of myself quiet too but cheerful somehow lifting them up with no great effort by my mere presence somehow from the very first I could feel that Beverly Jones was disappointed in me he said nothing but I knew it on that first afternoon between my arrival and dinner he took me about his place to show it to me I wish that at some proper time I had learned just what it is that you say when a man shows you about his place I never knew before how deficient I am in it I am all right to be shown an iron and steel plant or a soda water factory or anything really wonderful but being shown a house and grounds and trees things that I've seen all my life leaves me absolutely silent these big gates said Beverly Jones we only put up this year oh I said that was all why shouldn't they put them up this year I didn't care if they'd put them up this year or a thousand years ago we had quite a struggle he continued before we finally decided on sandstone you did a I said there seemed nothing more to say I didn't know what sort of struggle he meant or who fought who and personally sandstone or soapstone or any other stone is all the same to me this lawn said Beverly Jones we laid down the first year we were here I answered nothing he looked me right in the face as he said it and I looked straight back at him but I saw no reason to challenge his statement the geraniums along the border he went on I rather an experiment they're Dutch I looked fixedly at the geraniums but never said a word they were Dutch all right why not they were an experiment very good let them be so I know nothing in particular to say about a Dutch experiment I could feel that Beverly Jones grew depressed as he showed me round I was sorry for him but unable to help I realized that there were certain sections of my education that had been neglected how to be shown things and make appropriate comments seems to be an art in itself I don't possess it it is not likely now as I look at this pond that I ever shall yet how simple a thing it seems when done by others I saw the difference at once the very next day the second day of my visit when Beverly Jones took round young popleton the man that I mentioned above who will presently give a swiss yodel from a clump of laurel bushes to indicate that the day's fun has begun popleton I had known before slightly I used to see him at the club in club surroundings he always struck me as an ineffable young ass loud and talkative and perpetually breaking the silence rules yet I have to admit that in his summer flannels and with a straw head on he can do things that I can't these big gates began Beverly Jones as he showed popleton round the place with me trailing beside them we only put up this year popleton who has a summer place of his own looked at the gates very critically now do you know what I'd have done with those gates if they were mine he said no said Beverly Jones I'd have set them two feet wider apart they're too narrow old chap too narrow popleton shook his head sadly at the gates we had quite a struggle said Beverly Jones before we finally decided on sandstone I realized that he had one in the same line of talk that he always used I resented it no wonder it was easy for him great mistakes at popleton too soft look at this here he picked up a big stone and began pounding at the gate post see how easily it chips smashes right off look at that the whole corner knocks right off see Beverly Jones entered no protest I began to see that there is a sort of understanding a kind of free masonry among men who have summer places one shows his things the other runs them down and smashes them this makes the whole thing easy at once Beverly Jones showed his lawn your turf is all wrong old boy said popleton look it has no body to it see I can kick holes in it with my heel look at that and that if I had on stronger boots I could kick this lawn all to pieces these geraniums along the border said Beverly Jones I rather an experiment they're Dutch but my dear fellow said popleton you've got them set in wrongly they ought to slope from the sun you know never to it wait a bit here he picked up a spade that was lying where a gardener had been working I'll throw a few out notice how easily they come up oh that fellow broke their app too there I won't bother to reset them but tell your man to slope them over from the sun that's the idea Beverly Jones showed his new boat house next and popleton knocked a hole in the side with a hammer to show that the lumber was too thin if that were my boat house he said I'd rip the outside clean off it and use shingle and stucco it was I noticed poppletons plan first to imagine Beverly Jones's things his own and then to smash them and then give them back smashed to Beverly Jones this seemed to please them both apparently it is a well understood method of entertaining a guest and being entertained Beverly Jones and popleton after an hour or so of it were delighted with one another yet somehow when I tried it myself it failed to work do you know what I would do with that cedar summer house if it was mine I asked my host the next day no he said I'd knock the thing down and burn it I answered but I think I must have said it too fiercely Beverly Jones looked hurt and said nothing not that these people are not doing all they can for me I know that I admit it if I should meet my end here and if to put the thing straight out my lifeless body is found floating on the surface of this pond I should like there to be documentary evidence of that much they are trying their best this is Liberty Hall Mrs. Beverly Jones said to me on the first day of my visit we want you to feel that you are to do absolutely as you like absolutely as I like how little they know me I should like to have answered madam I have now reached a time of life when human society at breakfast is impossible to me when any conversation prior to 11 a.m must be considered out of the question when I prefer to eat my meals in quiet or with such mild hilarity as can be got from a comic paper when I can no longer wear nanking pants and colored blazer without a sense of personal indignity when I can no longer leap and play in the water like a young fish when I do not yodel cannot sing and to my regret dance even worse than I did when young and when the mood of mirth and hilarity comes to me only as a rare visitant shall we say at a burlesque performance and never as a daily part of my existence madam I am unfit to be a summer guest if this is liberty hall indeed let me oh let me go such as the speech that I would make if it were possible as it is I can only rehearse it to myself indeed the more I analyze it the more impossible it seems for a man of my temperament at any rate to be a summer guest these people and I imagine all other summer people seem to be trying to live in a perpetual joke everything all day has to be taken in a mood of uproarious fun however I can speak of it all now in quiet retrospect and without bitterness it will soon be over now indeed the reason why I have come down at this early hour to this quiet water is that things have reached a crisis the situation has become extreme and I must end it it happened last night Beverly Jones took me aside while the others were dancing the foxtrot to the victrola on the piazza we're planning to have some rather good fun tomorrow night she said something that will be a good deal more in your line than a lot of it I'm afraid has been up here in fact my wife says that this will be the very thing for you oh I said we're going to get all the people from the other houses over and the girls this term Beverly Jones uses to mean his wife and her friends are going to get up a sort of entertainment with charades and things all impromptu more or less of course oh I said I saw already what was coming and they want you to act as a sort of master of ceremonies to make up the gags and introduce the different stunts and all that I was telling the girls about that afternoon at the club when you were simply killing us all with those funny stories of yours and they're all wild over it wild I repeated yes quite wild over it they say it will be the hit of the summer Beverly Jones shook hands with great warmth as we parted for the night I knew that he was thinking that my character was about to be triumphantly vindicated and that he was glad for my sake last night I did not sleep I remained awake all night thinking of the entertainment in my whole life I have done nothing in public except once when I presented a walking stick to the vice president of our club on the occasion of his taking a trip to Europe even for that I used to rehearse to myself far into the night sentences that began this walking stick gentlemen means far more than a mere walking stick and now they expect me to come out as a merry master of ceremonies before an assembled crowd of summer guests but never mind it is nearly over now I have come down to this quiet water in the early morning to throw myself in they will find me floating here among the lilies some few will understand I can see it written as it will be in the newspapers what makes the sad fatality doubly poignant is that the unhappy victim had just entered upon a holiday visit that was to have been prolonged throughout the whole month needless to say he was regarded as the life and soul of the pleasant party of holiday makers that had gathered at the delightful country home of mr. and mrs. Beverly jones indeed on the very day of the tragedy he was to have taken a leading part in staging a merry performance of charades and parlor entertainment a thing for which his genial talents and overflowing high spirits rendered him specially fit when they read that those who know me best will understand how and why I died he had still over three weeks to stay there they will say he was to act as the stage manager of charades they will shake their heads they will understand but what is this I raise my eyes from the paper and I see Beverly jones hurriedly approaching from the house he is hastily dressed with flannel trousers and a dressing gown his face looks grave something has happened thank god something has happened some accident some tragedy something to prevent the charades I write these few lines on a fast train that is carrying me back to new york a cool comfortable train with a deserted club car where I can sit in a leather armchair with my feet up on another smoking silent and at peace villages farms and summer places are flying by let them fly I too am flying back to the rest and quiet of the city old man Beverly jones said as he laid his hand on mine very kindly he is a decent fellow after all is jones they're calling you by long distance from new york what is it I asked or tried to gas it's bad news old chap fire in your office last evening I'm afraid a lot of your private papers were burned robinson that's your senior clerk isn't it seems to have been on the spot trying to save things he's badly singed about the face and hands I'm afraid you must go at once yes yes I said at once I know I've told the man to get the trap ready right away you've just time to catch the seven ten come along right I said I kept my face as well as I could trying to hide my exaltation the office burnt fine robinson singed glorious I hurriedly packed my things and whispered to Beverly jones farewell messages for the sleeping household I never felt so jolly and facetious in my life I could feel the Beverly jones was admiring the spirit and pluck with which I took by misfortune later on he would tell them all about it the trap ready hurrah goodbye old man hurrah all right I'll telegraph right you are goodbye hip hip hurrah here we are train right on time just these two bags porter and there's a dollar for you what merry merry fellows these darky porters are anyway and so here I am in the train safe bound for home in the summer quiet of my club well done for robinson I was afraid that it had missed fire or that my message to him had gone wrong it was on the second day of my visit that I sent word to him to invent an accident something anything to call me back I thought the message had failed I had lost hope but it is all right now though he certainly pitched the note pretty high of course I can't let the Beverly jones is know that it was a put up job I must set fire to the office as soon as I get back but it's worth it and I'll have to sing robinson about the face in hands but it's worth that too end of the sorrows of a summer guest