 CHAPTER XVIII I saw the only once, dear boy, and it may be perchance, that nere again on earth my eyes shall meet thy gentle glance. Years have gone by since then, and thou no longer art the child with earnest eye, and frolic laugh and look so clear and mild. For thee the smiles and tears and sports of infancy are gone, and youth's bright promise, gliding into manhood, has come on, and yet thine image as a child will ever stay with me as bright as when so long ago I met and welcomed thee. What was the charm that lay enshrined within thy smiling eyes? What made me all thy childish winning ways so dearly prized? It was thy likeness to another, one whose looks of love, no longer blessing earth were met by angel eyes above. Yet thou hadst not the golden hair, the brow of radiant white, nor the blue eyes so soft and deep like violet's dewy bright. But the smiles that played about thy mouth, the sweetness in thine eyes, the dimpling cheek that said, within a sunny spirit lies, the true and open brow, the bird-like voice so free and clear, the glance that told I have not learned the meaning yet of fear, and more than all the trusting heart so lavish of its treasure, in simple faith its earnest love bestowing without measure. These, more than lines and colors, made a picture warm and bright of one whose face no more might cheer and bless my earthly sight. The nature, beautiful and pure he carried to the skies, has been trained by angel teaching, has been watched by seraph eyes. Dear boy, through this cold world thy earthbound feet have trod, and now is the loving heart still thine, as kept that true and open brow, end of to Stephen. After nineteen of autumn leaves, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Autumn Leaves, edited by Anna Whales Abbott. The Old Church There are certain old-fashioned people who find fault with the luxuriousness of our churches, and describe to the warmth and comfort, which contrasts so strongly with the hardships of early times, the acknowledged sleepiness of modern congregations. For my part, I see no necessary connection between discomfort and devotion. My soul at least sympathizes so much with its physical adjunct, that when the latter is uncomfortable, the former is never quite free and active. Let me call to remembrance the church my childhood knew, with its capacious square pews, in which half the audience turned their backs upon the minister. The seats made to rise and fall for the convenience of standing, and which closed every prayer with a clap of thunder. Its many aisles like streets and lanes, the old men's seats, and the queer but venerable figures that were seen in them, some with black silk caps to protect their bald heads from the freezing draughts of air from the porchless doors, the old women's seats on the opposite side, the elevated rows of pews round the sides of the church, and the envied position of certain little children, who had an extensive prospect through the open putop within doors, and a view of the hayscales and the town pumped through the window besides. Those windows, in a double row with the gallery between, how regularly I counted the small pains, always forgetting the number, to make the same weary task necessary every Sunday. The singing seats, projecting from the central portion of the gallery, furnished me with another hebdomidal study, in large gilt letters of antique awkwardness, which so impressed themselves on my mind that I see them now. This was the golden legend, built 1770, enlarged 1795. I remember hearing a wag proposed to add as another remarkable fact. Scoured, 1818. Opposite to the singing seats towered the pulpit, from which the clergyman looked down upon us like a sparrow upon the housetop. He seemed in perpetual danger of being extinguished by a huge sounding board. Very earnestly, I used to gaze at the slender point by which it hung suspended and wished, if it must come down, that I might make the gilt ornament at the apex, resembling a base turned upside down, my prize. Under the pulpit was a closet, which someone voraciously assured me was the place where the tithing man imprisoned in cautiously playful urchins. The terrors of that dark, mysterious cell had little effect on my conduct, however, as I was not entirely convinced of the existence of any such links-eyed functionary. The largest church in the county it was, however well filled, many of the congregation coming five and some even six miles, and remaining there through the noon intermission which, on their account, was made as short as possible. But in winter the vast airy space had a peculiar and searching chill. No barn could be colder, except that the numerous footstove made some little change in the air during service. The minister stood upon a heated slab of soapstone. I used to watch this in its progress up the broad aisle and the pulpit stairs under the arm of the boy from the parsonage, and the irreverent way in which he made his descent in view of the assembly after depositing his burden was thus rebuked by an old lady who was always droll and quaint. Why, Matthew, when you come down the pulpit stairs of a Sunday, you throw up your heels like a horse coming out of a stable door. Holder grew the church and Colder, and if people then stayed at home on Sunday afternoons they had a better excuse for doing so than their successors can muster. The chorister even was, frequently among the missing, but was charitably supposed to be subject to the Agu. Efforts were made to prevail upon the elderly part of the parish to permit the introduction of stoves with long funnels. They scorned the innervating luxury. Their fathers had worshipped in the cold, and their sons might. But ah, how degenerate were the descendants of the noble old Puritan churchgoers! The services curtailed to half their proper length, yet finding the patience of the listeners all too short. The degenerate descendants carried the day, however. The most bigoted of their opposers becoming disabled by rheumatism, the old sexton, resignation to inevitable evils being a lesson he had had much opportunity to learn, submitted with a good grace, though very much of the opinion that fires in a church were an absurdity and a waste. The stoves were provided, and an uncommonly full attendance the next Sabbath showed the very general interest the matter had excited. How would it seem? Would any one faint? There was by no means a superabundance of heat. There was something wrong, but the lack of warmth was a hundredfold made up in smoke. No one could see across the church. And the minister loomed up as if in a dense fog. All eyes were fountains of tears. At last the old sexton went with a slow and subdued step up to the pulpit and, wiping his eyes, respectfully inquired in a whisper, whether there was not a little too much smoke. This suggestion being very smilingly assented to, he proceeded to extinguish the fires, and for that day the services were not indebted to artificial warmth to promote their effect. How sad are improvements in places to which our childish recollections cling. The gushing fullness of unchilled love is lavished even on inanimate and senseless things in a happy childhood. How was my heart grieved when the old-fashioned meeting-house was converted into the modern temple? Time and decay had rendered the tall spire unsafe, yet it fall by force and premeditated purpose seemed a sacrilege. I felt affronted for the huge weather cock, reclining sulkily against a fence no more to point his beak to the east with obstinate preference. I mourned over the broad old-fashioned dial on which young eyes could discern the time a mile off. The old sexton lived to see this change, and at the end of a half-century of care under that venerable roof he went to his rest. The beloved minister and many, many who sat with trustful and devoted hearts under his teachings, are gone to their reward. A board from the old pulpit, a piece of the red damask curtain, and the long wished-for gold vase, are now in my possession. End of THE OLD CHURCH You ask me if her eyes are fair and touched with heaven's own blue, and if I can her cheek compare to the blush-roses' hue. Her clear eyes sheds a constant gleam of truth and purest love, and wit and reason from it beam like the light of the stars above. Good humor, mirth, and fancy throng the dimples of her cheek, and to condemn the oppressor's wrong her indignant blush doth speak. You ask me if her form is light and graceful as the fawn. You ask me if her tresses bright are like the golden dawn. Her step is light on an errand of love. Scarce doth she touch the earth, and in graceful kindness doth she move around her father's hearth. And when to bless his child he bends, his comfort and delight. The silver with her dark hair blends like a crown of holy light. End of SOMETHING THAN BEAUTY, DEARER. CHAPTER XXI OF AUDUMN LEADS This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. AUDUMN LEADS EDITED BY ANNA WALES ABBIT A tale found in the repositories of the abbits of the Middle Ages. Swept from his saddle by a low branch, Count Robert lay stunned upon the ground. The hunting party swept on, the riderless steed galloping wildly among them. No man turned back, not one loved the Count better than his sport. There came to the spot a man in a woodman's garb, yet of a nightly and noble aspect. He bent over the fallen man and bathed his temples, turning back the heavy, clustering locks. The Count, opening his eyes, gazed on him at first without surprise. He thought himself at home, however he came there, so familiar was the face. Then did the woodman embrace him with tears, crying, My brother, oh my brother, it is I, it is Richard. Thou in England, cried the Count, art thou mad? And he frowned gloomily. Fear not for me, replied the exile, tenderly raising the Count from the ground. A narrow path wound through the wood to a ruined hermitage. The outlaw here prepared a bed of leaves for the Count, laid him softly thereon, and went to seek some refreshment. His loved brother might revive, and yet smile kindly on the playmate of his youth, though under a ban. When Richard returned, there followed him like a dog, a horse of the North Country breed, shaggy and in size not much greater than a stag hound. Robert viewed him with surprise, and it seemed with derision. Despise not him who is able to bear thee out of the wood, said Richard. Thou art faint, here is wine, and of no mean vintage. Robert drank from the earthen bottle, and his eye grew brighter, yet looked at not the more lovingly on Richard. He ate right gladly of the store of the landless and penniless, dried venison and otten bread, and was refreshed, yet thanked him not. Richard gave fragments to the neighing steed. He ate no morsel himself, nor tasted the wine. His heart was full to bursting. Tell me of home, of our father, he said at last, with deep strong sobs. On the morrow, on the morrow, said Robert, disposing himself for sleep. Thou wilt hear soon enough. But Richard seized him wildly by the shoulder, and bade him tell the worst. Nay then, if thou wilt know, he is dead. I, thy younger brother, am now thy superior. For that I care not, as well thou as I to sit in my father's seat. But, oh, left he no blessing for me? Did he not at the last believe me the victim of Calumny? Alas, no word, not one dying thought of Richard? He died suddenly. Richard wept long and bitterly, and when, with faltering tongue, he asked tidings of his betrothed, his face was covered. He saw not the guilty flush upon his brother's brow, for that he had spread a lying report of the exile's death. Would Bertha still brave the king's displeasure? Was she yet true to the unfortunate? Bertha is a very woman. She hath forgotten the absent lover and chosen another and a better man. Who, who hath supplanted me? cried Richard fiercely, and springing upon his feet. I tell thee not, lest thou wreak on him thy spite against thy faithless fare. Know that Bertha's choice, though a traitor, is safe from me, even were I, as I was, a man to meet a knight on equal terms. His generous heart could not dream of fraternal treachery, and when his rival saw this, and that he suspected him not as yet, he smiled to himself, turned his face to the wall, and closed his eyes, if so be he might cut off further question. Soon, falling into slumber, he clenched his hands and ground his teeth. The sleep of a traitor is ever haunted by uneasy dreams, and dark shadows of coming doom fell upon his spirit. Richard watched till dawn. Sometimes he started up to walk to and fro, beating his bosom, and ringing his hands in agony. Anon he threw himself prostrate in the stupor of despair. At the first carol of birds in the forest, sleep surprised his weary senses, and the peace of the innocent settled upon his features. Side by side lay the brothers, a like in form, a like even in feature, but in heart they bore no mark of the resemblance of kindred, and via the elderborn early possessed the soul of Robert, like a base-fiend, first had it driven thence love, and lastly honor. Does no one seek for the absent lord of the castle, while the weary hunters return to be his guests? Keeps no one anxious visual the live long night? The unloving is not loved, but he hath a king beneath his roof, a king and lords of high degree sit at the morning board, and shall none but vassals be hospitably proud and busy? Ladies of rank were there, and among them pale and silent sat Bertha, looking on the king it seemed, with an upgrading eye. An angry gloom sat upon his grimly compressed lips, and sadness was upon his brow, for kingly power was not, since remorse could not undo a wrong done to one who no longer lived, and vengeance could not reach its absent object. Richard's innocence had come to light, and Robert, albeit he knew it not, was now the dishonored outlaw. At the clock of the distant minster rung the hour of ten, the royal cavalcade wound from the gates of the castle. At the same hour Count Robert awoke, and saw that the sun was already very high. It shone upon the calmed face of Richard, tempered with quivering shadows from the leafy canopy above. Up, brother Richard, cried the Count, thou wasst ever a sluggard. And Richard, at his bidding, filled his hunting pouch with provisions for the way, and went before, leading the little northern nag which the Count bestrowed. He bore himself bravely under the weight of a rider whose feet nearly grazed the turf on each side. Slowly they wound through the tangled wood. Stay, I will lighten thy burden for thee, said Robert, if thou hast not left the bottle behind. Here is to the fair Bertha. What, thou wilt not drink? Then thou hast resigned her. She is not worth a thought. Thou wilt not peril thy life to see her again, the false one who careth not for thee. Now depart, and when the king's wrath is over past, I will beseech him for thee. Leave thy cause in a brother's hands. But Richard went not back, though when they came to the edge of the wood, they beheld the king's train advancing in the broad highway. Fly, Richard, escape while thou mayest, cried Robert, yet offered he not the horse for the greater speed. Found on English ground, thou dyest a felon's death. Disgrace not thy family. Carest found not for life? He cried, pursuing Richard, who stinted not nor stayed at the sight of the king, but the rather hastened forward. What is life to me, said Richard? Let the king do with me as he will. He strode onward proudly with folded arms, offering himself to the view of Edward, who has yet knew him not or only as a forester. Halt at least that I may spur on and implore for thee, said Robert, for he hoped that he might deliver him a prisoner to someone in attendance, that he should not come to speech of the king. With this wily purpose he galloped forward. A shout arose, the traitor, the traitor! He was made prisoner by no gentle hands, and, at a nod from the king, found himself led away to the rear, but not far removed. He looked about for Richard. Could he not yet wave him back? Should the king see that noble face, he must be moved to mercy, at least so far as to give him audience. The brothers knew not yet that all is reversed. Robert sees a man in russet clothing kneel at the king's stirrup. He sees the royal hand extended to raise him. He sees many press forward, eager to welcome the wanderer. He turns away, sick at the sight. One look more. Bertha has thrown herself into the arms of his hated brother. He tears his beard. He curses his own natal day, and the stars that presided over his birth and destiny. Yet must he look once more, though to an envious soul the sight of a brother's happiness is like the torment of purgatorial fire. Richard is standing with his hand extended towards him. He is pleading the cause of the mean and cowardly enemy who betrayed him. He pities and forgives him. He even loves him still, for is he not his brother? As the eyes of the king and of all the surrounding crowd are turned upon him, burning shame subdues the warring passions that fill the heart of Robert, and a faint emotion of gratitude brings a tear to fall upon his hot cheek. Something of old childish love awakes in his bosom, like dew in a dry land. The king granted Richard's prayer, the more readily because his anger was smothered by contempt. The title and inheritance returned to the heir, who was worthy his ancient name. Robert, to the day of his death, lived on his brother's bounty, harmless, the rather that the king's decree had gone forth, that in no case should he be Richard's successor or inherit ought from him. Note, here ends the tale, but by patient research we have discovered one verse of an ancient ballad supposed to have the same tradition for its subject. It is preserved in a curious collection of fragmentary poetry to be found in most private libraries, and in its more ancient and valuable additions in the repositories of antiquaries. It stands in the modern copy which we possess as follows. Richard and Robert were two pretty men, both laid a bed till the clock struck ten. Up jumps Robert and looks at the sky. A whole brother, Richard, the sun's very high. You go before with the bottle and bag, and I'll come behind on little Jack Nag. End of A Tale Found in the Repositories of the Abbots of the Middle Ages We sent him to school, we sent him to learn a trade, we sent him far back into the country, but it was of no use, he must go to sea. The Grandmother's Story A child was ever haunted by the sort of mystery of the dark shoreless desolate heaving and moaning sea, which round about the cold, still earthed as drifting to and fro, as the mother, holding her dead child, swears her selfish woe. In all the giant bustling hiring of trade, through the horse distracting ding by rattling pavements made, the sounded ever in his ear a low and solemn moan, and his soul gro sick with listening to that deep undertone. He wandered from the busy streets, he wandered far away, where the dim old forest stands and the shadows lay, and listened to the song it sang, but its murmurs seemed to be the whispered echo of the sad, sweet wobbling of the sea. His soul gro sick with longing and shadowy and dim seemed all the beauty of the land and all its joys to him. Its mountains vast, its forests old, he only longed to be a way upon the measureless and phantom-dressless sea, the foam-capped waves he had beat upon the strand, with the low and solemn murmuring that none may understand. And he lies drifting to and fro amid the ocean's roar, with the drifting tide he left to hear, but shall hear nevermore. And thus we all are haunted, the sound is in our ear a low and restless moaning that we struggle not to hear, yet still its sound is the faint cry of the dark depths of the soul, dark, bare and restless as the sea which does for ever roll, hither and tither, bearing still some half-shaped form of good, the flickering shadow of the moon upon the moonlit flood, and ever, with all the joys, very cares of life. Through the deep sleep of sluggishness and clenker of the strife, we hear the low, deep murmuring of infinity, which stretches round as dim and vast as wraps the earth, the sea, and in the twilight dimness, in silence and alone, the soul is almost startled by the power of its solemn tone. When we view the fairest works of nature and of art, the ever-filled alongings never satisfy the heart, but, like the lines of feet and shells that stretch along the beach, and show how far the flowing tide and high waters reach, they seem like barriers to hold back, like weed lines, to show how far into this busy world the waves of beauty flow. Yet when sweet strains of music rise about us, float and play, we almost dream these barriers of sense a broken away, and that the beauty bound before is floating round us, free as the bright cleansing waters of the ever-playing sea, and for a little moment the spirit seems to stand with naked, very forced feet almost upon the strand. But when she stops to reach the wave, the waters glide away, and we spin an unknown tongue, she hears not what they say. End of The Sea, Recording by Ellie, December 2009 Chapter 23 of Autumn Leaves This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Raven Notation Autumn Leaves, edited by Anna Wiles Abbott Fasher Why is it that the introduction of a really graceful fashion is generally met with ridicule and opposition? While ugly modes are adopted with grave acquiescence and reverent submission. Seize thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is? I know that deformed, he goes up and down like a gentleman. Yes, we all know deformed. When any of his family come to us, from England, nor France, or any foreign country, we recognize the hideous brotherhood and extend our welcoming hands. But graceful must stay with us a long time to be greeted kindly, and his sisters from foreign parts are coldly looked upon or dismissed at once. To begin at the top, the very head and front of the offending, a gentleman goes into a fashionable hatters, and the shopman, holding up for admiration a hat with a crown a foot high of the genuine stove pipe form, and a brim an inch wide says, This is the newest style, sir. The gentleman walks home with the ugly thing on his head, but no one stares or laughs. It is a new fashion, but all take it easy. A year later, perhaps, the hatter shows him a thing with a brim a half an inch wider, but rolled up at the sides and a crown of a much greater diameter at the top than where it joins the brim, a specimen of the bell crown. This is solemnly done, and the wearer has the pleasure of knowing that the headgear of all his friends is as hideous as his own. The inverted cone is worn with a sweet malvalio smile, and so deformed has ruled the head of man for as many years as any of us can number, only ringing the changes from one year to another, upon the three degrees of comparison of the word ugly. But a change takes place. A light, graceful, low crowned hat with a brim wide enough for shelter or for shade begins to appear as a fashion, and how is it received? The clergyman thinks it would be very unclerical for him to wear it, though it may be as black and is as modest as the rest of his apparel. The young doctor timidly tries it on, and in his first walk meets their wealthy hypochondriac, his favourite patient, and the one who is trying to introduce him to practice, who seriously advises him, as a friend, not to wear that new fangled thing. If the poor hat had only been ugly, there would have been nothing bad in its new fangled quality, as all his respectable patients will leave him if he dresses so like a fool. The young lawyer gets one because he heard an old lady speak of those impudent-looking hats, and he is in hopes that impudence, which he understands is all important in his profession, and which he is conscious of not possessing, may come with the hat. A lady goes out with her son, who is just old enough to have gained a coat and is looking for his first hat. The mother has taste and judgement, and the youth has yet some unperverted affinity with graceful forms left, and so they choose and buy one of these comfortable and elegant chapeau. Just before they reach home, they meet one of their best friends, a person whom the lady regards most kindly, and the young man admires and respects, and he greets him with, why, Tom, have you got one of those rowdy hats? And so the stiff, stovepipe monstrosity keeps its place, and the only pleasant, sensible, graceful, becoming hat that the nineteenth century has known is called all sorts of bad names, and quiet gentlemen are afraid to wear it. Has it not been the fate of the shawl, too, the most simple and elegant wrapper, and comfortable with all, that a man can throw around him to be scouted and flouted? Yes, deformed! Come on next winter with the white skirt out in your hand, that must fit so tightly that your victims can but just screw themselves into it, with a stiff square collar touching the ears, and seven capes, one over the other, small by degrees, and beautifully less, and all respectable gentlemen will accept it, and virtuously frown down as dandies or rowdies, those who will not sacrifice their shawls to the ugly idol. End of fashion. I know it is generally considered decidedly boorish to utter complaints against the ladies, but I am for the present a bachelor, and in that capacity claim freedom of speech as my peculiar privilege. In virtue of my unhappy position, then I proceed to utter the first of a series of savage growls wishing the ladies to understand me as fully in earnest in this, that when I growl loud, I must be supposed to mean what I growl. For a month past, single gentlemen of every description have suffered in common with other fancy stocks, and have remained hopelessly below par. Those nice, trim, poetical, and polite young boar, who, when no great undertaking agitates the female mind, are treated with kindness, and sometimes with distinction, by young ladies of discretion, or now, as it were, ruthlessly thrust and bolted out of the pale of feminine society by an awful demon who reigns supreme, the genius of dressmaking. The other evening, I pulled sixteen different bell-handles in a gentle manly manner, without obtaining admission into any house for the purpose of making a call, and when I succeeded in making an entrance at the seventeenth door, by falsely representing myself as the agent of a dry-goods dealer with a large box of patterns under my arm, I found the ladies in close conference with three dressmakers, studying a fashion plate with an aciduity worthy of a better cost. A friend of mine who has hitherto enjoyed the privilege of dining every day with six ladies, and has derived from their society great pleasure and profit, informed me yesterday, with a tear in each eye, that he had left the house forever, in the conversation being always turned upon topics with which he is utterly unacquainted and conducted in a language which is about as intelligible to him as the most obstruous Japanese or the most classic, Law Latin. If we are so fortunate as to obtain, by any stratagem, admission to hall or anti-room, in the mansions of our fair friends, our olfactory's are regaled with a fragrance which we instinctively associate with trailer shops and which I am informed, thus in fact arise from the contact of woollen substances with hot flat irons. As we advance, our ears are greeted by the resounding clash of scissors, entering upon the field of action, our eyes are dazzled by a thousand fragments of rich and brilliant years, and our personal safety endangered by swiftly flying needles and unsuspected pins. Gossip is at an end, for the thread must be continually bitten off. Dancing is child's play, a folly of the past. The piano is converted into a table, or an ironing boat. No games can be suggested, but thread my needle and thimble rake. No books are attained but harper with the fashion plate at the end. The newspapers of the day are cut into uncouth shapes, and conversation, when conducted in English, hangs the unsuccessful bloomer reform upon the gibbet of ridicule. Now if we could prevent utter disunion in society, something like a compromise must be affected and to the ladies belongs a laboring ore. I use a metaphor, which implies that they must do something they are little accustomed to do. They must make some concession. We have done all we could do, and I will make one statement which will convince the world that we bachelors are not obstinate without good reason. I confess, though it is not without some slight degree of shame that I own it, that I have, during the last week, consumed the greater part of every day in an effectual study, trying to perfect myself in the terminology of the science of fashion. I have listened attentively, and have gathered into a retentive memory, sundry technicalities. But in vain have I submitted these terms of a strange dialect to the strictest etymological research. In vain have I conversed upon this subject with the most intelligent dry goods dealers. In learning the few idiomatic phrases they employ, I have experienced only the satisfaction which young students in Greek literature feel, when they have, with infinite labour, mastered the alphabet of that rich and copious language. But there is hope. Experience tells us this state of things cannot last forever. A few weeks and our suffering shall be rewarded, our forbearance repaid. Then shall gay streamers, pendant from rejuvenated bonnets, float, as of yore, across our prominence, and on the shoulders of earth's fairest daughters, the variegated mantle be again displayed. The streets, now deserted by the fair, will year-long glitter with a brilliant throng, and our sidewalks be swept once more by the gracefully flowing silk. Taper fingers shall condescendingly be extended to us, the smile of beauty beam on us, the witty speech banish our resentful remembrance of incomprehensible jargon. End of A Growl. Chapter 9 of Autumn Leaves This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Kate McDonald. Autumn Leaves, edited by Anna Wells Abbott. To Jenny Lind, on hearing her singly aria on mighty pens, from the creation. When Hayden first conceived that air divine, the voice that thrilled his inward ear was thine, the lark that even now to heaven's gate springs, and near the sky her earth-born carol sings, poured on his ear a higher, purer note, and heavenly rapture seemed to swell her throat. To him, from groves of paradise, the dove breathed Eden's innocence and Eden's love. As Seraph taught seemed the enchanting lay, the nightingale poured forth at close of day. For yet, nor sin nor sorrow had its birth, to touch is now the sweetest sounds of earth. Yes, as upon his inner sense was born, the melody of that primeval mourn, and all his soul was music. O to him the voice of nature was an angel's hymn. But was there then one human voice that brought, unto his outward ear his own rapt thought? In tones interpreting, in worthy guise, the varied notes of Eden's melodies. O happier we, for unto us, to his given, to hear through thee the strains he caught from heaven. Autumn Leaves, edited by Anna Wales Abbott My Herbarium Poor dry musty flowers, who would believe you ever danced in the wind, drank in the evening doos, and spread sweet fragrance on the air. A touch now breaks your brittle leaves. Your odours are like attic herbs, or green tea, or moldy books. Your forms are bent and flattened into every ugly and distorted shape. Your lovely colours are faded, white changed to black, yellow to dirty white, gorgeous scarlet to brick colour, purple to muddy brown. Poor things, who drew you from your native woods and brooks, to press you flat and dry your moisture up, and paste you down helplessly upon your backs, such mocking shadows of your former grace and beauty? Ah, sorrowfully do I confess it, it was I. In my early years I searched the woods and meadows, scaled rocks, hoarded bogs, and scrutinised each shady thicket with murderous intent. I bore my drooping victims home, and sacrificed them relentlessly to science. With my own hand I turned the screw that crushed out all that was lovely and graceful and delicate about them. How I wearied myself over that flower press. How anxiously I watched over the stiff stalks and shriveled leaves, all that was left. How perseveringly I changed and dried the papers, jammed my fingers between the heavy boards, and blistered my hands with that obstinate screw. And how cordially I hated it all. I liked the fun of gathering the flowers, the triumph of finding new specimens, and the excitement of hazardous scrambles. But as for the rest it was drudgery, which I went through only from a stern sense of duty. Now, thanks to the busy little fingers that passed over these leaves, I have a fund of amusement laid up for me. For every page has its story, and each mutilated flower is the centre of a beautiful picture. Here the ludicrous and the pathetic are so exquisitely blended that I laugh with a regretful feeling at my heart, and sigh even when smiles are on my face. The first few pages are light and joyous, full of a child's warm impulses and ready zeal, and enlivened here and there by some roguish capris. There was a time when, in my simplicity, I loved dandelions and buttercups, and could see beauty even in the common whiteweed of the fields. Ah, here they are, arranged in whimsical positions, clover and sorrel, violets and blue-eyed grass, peppergrass and dock, oh how hard that was to press. Mouse ear and yarrow, shepherds purse, buttercups, and full-blown dandelion, succary and chickweed, and gill run over the ground, with their homeliest names written in sprawling characters all down hill beneath them. I did not aspire to botanical names in those days. I thought nothing was unfit for my new erbarium. Such was my zeal that I believe I should have filled it entirely in a few days if I had not been counseled to make a judicious selection. I had a faculty for bringing home plants impossible to press, and insisting upon making the experiment. I slept for a week with my bedpost tilted up on a huge book, wherein reposed a water lily, obstinately refusing to lie flat. All kinds of woody plants, too, were my delight, though they invariably came out of the press as they went in, except that the leaves were in every variety of unnatural position. I never grew weary, either, of gathering stately and graceful green ferns, and finding them all cockled up as the phrase went, when I got home. I believe I made some experiments on a horse-chestnut blossom once, but as it is not to be found in my erbarium, I am inclined to think they were unsuccessful. How happy children are with any new possession. I thought there never was anything quite equal to my new book. All the girls had them, with neat marbled covers, and white paper within, and each one was determined to make hers the best of the whole. When pasting day came, there was an intense excitement. We all doved our little fingers to our heart's content, and our faces, too, as to that. I remember perfectly the sensation of smiling after the past stiffened. We splattered our desks and painted the wrong side of the flowers, and stuck the leaves together, and got everything a little one-sided, and, in short, became so worried and heated and vexed that we did not hunt for any more flowers for a long time after the first pasting day. In the meanwhile, my ideas had undergone a change. I had become much more ambitious. A new page brings flowers of a higher order, and beneath them, besides the common name, appears a sounding botanical title. I, still more, the class and order are written in full. Poor things! How many of your species must have been pulled to pieces by inexperienced hands to ascertain the exact number of stamens and their relative positions? I feel now a tenderness for the shrinking, delicate wildflowers that makes me hesitate even to pick them from their shady retreats. But then, such was my ardor for investigation, the more I loved them, and the more beautiful they seemed, the more eagerly I tore them to fragments. Let the ingenious student analyze bits of brass wire and reduce to its simple elements as much gunpowder as he pleases, but I raise my voice against this wanton destruction of rare and beautiful flowers. No chemical process can ever restore them. As I glance over this new page, I see a merry troop of little girls crowding around their kind teacher, trying to restrain their superabundant spirits and restless activity till they may give them free scope in the woods. Passing up the street, they are joined by fresh recruits who come dancing out of the houses with baskets and trowels and tin boxes, and delightfully mysterious suppers packed away nicely to be eaten in the most romantic place that can be found, provided there is no danger of snakes or ivy. Where they are going I should find it impossible to say until I have consulted the new leaf just turned over. Here, side by side, are the wild Columbine and the cheerful little Bethlehem star. They grew, I remember, upon Powder House Hill, so named from the massive granite building upon its summit, which we never dared to go near for fear of an explosion. The hill was rough, rocky, barren, and in some places quite steep. In the clefts of the rocks, generally far above our reach, the bright red Columbines stood in groups, drooping their graceful heads. Some of the rocks were worn to a perfect polish by the feet of daring sliders. It was a dangerous pastime, even to the most experienced. A loss of balance, a slight deviation from the beaten track, a trip in a hollow, or a momentary entanglement in your dress, and you are lost. I declined joining in the diversion ever after the first attempt, which was nothing but a headlong plunge from top to bottom. But though I heroically stood aloof while the girls were enjoying the sport and making the air ring with their laughter, I was sure afterwards to come upon the slippery places unintentionally and take a slide whether I would or not. I had, I remember, a most unfortunate propensity for climbing and scrambling, choosing the worst paths and daring the others to follow my lead on precarious footholds. It was unfortunate because I seldom came forth from these trials unscathed. I was always tearing my dresses and clamoring over fences or bumping my head and creeping under. Where others cleared brooks with a light spring, I landed in the middle. I was sure to pick out spongy, oozy, slippery grass to stand upon in marshy land, or was yet more likely to slump through over shoes in black mud. Banks always caved in beneath my feet unexpectedly. Brambles seemed to enter into a conspiracy to lay violent hands on me, and hidden bows lay in wait to trip me up. Moss and bark scaled off the trunks of fallen trees, bearing me with it when I was leased on my guard, or the trunks themselves, solid enough to all appearance, crushed to powder beneath my unwary tread. Even the stone walls deserted me. I made use of one as a bridge one day to reach a golden cow slip that grew temptingly in a swamp. But a treacherous stone rolled off with me, and a perfect avalanche of huge rocks followed, splashing the muddy water all over me as I sat helplessly, buoyed up by the tall grass. I regret to say I forgot the cow slip. End of My Herbarium Chapter 27 of Autumn Leaves This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Autumn Leaves edited by Anna Wales Abbott The Ostrich Of the wild and wayward ostrich, say, have you never heard of the poor, distracted, lonely, outcast and wandering bird, which is not a bird of heaven, nor yet a beast of earth, but ever roveth, homeless, a creature of strange birth? Wings hath it, but it flies not, and yet within its breast are strange and sleepless drivings, so that it may not rest. Half-formed, half-conscious impulses, with its half-formed pinions given, too strong for rest on earth, too weak to bear to heaven, and madly it beats its wings, but vainly against its side, for the light wind rusheth through them, mocking them in its pride. Then distraught it hurries onward, the gates of heaven shut, flying from what it knows not, seeking it knows not what. While in the parching desert, amid the stones and sand, its stone-like eggs are lying here and there on every hand, it wanders on unheeding, and with funereal gloom, trembles in every breeze each torn, disheveled plume. And when, with startled terror, it sees its foes around, its drives to rise above them, but clingeth to the ground. Then on it madly rusheth, with idly fluttering wings, the stones and showers behind it convulsively it flings. Onward and ever onward, the fleetest horses tire, but its strength grows less and less, their trampling ever nier. The poor distracted thing, it feels its lonely birth. It may not rise to heaven, so it cometh to the earth. To the earth as to a mother, since to the earth it must. Its head in her bosom nestled, its eye veiled with her dust. But she will not receive it. From earth and heaven outcast, the ostrich dies as it lived, unfriended to the last. Of the wild and wayward ostrich, say, have you never heard, of the poor distracted, lonely, outcast and wandering bird? But not alone it wandereth, my spirit stirs in me, with a sort of half fraternal and drawing sympathy, this lonely restless spirit that would rise from the heavy ground to the sky of light and love that stretcheth all around. But with all its restless longings, it too must earthbound stay. And with wings half formed for soaring, here hold its weary way, hungering for food of heaven, feeding on dust and stone, while about it lie unheeded as it hasteth on alone, its deeds of good or evil, a fruitful mystery. But it presseth on nor wrecketh what their event may be. And when doubt and fear assaileth, it may not rise above to the glorious peaceful height of fear-outcasting love. But something draws it downward, breathes of its lower birth, prompts it to seek a refuge in the blindness of the earth, and it hides its head in earthliness, at least it will not see, the blow it cannot ward off, and the foe it may not flee. But something softly whispers that these wings shall grow to soar, heaven grant in the cloudless depths of love for evermore. It whispers that again these blinded eyes shall see, heaven grant in their yearning gaze the longsought home may be. It whispers each word, and act shall too fruition spring. Heaven grant they may joy to man, and peace to the spirit bring. Of the wild and wandering ostrich say, Have ye never heard? The type of the restless soul of man, the weary wingless bird. I admire cows in their proper places. They are undoubtedly useful animals. Some may think them handsome and graceful. This is as yet an unsettled question. They certainly figure pretty extensively in all sketches of rural scenery, and may therefore be considered as picturesque objects. But I think that on canvas they take to themselves beauties which they do not possess in actual life. I do not object to see them at a distance, quietly grazing in a meadow by the brink of a winding stream, and all that sort of thing, provided the distance is very great, and a strong fence intervenes. For I would have you know that I am a delicate young lady of nervous temperament and keen sensibilities, and have a mortal dread of cows. I am not used to the customs of country life, which place this animal on a level with domestic pets, and when my brother asked me to pat the side of one of these great coarse brutes, I screamed at the mere idea. For I should be extremely unwilling to provoke one of them, because I have been told that when heated with passion as these beasts often are, it sometimes happens that the powder horns on top of their heads explode, and spread ruin and desolation around. People here bestow a vast deal too much consideration on these unpleasant animals, for they are often seen, that is, those of them that are troubled with weak eyes, walking along the streets with boards over their faces as a protection from the rays of the sun. I don't believe that is the real reason of the thing, though my brother assures me that it is. I think myself that it is intended as a keen satire upon those young ladies who wear veils in the streets, but I never will yield my point. I will wear my veil, so long as I have a complexion worth protecting, and so long as there are gentlemen worth cutting. The Brighton Bridge battery is a delightful promenade on a warm summer's day. It is so shady, but it is closed, I may say, every Wednesday and Thursday, to accommodate these detestable pets of the public. It seems, as my brother informs me, that the drovers from humane considerations are in the habit of driving their cattle over to Brighton when the weather is pleasant, and back again on the next day in order that their health may be improved by the seer which blows up Charles River. Now I think that when the cow takes precedence of the lady and usurps to the utter exclusion of the latter the most delightful promenade in Cambridge, it is time the city authorities should look to it, and so I told my brother. He considered for a moment, and then advised me not to bear it any longer, but to go upon Brighton Bridge in spite of the cows and assert my independence. I followed his advice as I always do, and on one fine afternoon took advantage of the pleasant weather to indulge in a solitary walk in that direction, as I was sauntering along on the wooden sidewalk, gazing at the noble ships which lay moored by their gaff-topsils to the abutments of the bridge, and viewing the honest sailors as they promenaded up and down the string ladders at the command of their captains. My fears were aroused by a distant commotion. I hastily turned and looked over the railing into the street. A whole drove of infuriated cows, urged on by two fiendish boys and a savage dog was rapidly approaching me from the Cambridge side. What should I do? I was too much fatigued to run, and I had never learned to swim. My plans were hastily formed. Flinging my red silk visite and sky-blue parasolette into the water, lest the gay colors should still more enrage the wild animals, I jumped over the outside railing towards the river and hung by one arm over the angry flood during a moment of speechless agony. Oh, they came with lightning speed and a whirlwind of dust, a rapid succession of earthquakes, bellowings, groans, and all was over. I was safe. On inspection of the footmarks, I felt quite sure that some of them must have approached within ten yards of me, and only two railings had intervened between me and their fury. An honest tar from one of the men of war employed in unloading coal at Willard's Wharf took the captain's gig and made for my parasol and visite as they floated away, and returned them with the very unintelligible remark that I'd better not clear the wreck next time, unless it blew more of a breeze. End of Cows Chapter 29 Of Autumn Leaves This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Raven Notation Autumn Leaves edited by Anna Wiles Abbott The Home Beacon by Elkton Wood where Gurgling the Flood impels the foamy mill where quarries loom in solemn gloom and mansion crowns the hill. A pharaoh's true light ever new streams through its friendly pain to guide and greet benighted feet which thread the winding lane. Lofty and lone that light has shone alike all green or snow since first a pair their nests built there 200 years ago. Now as we walk with pleasant talk to cheer the dismal way that light shall tell of marriage bell of moon and merry sleigh. The ancient home to which we come these scenes revealed one night as the beacon true so old yet new flung wide its cheery light. Go back three school long years or more old time the latch shall lift. And from his earn once more return the home of love and thrift. A noble sire with nerves of wire warm heart and open hand a worthy dame nor shroom nor tame bleed forth the phantom band. Three girls three boys with fun and noise next gather round the hearth. Re-enter then dear friends again all full of life and mirth my pretty nuns it is late my sons bring out the sliding car for one fair bride you all must ride the snows both fast and far. First starts away the bridegroom gay nor waits the well-aimed jest to shed and stall they follow all to speed their sire's behest. In full array the spacious sleigh glides through the pillard gate each prancing steed straining to lead draws no unwilling late. Full moon and bright loops up the night above the starry sky runner and heel well shot with steel cut sharply as they fly. Along they go over sparkling snow shrill bells to song after ringing by oak and birch to Gladstone church a bridal party bringing. On time worn walls the moonbeam falls and silvers over the spire while diamond pain and giddy vein repeat the heavenly fire. From lofty tower to maiden's bower and wide over hill and dell of earthly heaven to mortal's given sweet chimes the marriage bell. With open book and solemn look all robed in priestly lawn the rector stands but counts the sands right willing to be gone the evening mail and nut brown ale his pipe and rocking chair are waiting long while the bridal throng still lingers unaware. An ancient gloom fills all the room and dims the lamps above the wall and aisle in verdure smile through wreath and christmas grove by branching pines and graceful vines slow glides the youthful pair to the altar green with brow serene and kneel together there. Soft breathes the vow responsive now in calm but earnest tone the wedding ring strange mystic thing fast binds the twain in one the solemn word no longer heard with chastened steps and slow and heart in heart no more to part to home sweet home they go. Fresh now again oh a snowy main the winged steed's return unruffening rock with shriek and shock the flashing runners burn oh a cradling drift secure though swift now smooth they're rough the track the furious sleigh devours the way as lash and harness crack through foes and wool the air so cool is felt or feared no more although gave the steeds with icy beads and their flanks are frosted over a fitful light scarce yet in sight gleams through the opening wood are now they come to their hillside home in merry merry mood four young girls a string of pearls are found in place of three four daughters fair are gathered there around the christmas tree as roars the fire their loving sire a warmer welcome deals and stooping low on one fair brow his heart's adoption seals a dear abyss a mother's kiss awaits the blushing bride one look above then smiles of love express her joy and pride once more good cheer removes the tear returns the joyous smile soon laughter poured around the board rings through the spacious pile while dance and song employ them long steals in the cold gray dawn back to your urn ye phantoms turn and vanish over the lawn stern low in tears with fatal cheers time scattered all those pearls they fell unstrung old graves among over all the snow wreath curls yet shines that light from lattice bright wide o the grass or snow still all the room its rays elune as when so long ago its arrowy star recalled the car then winding round the wood and lime rock gray threw back the ray across the rapid flood though cold each form their love still warm from half and lattice glows hearts kind and dear yet linger here and bid us to repose the skies are dark no moonbeams mark or warm or travellers way or a rock and wood thick storm clouds brood and doubts our steps delay no beacon lights yet cheers the night how gloom grows the hour ah there it shines in lance-like lines sharp through the misty shower shine on fair star through storms afar still bless the nightly way always the same a vestal flame love shall maintain thy ray end of the home beacon chapter 30 up autumn leaves this is a librivox recording all librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit librivox.org recording by raven notation autumn leaves edited by anna wales abbot the fourth of july it was the anniversary of our glorious fourth the evil genius who specially presides over the destinies of unoffending college boys put it into the heads of five of us to celebrate the day by an excursion by water to neon beach the morning was delightful the cool summer air just refreshing into a steady and favouring breeze the sun tempered in its ferocity by an occasional cloud above us the sea calm and pleasant and all that sort of thing you know just what you want on such occasions and we set sail from brahmins resolved to have a jolly good time i can't describe our passage down it was altogether too full of fun to be written on one sheet suffice it to say we laughed and sang and joked and ate and drank towards when we were young and so on all the way and in fact i felt rather disappointed at arriving so soon as we did at our destined port here new pleasures awaited us in the shape of acquaintances unexpected and unexpected rides on the beach bowling and loafing in general much too rich to be described here and now that there is an end to all sport and hours came quite too soon the shadows had begun to lengthen considerably before we thought of starting on our return and certain ominous indications in the heavens above us warned us that as our passage onwards was not by land further delay was unadvisable dolefully we set our sail and made for boston harbour we began to feel the reaction which always follows the season of extreme joviality and our spirits were down our chief wit tom b who had before kept us in her perpetual roar all the way sat moody and desponding and answered roughly every question put to him speaking only when spoken to and then in monosyllables rarely used in polite circles our other jerker second only to tom the above named having amused us during the whole day by long yarns spun out from a varied experience and a rich imagination they took himself to slumber and tried to dream that he was safe home again the rest of us performed our duties about the boat in gloomy silence looking occasionally with some anxiety at the clouds gathering slowly over our heads but keeping our opinions within our own breasts i had no apprehension of danger for nothing indicated ago in fact the breeze was gradually deserting us all that was to be feared was a calm steady rain which visiting us at a distance of several miles from home and late at night promised anything but an agreeable conclusion to our day's excursion at last it came first a heavy drop then a few more and then a regular straight old fashioned poor our sail hung motionless and we seemed to stand still and take it our companions were soon roused from their abstraction by the very unpleasant circumstances and we hastily took council together unshipped the mast says tom and over with your oars we obeyed our captain sulkily and soon we're moving on again we pulled away for an hour or so drenched with the rain which seemed to come down faster than ever and we're about as miserable and downcast a pack of wretches as ever lived for there is nothing like a good ducking to use the common expression to take the life and spirit out of a man not to mention the other discomforts that attended our situation silently we rode and not a sound was heard above the flashing of the rain upon the surface of the sea and the regular stroke of yours it's very strange that we don't reach old point surely says tom who had been in the lookout for this landmark during the last half hour very strange said we and pulled away as before thus passed another half hour in silent ceaseless occupation when from the mere force of habit i dipped my hand over the boat's gunwell with the hope of cooling my blistered palm in the salt water judge of my surprise when i found my hand immersed in thick black mud by joe fellows cried i where flawed there was no mistake in the fact we were aground at that instant the moon burst out from between the drifting clouds and as if in derision through a streak of light over our melancholy position there we were high and dry on a bank of mud as scooped furrow on each side of us attesting the frantic efforts of our oarsmen to get a headway and a long wake ten feet in extent marking our distance from the sea behind us such was our position as the moon revealed it to us we looked dull fully in one another's faces for three minutes then a grim smile gradually stole over tom's expressive countenance as he slowly ejaculated point surely it is when the ludicrous side of the matter seemed to occur to each of us simultaneously and we indulged ourselves with a roar of laughter the first since we had left my hand of course nothing could be done under the circumstances but we must wait patiently for the rising of the tide to float us off so we sat there in our wet garments until the dead of night when our boat gradually lifted herself off and we started again and finally arrived at brahman's early in the morning the moral of this tale may be summed up in a single word temperance end of the fourth of july chapter 31 of autumn leaves this is a libra vox recording all libra vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit libra vox dot org recording by adrian levitsky autumn leaves edited by anna wales abbot from the papers of reginald redcliffe esquire in college i was the illustrious lazy in my professional studies and avocations i've been so hard driven in order to make up for four idle years that i'm wasted almost to a shadow and fares are entertained that i shall wholly vanish into thin air my physician talks gravely about my having exhausted my nervous energy and sends me to rapora as the place of all others the most favorable for entire intellectual repose i am living with an old aunt tabitha flint who is want to rock me and trot me and wash my face in my helpless infancy and can hardly yet be convinced that i have outgrown such endearing assiduities in the 25 years that i've intervened i let her pet me so far as i find it convenient and indeed father because i feel grateful for the kind feelings of which i am the object there is another person in the household who probably thinks that the exuberant kindness of my aunt i have a full average of civility without the least interest on her part do not for a moment imagine that i'm peaked at her insulting indifference of manner towards a young man who i beg you to believe is not wholly without claim to a glance of approbation now and then from a lady's eye you must not suppose i care at all about the matter but as i have not even a book allowed me to take up my thoughts my curiosity fixes itself strangely upon the silent sulky meditative little person takes about as much notice of me as or the figure of father time of the clock what can such a body have to think about the lifelong day that is so absorbing that all one's bright thoughts and one's most whimsical sellies pass without notice should i see her once move a muscle of her very plain dodgidly and expressive provokingly composed fizz i should jump up and cry oh with surprise she vanishes several hours at a time and i hear her humming to herself sometimes in one room sometimes in another i wish i knew how she amuses herself for i find self amusement the hardest tragedy ever tried i could stamp i am so impatient of doing nothing but lounge about i'm as snappish as a chained kerr as crosses a caged bear while i gnaw my nails and stretch and yawn i hear that contented be like murmur now and then a light rapid step on the stairs or but rooms which i do not frequent what can she find to be so busy about the absurd little person how can she be so happy in this dull house alone there is a piano but as silent as she is i do not see her wince though i drum upon the keys with most ingenious discords and sing false on purpose as loud as i can bellow now a lot ask her if she can play if she can have no air at all or she would box mine in self-defense there is somebody by name flora who's looked for daily by stagecoach flory says my aunt sings like a canary bird and plays a sight and at sight too it seems this miss flora will be found to possess a tongue i hope and the disposition to give it exercise i do not know certainly that miss eddie by the way what is her real name i want condescent to ask any question about her but really i wish i knew whether it is meddable perhaps henry at her no no that is too pretty a name i shall call her little ugly hark i have two or three times heard a very musical laugh in the direction of the kitchen hi ho how can any mortal laugh in rat burrow having nothing better to do i will go and see who this very merry personage may be i will inquire to this gay outbreak in a land of stupidity hark again how refreshing i must have will know what caused such a gush of mirth irish humor perhaps for norah is laughing after her guttural fashion too as i popped my head into the kitchen little ugly was just vanishing the opposite door i could not make norah tell me what miss eddie put under her arm as she looked over her shoulder at me and darted out of sight oh my nosy boots i might as well wear a bell around my neck stageweaves are rattling up the road now they run upon the grass before the door i rush in undignified haste to the window shall i will i go and hope this long expected miss flora to a light no for i see 40 boxes on the couch top a very handsome girl really i will get out a blameless dicky if such there be first impressions are important i wish my hair was cut i hear my aunt coming to inform me of flora's arrival i shall be hugely surprised huh would it be worthwhile to trouble myself about a lot bigger dicky little ugly will be amused if i do she can laugh it seems i had thought there was no fun in her mental composition yet i have imagined a glimmer or so in her eyes when she thought i was not looking at them at the shadow of a dimple in her cheek now and then instead of adenizing i will set my long locks on end and don my slip shot slippers yes aren't i here good lady i will presently arrive to make my bow to little handsome journal september 23rd truly the presence of miss flora cooper makes willow valley a new place at least six hours are taken from the length of the days though i have given up my afternoon slumber and play chess and backgammon instead of drumming on the table or piano now i'm relieved from that tedious companion my own self i never liked him very well i had rather do anything than have a sober talk with a serious personage who always takes me to do for not making more of him he scolds me just as a stay-at-home wife lectures a gay husband whenever returns to his better half when he finds anything to amuse him abroad goodbye old fellow i have found better company than your rememberings or hopings to it miss flora cooper alias little handsome alias aunt tabby's cannery the first day or two after her arrival miss flora pouted at me i was exceedingly well amused making all the saucy speeches i could think of in the pure spirit of mischief and taking no notice of her tossing her pretty head and turning her back upon me finding that her displeasure was not producing any particular effect on the object of it i imagine the indignant beauty begins to plot a different revenge on me miss flora it is not because you like me better than you did that you are all smiles and grace and sunshine i shall not flatter you the more i am determined i am on my guard you shall have a boast of me on your list of obsequious admirers no no little handsome i'm no ladies man never was flirted with all in my life i defy your smiles as stoutly as your frowns i like your pretty face yes it is exceedingly beautiful as far as form and coloring go to make at the beauty of a face and the play of the features yes very lively and pretty only too much of it you should not smile so often and i'm tired of your pretty surprise your playful of brailings and the raps of your fan i want more repose of feature little handsome now what a contrast you and sedate miss eti present are very good i'm glad you've given up following little ugly out of the room the moment we rise from table you sit down to your tiny basket and you merely take out something that passes for work i don't see you do much at it however i give you warning that i never hold skeins to be wound not i i will not read aloud so you need not offer me that sonnet to flora in manuscript nor your pet poet in print we will talk it is a comfort to have my wit appreciated i have to wasting so much on my aunt who cannot and miss eti who will not understand i'm glad to have a chance to speak to hear human voice and answer i like especially to rattle on when any nonsense will do chat is truly agreeable when one's brains are not severely taxed to keep it going september 24 charming little canary i've spent the forenoon with her the piano i like her playing when she does not attempt my favorite tunes it must be confessed she is apt to vary somewhat and not for the better always her singing aunt tabitha will describe it as that of a canary sweet and liquid and clear and sustained but all alike her throat is a fine instrument i shall teach her to use it with more expression and feeling we will have another lesson tomorrow i thought though there was a shadow over her face when i called it practicing eti's eyes were at mine at the moment a rare occurrence what was her thought we cannot read her movable face evening i am booked for a horseback ride with little handsome tomorrow morning how did she make me offer i did not mean to all country goes right i believe i often seem as eti cantering through the shady lanes all by herself i saw the bars down at the end of the track through the wood one day i immediately concluded that little ugly had paced off that way that i need not see her from my window i put the bars up again and laying weight behind the bushes soon i heard her approaching i come forward as she comes near on that red like pony of hers who holds his head down as if searching for something lost in the road i stand in doubt whether to laugh at her predicament or advance in a gentlemanly manner to remove the obstacle i had put in her way when though the absurd little nag clears it at a bound and skims away of the green track like a swallow till he vanishes under the leafy arch i'm left in a very foolish attitude with mouth and eyes wide open now this independent young lady shall be at liberty to take care of herself with no officious interference of mine i'm not invited to join us tomorrow morning as i intended i wonder if any horses are to be procured that are not rats i hope miss flora knows enough to mount her pony for i'm sure i do not know how to help her i hope we shall meet with no disasters i feel certain little handsome would scream like a seagull pull the wrong rain tangle her foot in the stirrup all riding skirt faint fall break her neck oh horrors will not the dear old aunt tabitha forbid her going what a well-proportioned and ladylike figure it was now i think of it how gracefully she sat upon her flying dobbin september 25th rainy glad of it breakfast late miss eti did not appear having been up some hours i imagine what for i wonder what can she be about one thing pleases me and her if aunt tabitha wants any little attention a needle threaded or a dropped stitch taken up miss eti quietly comes to her aid it is so entirely a matter of course the old lady only smiles but any service from flora calls forth an acknowledgement it being a particular effort of good nature and generally the fruit of a direct appeal miss eti talks more than she did too while i am talking nonsense with little handsome i fear her amusing my good auntie and i catch a few words her utterance having a peculiar distinctness and the lowest of tones being fine and clear like those of a good singer on a pianissimo strain here's a peculiar ladylike articulation was she born in bread and rat pro i wonder she never speaks while we're singing does she like music then as to once what sort of answer is yes to such a question and that is all i listed music again the forenoon occupation miss flora does not like being criticized i find one must not presume to set her right in the smallest particular singers are proverbially irritable i'm not certain i could belong to a glee club never get cross or unreasonable i hate to be corrected but i hate more to be incorrect i could give canary a hint or two now and then that would be serpcible if she would permit it i have no right however to take it upon me to instruct her and it puts her in a pet she laughed it off but i saw the mounting color and the flashing glance i am an impudent fellow i suppose honest to boot i think she need not take offense at what was intended as a friendly hell i'm no flatterer at least really i'm hurt that i might not take so trifling liberty in behalf of my favorite song i walk off as often as she sings it can her temper be perfectly good and yet one could not expect i ought not to be surprised yet i can't help thinking suppose just suppose i had a right to find fault suppose i were a near friend would she bear it then supposing she were my companion for life huh that stutters one was i now thinking of it in earnest she is beautiful i should be proud of her abroad but at home at home where there should be confidence would not be constrained must no improvement ever be suggested because it implies imperfection i hope none of my friends will ever be on such terms with me if i am touchy like a nettle may they grasp me hard and fear me not september 26th this little sheet of water in front of the house as the greatest variety of aspects its face is like a human face full of varying expressions a slight haze made it so beautiful just before sunset i took my chair and put it out of the window upon the grass then folded and sat with a tip back against the house close by the window of one of those mysterious rooms where miss eti imures herself i had the canaries saying a scalding tone i should think you might oblige me it is such a trifle to do it is not worth refusing why should you care for him no answer i confess my ears were erected to the sharpest attitude of listening i was wholly oblivious of myself or i should have taken myself away as in on a bound won't you know eti i'll only ask for one of our old duets just one no flora said little ugly codely enough why not no answer to be sure he might hear he would find out that you are musical what of that where is the use of being able to sing to sing only when there's nobody to listen i sing only to friends i cannot sing i have never sung to persons in whom i have no confidence afraid what a little goose not afraid exactly i don't comprehend i am sure i do not expect you should i never did understand you you never will silence again flora tuned up and of all tunes she must needs hum my song i was on my feet in a moment to depart when i heard the clear tones of eti's voice again and stood still with one foot advanced flora you should sharp that third note in the last line flora murdered it again with the most atrocious cold-blooded cruelty i almost mocked the sound aloud in my passion i do not tell you to vex you only i saw that mr ratcliffe you need not trouble yourself about his opinion i knew you would not like it if i told you of a mistake but i supposed you would rectify it and i should have done you a kindness even against your will and i hate you for it a if you can indeed i cannot eti for you are my very best friend but you are a horrid truth telling formidable body why not let me sing on my own way i don't thank you a bit i had rather sing it wrong than be corrected it hurts my pride i think people should take my music as they find it it does not please them they are not obliged to ask me to sing one note wrong can surely be put up with if the rest is worth hearing i shall continue to sing it as i have done i think no please don't if i will mend it when i think of it will you sing a duet yes though it will cost me more than you know oh and flora sang the song without accompaniment the desired sharp rung upon my ears and set my nerves at rest bravo uncle i cried beneath the window and was pelted with peach stones i wonder when this duet is to come off end of from the paper's original ratcliffe esquire part one recording by adrien levitzky