 Magnetism by Guy de Moupazin. 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 Jerry Ratif. Magnetism by Guy de Moupazin. It was a men's dinner party and they were sitting over their cigars and brandy and discussing magnetism. Donato's tricks and Sharco's experiments. Presently, the skeptical, easygoing men who cared nothing for religion of any sort began telling stories of strange occurrences, incredible things which, nevertheless, had really occurred. They said, falling back into superstitious beliefs, clinging to these last remnants of the marvellous, becoming devotees of this mystery of magnetism, defending it in the name of science. There was only one person who smiled, a vigorous young fellow, a great ladies man who was so incredulous that he would not even enter upon a discussion of such matters. He repeated with a sneer, humbug, humbug, humbug. He need not discuss Donato, who is merely a very smart juggler. As for Monsieur Chaco, who is said to be a remarkable man of science, he produces on me the effect of those storytellers of the school of Edgar Poe, who end up by going mad through constantly reflecting on queer cases of insanity. He has authenticated some cases of unexplained and inexplicable nervous phenomena. He makes his way into that unknown region which men are exploring every day and unable always to understand what he sees. He recalls perhaps the ecclesiastical interpretation of these mysteries. I should like to hear what he says himself. The words of the unbeliever will listen to with a kind of pity, as if he had blasphemed in an assembly of monks. One of these gentlemen exclaimed, and yet miracles were performed in olden times. I deny it, replied the other. Why cannot they be performed now? Then each mentioned some fact, some fantastic presentiment, some instance of souls communicating with each other across space, or some case of the secret influence of one being over another. They asserted and maintained that these things had actually occurred. While the skeptic angrily repeated, Humbug, humbug, humbug! At last he rose, threw away his cigar, and with his hands in his pockets said, Well, I also have two stories to tell you, which I will afterwards explain. Here they are. In the little village of Etreta, the men who are all seafaring folk go every year to Newfoundland to fish for cod. One night the little son of one of these fishermen woke up with a start crying out that his father was dead. The child was quieted, and again he woke up exclaiming that his father was drowned. A month later the news came that his father had, in fact, been swept off the deck of his smack by a billow. The widow then remembered how her son had woken up and spoken of his father's death. Everyone said it was a miracle, and the affair caused a great sensation. The dates were compared, and it was found that the accident and the dream were almost coincident, whence they concluded that they had happened on the same night and at the same hour. And there is a mystery of magnetism. The storyteller stopped suddenly. Thereupon one of those who had heard him, much affected by the narrative, asked, And can you explain this? Perfectly, Monsieur, I have discovered the secret. The circumstance surprised me and even perplexed me very much. But you see, I do not believe on principle. Just as others begin by believing, I begin by doubting. And when I cannot understand, I continue to deny that there can be any telepathic communication between souls. Certain that my own intelligence will be able to explain it. Well, I kept on inquiring into the matter, so I didn't of questioning all the wives of the absent semen. I was convinced that not a week passed without one of them, or one of their children, dreaming and declaring when they woke up, that the father was drowned. The horrible and continual fear of this accident makes them always talk about it. Now, if one of these frequent predictions coincides by a very simple chance with the death of the person referred to, people at once declare it to be a miracle, for they suddenly lose sight of all the other predictions of misfortune that have remained unfulfilled. I have myself known fifty cases where the persons who made the prediction forgot all about it a week afterwards. But if then one happens to die, then the recollection of the thing is immediately revived, and people are ready to believe in the intervention of God according to some, and magnetism according to others. One of the smokers remarked, What you say is right enough, but what about your second story? Oh, my second story is a very delicate matter to relate. It happened to myself, and so I don't place any great value on my own view of the matter. An interested party can never give an impartial opinion. However, here it is. Among my acquaintances was a young woman on whom I had never bestowed a thought, whom I'd never even looked at attentively, never taken any notice of. I clasped her among the women of no importance, though she was not bad looking. She appeared in fact to possess eyes, a nose, a mouth, some sort of hair, just a colourless type of countenance. She was one of those beings who awakened only a chance-passing thought, but no special interest, no desire. Well, one night, as I was writing some letters by my fireside before going to bed, I was conscious in the midst of that train of sensuous visions that sometimes pass through one's brain in moments of idle reverie, of a kind of slight influence passing over me, a little flutter of the heart, and immediately, without any cause, without any logical connection of thought, I saw distinctly, as if I were touching her, saw from head to foot, and disrobed this young woman to whom I had never given more than three seconds thought at a time. I suddenly discovered in her a number of qualities which I had never before observed, a sweet charm, a languorous fascination. She awakened in me that sort of restless emotion that causes one to pursue a woman. But I did not think of her long. I went to bed and was soon asleep, and I dreamed. You've all had these strange dreams which make you overcome the impossible, which open to you double-locked doors, unexpected joys, tightly folded arms. Which of us in these troubled, excising, breathless slumbers has not held, clasped, embraced with rapture the woman who occupied his thought? And have you ever noticed what superhuman delight these happy dreams give us? Into what mad intoxication they cast you, with what passionate spasms they shake you, and with what infinite caressing, penetrating tenderness they fill your heart for her whom you hold clasped in your arms in that adorable illusion that is so like reality. All this I felt with unforgettable violence. This woman was mine, so much mine that the pleasant warmth of her skin remained in my fingers, the odour of her skin in my brain, the taste of her kisses on my lips, the sound of her voice lingered in my ears, the touch of her clasped still clung to me, and the burning charm of her tenderness still gratified my senses long after the delight, but this illusion of my awakening. And three times that night I had the same dream. When the day dawned, she haunted me, possessed me, filled my senses to such an extent that I was not one second without thinking of her. At last, not knowing what to do, I dressed myself and went to call on her. As I went upstairs to her apartment, I was so overcome by emotion that I trembled and my heart beat rapidly. I entered the apartment. She rose the moment she heard my name mentioned and suddenly our eyes met in a peculiar, fixed gaze. I sat down. I stammered out some common places which she seemed not to hear. I did not know what to say or do, then abruptly, clasping my arms around her, my dream was realised so suddenly that I began to doubt whether I was really awake. We were friends after this for two years. What conclusion do you draw from it? said a voice. The storyteller seemed to hesitate. The conclusion I draw from it? Well, by Jove. The conclusion is that it was just a coincidence. And then, who can tell? Perhaps it was some glance of hers which I had not noticed and which came back that night to me through one of those mysterious and unconscious recollections that often bring before us things ignored by our own consciousness, unperceived by our minds. Call it whatever you like, said one of his table companions when the story was finished. But if you don't believe in magnetism after that, my dear boy, you are an ungrateful fellow. End of magnetism by Guy de Mopazin Recording by Gerry Ratiff, Derban, South Africa Pigs is Pigs by Ellis Parker Butler. 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 Gerry Ratiff. Pigs is Pigs by Ellis Parker Butler. Mike Flannery, the Westcote agent of the Interurban Express Company, leaned over the counter of the express office and shook his fist. Mr. Morehouse, angry and red, stood on the other side of the counter trembling with rage. The argument had been long and heated and at last Mr. Morehouse had talked himself speechless. The cause of the trouble stood on the counter between the two men. It was a soapbox across the top of which were nailed a number of strips, forming a rough but serviceable cage. In it, two spotted guinea pigs were greedily eating lettuce leaves. Do as you like, then, shouted Flannery. Don't pay for them and take them or don't pay for them and leave them be. Rules is rules, Mr. Morehouse, and Mike Flannery's not going to be called down for breaking of them. But you everlasting stupid idiot! shouted Mr. Morehouse, madly shaking a flimsy printed book beneath the agent's nose. Can't you read it here in your own printed rates? Pets! Domestic! Franklin to Westcote. It properly boxed twenty-five cents each. He threw the book on the counter in his dust. What more do you want? Aren't they pets? Aren't they domestic? Aren't they properly boxed? What? He turned and walked back and forth rapidly, frowning ferociously. Suddenly he turned to Flannery and forcing his voice to an artificial calmness spoke slowly but with intense sarcasm. Pets! he said. P-E-T-S. Twenty-five cents each. There are two of them. One, two. Two times twenty-five are fifty. Can you understand that? I offer you fifty cents. Flannery reached for the book. He ran his hand through the pages and stopped at page sixty-four. And I don't take fifty cents. He whispered in mockery. Here's the rouvert. When the agent be in any doubt regarding which of two rates applies to a shipment, he shall charge the larger. The consignee may file a claim for the overcharge. In this case, Mr. Morehouse, I be in doubt. Pets, them animals may be. And domestic they be. But pigs, I'm blame-sure they do be. And me rule says plain as the nose on your face. Pigs, Franklin to Westcote, thirty cents each. And Mr. Morehouse, by me, arithmetical knowledge, two times thirty comes to sixty cents. Mr. Morehouse shook his head savagely. Nonsense, he shouted. Confounded nonsense, I tell you. Why, you poor ignorant foreigner, that rule means common pigs, domestic pigs, not guinea pigs. Flannery was stubborn. Pigs is pigs, he declared firmly. Guinea pigs or Daigo pigs or Irish pigs is all the same to the inter-urban express company. And to Mike Flannery. The nationality of the pig creates no differentiality in the rate, Mr. Morehouse. It would be the same was they Dutch pigs or Russian pigs. Mike Flannery, he added, is here to tend the express business and not to hold conversation with Daigo pigs in seventeen languages for to discover be they Chinese or temporary by birth and nativity. Mr. Morehouse hesitated. He bit his lip and then flung out his arms wildly. Very well, he shouted. You shall hear of this. Your president shall hear of this. It is an outrage. I have offered you fifty cents. You refuse it. Keep the pigs until you are ready to take the fifty cents. But by George, sir, if one hair of those pigs' heads is harmed, I will have the law on you. He turned and stalked out, slamming the door. Flannery carefully lifted the soapbox from the counter and placed it in a corner. He was not worried. He felt the peace that comes to a faithful servant who has done his duty and done it well. Mr. Morehouse went home raging. His boy, who had been awaiting the guinea pigs, knew better than to ask him for them. He was a normal boy and therefore always had a guilty conscience when his father was angry. So the boy slipped quietly around the house. There is nothing so soothing to a guilty conscience as to be out of the path of the Avenger. Mr. Morehouse stormed into the house. Where's the ink? He shouted at his wife as soon as his foot was across the dorsal. Mrs. Morehouse jumped guiltily. She never used ink. She had not seen the ink nor moved the ink nor thought of the ink. But her husband's tone convicted her of the guilt of having borne and reared a boy. And she knew that whenever her husband wanted anything in a loud voice, the boy had been at it. I'll find Sammy, she said meekly. When the ink was found, Mr. Morehouse wrote rapidly and he read the completed letter and smiled a triumphant smile. That will settle that crazy Irishman, he exclaimed. When they get that letter, he will hunt another job all right. A week later, Mr. Morehouse received a long official envelope with a card of the Interurban Express Company in the upper left corner. He tore it open eagerly and drew out a sheet of paper. At the top it bore the number A6754. The letter was short. Subject, rate on guinea pigs, it said. Dear sir, we are in receipt of your letter regarding rate on guinea pigs between Franklin and Westcote addressed to the president of this company. All claims for overcharge should be addressed to the claims department. Mr. Morehouse wrote to the claims department. He wrote six pages of choice sarcasm, the tupperation and argument and sent them to the claims department. A few weeks later, he received a reply from the claims department. Attached to it was his last letter. Dear sir, said the reply. Your letter of the 16th instant addressed to this department subject rate on guinea pigs from Franklin to Westcote received. We have taken up the matter with our agent at Westcote and his reply is attached herewith. He informs us that you refuse to receive the consignment or to pay the charges. You have therefore no claim against this company and your letter regarding the proper rate on the consignment should be addressed to our tariff department. Mr. Morehouse wrote to the tariff department. He stated this case clearly and gave his arguments in full, quoting a page or two from the encyclopedia to prove that guinea pigs were not common pigs. With a care that characterizes corporations when they are systematically conducted, Mr. Morehouse's letter was numbered, okayed and started through the regular channels. Duplicate copies of the bull of lading, manifest, flannery's receipt for the package and several other pertinent papers were pinned to the letter and they were passed to the head of the tariff department. The head of the tariff department put his feet on his desk and yawned. He looked through the papers carelessly. Miss Kane, he said to his stenographer, take this letter, agent Westcote NJ. Please advise why consignment referred to in attached papers was refused domestic pet rates. Miss Kane made a series of curves and angles on her notebook and waited with pencil poised. The head of the department looked at the papers again. Ha! guinea pigs, he said, probably starved to death by this time. Add this to that letter. Give condition of consignment at present. He tossed the papers onto the stenographer's desk, took his feet from his own desk and went out to lunch. When Mike Flannery received the letter, he scratched his head. Give present condition, he repeated thoughtfully. Now what do them clerks be wanting to know, I wonder? Present condition is it? Them pigs praise Saint Patrick to be in good health so far as I know, but I never was no veterinary surgeon to dago pigs. Maybe them clerks wants me to call in the pig doctor and have their pulses took. One thing I do know, however, which is, they've glorious appetites. For pigs of their soys, ate, they'd ate the brass penlocks of a barn door. If the paddy pig, by the same token, ate as hearty as these dago pigs do, there'd be a famine in Ireland. To assure himself that his report would be up to date, Flannery went to the rear of the office and looked into the cage. The pigs had been transferred to a larger box, a dry goods box. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Eight, he counted. Seven spotted and one all black, all well and hearty and all eaten like raging hippopotamusus. He went back to his desk and wrote, Mr. Morgan, head of tariff department, he wrote, Why do I say dago pigs is pigs because they is pigs and will be till you say they ain't? Which is what the rule book says, Stop your jolly me, you know it as well as I do. As to health, they are all well and hoping you are the same. P.S., there are eight now, the family increased all good eaters. P.S., I paid out so far, two dollars for cabbage, which they like, shall I put in bull for same what? Morgan, head of the tariff department, when he received this letter, laughed. He read it again and became serious. By George, he said, Findery is right, pigs is pigs. I'll have to get authority on this thing. Meanwhile, Miss Kane, take this letter. Agent Westcote NJ, regarding shipment guinea pigs, file number A6754, rule 83, general instructions to agents, clearly states that agents shall collect from consignee all costs of preventer, etc., etc., required for livestock while in transit or storage. You will proceed to collect same from consignee. Flannery received this letter next morning and when he read it, he grinned. Proceed to collect, he said softly. How them clerks do like to be talking? Me proceed to collect two dollars and twenty-five cents of Mr. Morehouse? I wonder do them clerks know Mr. Morehouse? I'll get it. Oh, yes, Mr. Morehouse, two and quarter, please. Certainly, my dear friend Flannery, delighted. Not! Flannery drove the express wagon to Mr. Morehouse's door. Mr. Morehouse answered the bell. Aha! he cried as soon as he saw it was Flannery. So you've come to your senses at last, have you? I thought you would. Bring the box in. I have no box, said Flannery coldly. I have a bill against Mr. John C. Morehouse for two dollars and twenty-five cents for cabbages eaten by his Daigo Pigs. Would you wish to pay it? Pay cabbages? Gasp, Mr. Morehouse. Do you mean to say that two little guinea pigs? Eight, said Flannery, papa and mama, and the six children. Eight. For answer, Mr. Morehouse slammed the door in Flannery's face. Flannery looked at the door reproachfully. I take it the consignee don't want to pay for them cabbages, he said. If I know signs of refusal, the consignee refuses to pay for one dang cabbage leaf and be hanged to me. Mr. Morgan, the head of the tariff department, consulted the president of the Interurban Express Company regarding guinea pigs, as to whether they were pigs or not pigs. The president was inclined to treat the matter lightly. What is the rate on pigs and on pets, he asked? Pigs, thirty cents, pets, twenty-five, said Morgan. Then of course guinea pigs are pigs, said the president. Yes, agreed Morgan. I look at it that way too. A thing that can come under two rates is naturally due to be classed as the higher. But are guinea pigs pigs? Aren't they rabbits? Come to think of it, said the president. I believe they are more like rabbits, sort of halfway station between pig and rabbit. I think the question is this. Are guinea pigs of the domestic pig family? I'll ask Professor Gordon. Here's authority on such things. Leave the papers with me. The president put the papers on his desk and wrote a letter to Professor Gordon. Unfortunately the professor was in South America collecting zoological specimens and the letter was forwarded to him by his wife. As the professor was in the highest Andes, where no white man had ever penetrated, the letter was many months in reaching him. The president forgot the guinea pigs, Morgan forgot them, Mr. Morehouse forgot them, but Flannery did not. One half of his time he gave to the duties of his agency. The other half was devoted to the guinea pigs. Long before Professor Gordon received the president's letter, Morgan received one from Flannery. About them dago pigs, it said. What shall I do? They are great in family life. No race suicide for them. There are thirty-two now. Shall I sell them? Do you take this express office for a menagerie? Answer quick. Morgan reached for a telegraph blank and wrote, Agent Westgoat, don't sell pigs. He then wrote Flannery a letter calling his attention to the fact that the pigs were not the property of the company, but were merely being held during a settlement of a dispute regarding rates. He advised Flannery to take the best possible care of them. Flannery, letter in hand, looked at the pigs and sighed. The dry goods box cage had become too small. He boarded up twenty feet of the rear of the express office to make a large and airy home for them and went about his business. He worked with feverish intensity when out on his rounds, for the pigs required attention and took most of his time. Some months later, in desperation, he seized a sheet of paper and wrote one hundred and sixty across it and mailed it to Morgan. Morgan returned it asking for explanation. Flannery replied, There be now one hundred and sixty of them dago pigs. For heaven's sake, let me sell off some. Do you want me to go crazy? What? Sell no pigs, Morgan wired. Not long after this, the president of the express company received a letter from Professor Gordon. It was a long and scholarly letter, but the point was that the guinea pig was the carba aparoya. While the common pig was the genus Sus of the family Suide. He remarked that they were prolific and multiplied rapidly. They are not pigs, said the president decidedly to Morgan. The twenty-five cent rate applies. Morgan made the proper notation on the papers that had accumulated in file A6754 and turned them over to the audit department. The audit department took some time to look the matter up and after the usual delay, wrote Flannery that as he had on hand one hundred and sixty guinea pigs, the property of consignee, he should deliver them and collect charges at the rate of twenty-five cents each. Flannery spent a day herding his charges through a narrow opening in their cage, so the team I count them. Audit department, he wrote, when he had finished the count. You are way off. There may be was one hundred and sixty guinea pigs once, but wake up, don't be a back number. I've got even eight hundred. Now shall I collect for eight hundred or what? How about sixty-four dollars I paid out for cabbages? It required a great many letters back and forth before the audit department was able to understand why the error had been made of billing one hundred and sixty instead of eight hundred and stole more time for it to get the meaning of the cabbages. Flannery was crowded into a few feet at the extreme front of the office. The pigs had all the rest of the room and two boys were employed constantly attending to them. The day after Flannery had counted the guinea pigs there were eight more added to his drove and by the time the audit department gave him authority to collect for eight hundred Flannery had given up all attempts to attend to the receipt or the delivery of goods. He was hastily building galleries around the express office, tier above tier. He had four thousand and sixty-four guinea pigs to care for. More were arriving daily. Immediately following its authorization the audit department sent another letter that Flannery was too busy to open it. They wrote another and then they telegraphed. Error in guinea pig bull. Collect for two guinea pigs, fifty cents, deliver all to consignee. Flannery read the telegram and cheered up. He wrote out a bull as rapidly as his pencil could travel over paper and ran all the way to the Morehouse home. At the gate he stopped suddenly. The house stared at him with vacant eyes. The windows were bare of curtains and he could see into the empty rooms. A sign on the porch said to let. Mr. Morehouse had moved. Flannery ran all the way back to the express office. Sixty-nine guinea pigs had been born during his absence. He ran out again and made feverish inquiries in the village. Mr. Morehouse had not only moved but he had left Westcote. Flannery returned to the express office and found that two hundred and sixty guinea pigs had entered the world since he left it. He wrote a telegram to the audit department. Can't collect fifty cents for two dago pigs consignee as left town address unknown. What shall I do? Flannery. The telegram was handed to one of the clerks in the audit department and as he read it he laughed. Flannery must be crazy. He ought to know that the thing to do is to return the consignment here said the clerk. He telegraphed Flannery to send the pigs to the main office of the company at Franklin. When Flannery received the telegram he set to work. The six boys he had engaged to help him also set to work. They worked with a haste of desperate men making cages out of soap boxes, cracker boxes and all kinds of boxes. And as fast as the cages were completed they fooled them with guinea pigs and expressed them to Franklin. Day after day the cages of guinea pigs flowed in a steady stream from Westcote to Franklin and still Flannery and his six orpers ripped and nailed and packed relentlessly and feverishly. At the end of the week they had shipped 280 cases of guinea pigs and there were in the express office 704 more pigs than when they began packing them. Stop sending pigs warehouse full came a telegram to Flannery. He stopped packing only long enough to wire back. Can't stop and kept on sending them. On the next train up from Franklin came one of the company's inspectors. He had instructions to stop the stream of guinea pigs at all hazards. As his train drew up at Westcote station he saw a cattle car standing on the express company's siding. When he reached the express office he saw the express wagon backed up to the door. Six boys were carrying bushel baskets full of guinea pigs from the office and dumping them into the wagon. Inside the room Flannery with his coat and vest off was shoveling guinea pigs into bushel baskets with a coal scoop. He was winding up the guinea pig episode. He looked up at the inspector with a snort of anger. One wagon load more and I'll be quit of them and never will you catch Flannery with no more foreign pigs on his hands. No sir, they near was the death of me. Next time I'll know that pigs of whatever nationality is domestic pits and go at the lowest rate. He began shoveling again rapidly speaking quickly between breaths. Rules may be rules but you can't fool Mike Flannery twice with the same trick. When it comes to livestock, dang the rules. So long as Flannery runs this express office pigs is pigs and cows is pets and horses is pets and lions and tigers and rocky mountain goats is pets and the rate on them is twenty five six. He paused long enough to let one of the boys put an empty basket in the place of the one he had just fooled. There were only a few guinea pigs left. As he noted their limited number, his natural habit of looking on the bright side returned. Well anyhow, he said cheerfully, it is not so bad as it might be. What if them Dago pigs had been elephants? End of Pigs Is Pigs. Recording by Jerry Ratiff. Who can lose it and forget it? Who can have it and regret it? The interposes Twixtus Twain. Merchant of Venice. To this Samuel L. Clemens, Mark Twain, replied as follows. I reverently believe that the maker who made us all makes everything in New England but the weather. I don't know who makes that, but I think it must be raw apprentices in the Weather Clerks Factory who experiment and learn how in New England for board and clothes and then are promoted to make weather for countries that require a good article and will take their custom elsewhere if they don't get it. There is a sumptuous variety about the New England weather that compels the stranger's admiration and regret. The weather is always doing something there, always attending strictly to business, always getting up new designs and trying them on the people to see how they will go. But it gets through more business than spring than any other season. In the spring I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside four and twenty hours. It was I that made the fame and fortune of that man that had that marvelous collection of weather on exhibition at the Centennial that so astounded the foreigners. He was going to travel all over the world and get specimens from all the climes. I said, don't you do it. You come to New England on a favorable spring day. I told him what we could do in the way of style, variety and quantity. Well, he came and he made his collection in four days. As to variety, why he confessed that he got hundreds of kinds of weather that he had never heard of before. And as to quantity, well, after he picked out and discarded all that was blemished in any way, he not only had weather enough, but weather to spare, weather to hire out, whether to sell, whether to deposit, whether to invest, whether to give to the poor. The people of New England are, by nature, patient and forebearing, but there are some things which they will not stand. Every year they kill a lot of poets for writing about beautiful spring. These are generally casual visitors who bring their notions of spring from somewhere else and cannot, of course, know how the natives feel about spring. And so the first thing they know, the opportunity to inquire how they feel is permanently gone by. Old Probabilities has a mighty reputation for accurate prophecy and thoroughly well deserves it. You take up the paper and observe how crisply and confidently he checks off what today's weather is going to be on the Pacific, down south, in the middle states, in the Wisconsin region. See him sail along in the joy and pride of his power till he gets to New England, and then see his tail drop. He doesn't know what the weather is going to be in New England. Well, he mulls it over, and by and by he gets out something about like this. Probable northwest to southwest winds varying to the southward and westward and eastward, and points between. High and low barometer, swapping around from place to place. Probable areas of rain, snow, hail, and drought. Succeeded or appreciated by earthquakes with thunder and lightning. Then he jots down this post-grip from his wandering mind to cover accidents. But it is possible that the program may be wholly changed in the meantime. Yes, one of the brightest gyms in the New England weather is the dazzling uncertainty of it. There is only one thing certain about it. You are certain there is going to be plenty of it. A perfect grand review, but you never can tell which end of the procession is going to move first. You fix up for the drought, you drill in the house and sally out and two to one you get drowned. You make up your mind that an earthquake is due. You stand from under and take hold of something to steady yourself and the first thing you know you get struck by lightning. These are great disappointments but they can't be helped. The lightning there is peculiar. It is so convincing that when it strikes a thing it doesn't leave enough of that thing behind for you to tell whether, well, you think it was something valuable and a congressman had been there. When the thunder begins to merely tune up and scrape and saw and key up the instruments for the performance strangers say, why, what awful thunder you have here. But when the baton is raised and the real concert begins you'll find that stranger down in the cellar with his head in the ash barrel. Now as to the size of the weather in New England, length ways I mean, it is utterly disproportionate to the size of that little country. Half the time when it is packed as full as it can stick you will see that New England weather sticking out and projecting around hundreds and hundreds of miles over the neighboring states. She can't hold a tenth part of her weather. You can see cracks all about where she has strained herself trying to do it. I could speak volumes about the inhuman perversity of the New England weather but I will give but a single specimen. I like to hear the rain on a tin roof so I cover part of my roof with tin with an eye to that luxury. Well sir, do you think it ever rains on that tin? No sir, skips it every time. Mind in this speech I have been trying merely to do honor to the New England weather. No language could do it justice. But after all there is at least one or two things about the weather or if you please, effects produced by it which we residents would not like to part with. If we hadn't already be witching autumn foliage, we should still have to credit the weather with one feature which compensates for all its bullying vagaries. The ice storm. When a leafless tree is clothed with ice from bottom to the top, ice that is as bright and clear as crystal when every bow and twig is strung with ice beads, frozen dew drops and the whole tree sparkles cold and white like the Shaw of Persia's Diamond Plume. When the wind waves the branches and the sun comes out and turns all those myriads of beads and drops into prisms that glow and burn and flash with all the manner of colored fires which change and change again with inconceivable rapidity from blue to red, from red to green and green to gold. The tree becomes a spraying fountain a very explosion of dazzling jewels and it stands there the acme, the climax the supremus possibility and art or nature of bewitching, intoxicating, intolerable magnificence. One cannot make the words too strong. End of Speech on the Weather by Mark Twain. This recording by James Christopher JXChristopher at Yahoo.com War by Jack London This is LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Sean O'Hara War by Jack London He was a young man not more than 24 or 5 and he might have sat his horse with the careless grace of his youth had he not been so cat-like intense His black eyes roved everywhere catching the movement of twigs and branches where small birds hop questing ever onward through the changing vistas of trees and brush and returning always to the clumps of undergrowth on either side and as he watched so did he listen though he rode on in silence save for the boom of heavy guns from far to the west this had been setting monotonously in his ears for hours and only its cessation could have aroused his notice hurried business closer at hand across the saddle-bow was balanced to carbine so tensely was he strong that a bunch of quail exploding into flight from under his horse's nose startled him to such an extent that automatically, instantly he had rained in and fetched his carbine halfway to his shoulder he grinned sheepishly, recovered himself and rode on so tensely was he so bent upon the work he had to do that the sweat stung his eyes unwiped and unheeded rolled down his nose and spattered his saddle-pommel the band of his cavalryman's hat was fresh stained with sweat grown horse under him was likewise wet it was high noon of a breathless day of heat even the birds and squirrels not dared the sun but sheltered in shading hiding places among the trees man and horse were littered with leaves and dusted with yellow pollen for the open was ventured no more than this compulsory they kept to the brush and trees and invariably the man halted and peered out before crossing a dry-blade or a naked stretch of upland pastridge he worked always to the north though his way was devious and it was from the north that he seemed most apprehended that for which he was looking he was no coward but his courage was only that of the average civilized man and he was looking to live, not die up a small hillside he followed a path through such dense scrub that he was forced to dismount and lead his horse but when the past swung around to the west he abandoned it and headed north again across the out-covered top of the ridge the ridge ended in a steep descent so steep that he zigzagged back and forth across faces slope sliding and stumbling among dead leaves and matted vines and keeping his watchful eye on the horse above that threatened to fall down upon him the sweat ran from him and the pollen dust settling pungently in his mouth and nostrils increased his thirst try as he would nevertheless the descent was noisy and frequently he stopped panning in the dry heat and listening for any warning from beneath at the bottom he came out on a flat so densely forested that he could not make out its extent there the character of the woods changed and he was able to remount instead of the twisted hillside oaks tall straight trees big trunked prosperous rose from the damp fat soil only here and there were thickets easily voided while he encountered winding dark like glades where the cattle had pastured in days before the war had run them off his progress was more rapid now as he came down into the valley and at the end of half an hour he halted at an ancient rail fence at the edge of the clearing he did not like the openness of it yet his path lay across to the fringe of the trees that marked the banks of the stream it was a mere quarter of a mile across the open but the thought of venturing out in it was repugnant a rifle score them a thousand might lurk in the fringe by the stream and heave a naked mark twice he assayed the start and twice he paused he was appalled by his own lowliness the pulse of war that beat from the west suggested companionship of battling thousands here was not but silence and himself and possible death-dealing bullets from myriad ambushes an ant's task was to find what he feared to find he must go on and on until somewhere sometime he encountered another man or other men from the other side scouting as he was scouting to make reports as he must make reports of having come in touch changing his mind he skirted inside the woods for a distance and again peeped forth this time in the middle of the clearing he saw a small farmhouse there were no signs of life no smoke curled from the chimney no barnyard fowl clucked or strutted the kitchen door stood open and he gave so long and hard into the black aperture it seemed almost the farmer's wife must emerge to any moment he looked pollen and dust from his dry lips stiffened himself mind and body and rode out into the blazing sunshine he went on past the house and approached the wall of his trees and bushes by the river's bank one thought persisted maddeningly it was of the crash in his body of a high velocity bullet he made him feel very fragile and defenseless and he crouched lower in the saddle tethering his horse in the edge of the woods he continued a hundred yards on foot till he came to the stream twenty feet wide it was without perceptible current cool and inviting and he was very thirsty but he waited inside the screen of leafage his eyes fixed on screen on the opposite side to make the wait durable he sat down his carbine resting on his knees the minutes passed and slowly his tenseness relaxed at last he decided there was no danger but just as he prepared to part the bushes and bend down into the water a movement among the opposite bushes caught his eye it might be a bird but he waited again there was an agitation in the bushes and then so suddenly that it almost startled a cry from him bushes pardoned and his face peered out it was a face covered with several weeks growth of ginger colored beard the eyes were blue and wide apart with laughter wrinkles in the corners that showed despite the tired and anxious expression of the whole face all this he could see with microscopic clearness for the distance was no more than twenty feet and all this he saw in such brief time that he saw it as he lifted his carbine to his shoulder he glanced along the site's news gazing upon a man who was as good as dead it was impossible to miss at such point blank range he did not shoot slowly he lowered the carbine and watched a hand clutching the water bottle became visible and the ginger beard bent downward to fill the bottle he could hear the gurgle of the water then the arm and bottle and ginger beard disappeared behind closing bushes a long time he waited then his thirst on slaked he crept back to his horse rode slowly across sun wash clearing and passed into the shelter of the woods beyond section two another day, hot and breathless a deserted farmhouse large with many outbuildings and an orchard standing in the clearing from the woods on a rowing horse carbine across the pommel rode the young man with quick black eyes he breathed with relief as he gained the house that the fight had taken place here earlier in the season was evident clips and empty cartridges tarnished with a degree lay on the ground which while wet had been torn up by the hoofs of horses tagged and numbered from the oak tree by the kitchen door in tattered weather-beaten garments hung the bodies of two men the faces shriveled into faced or no likeness to the faces of men the rowing horse snorted beneath them and the rider caressed and soothed it and tied it farther away entering the house he found its interior wreck he trod in empty cartridges as he walked from room to room to reconnoiter from the windows men had camped and slept everywhere and on the floor of one room he came upon stains unmistakable where the wounded had been laid down again outside he led a source around behind the barn and invaded the orchard a dozen trees burdened with ripe apples he filled his pocket eating while he picked then a thought came to him and he glanced at the sun calculating the time to return to his camp he pulled off a shirt tying his sleeves and making a bag this he proceeded to fill with apples as he was about to mount his horse he crept up its ears the man too listened and heard faintly the thought of hoofs on soft air he crept to the corner of the barn and peered out a dozen mounted men wrung out loosely approaching from the opposite side of the clearing where only a matter of 100 yards so away they rode on to the house some dismounted while others remained in the saddle as an earnest that their stay should be short they seemed to be holding a council for he could hear them talking excitedly in the detested tongue of the alien invader time passed but they seemed unable to reach a decision he put the carbine way in his boot mounted and waited impatiently balancing the shirt of the apples on the pommel he heard footsteps approaching and drove his spur so fishly into the ron as to force a surprise groan from the animal as it leapt forward at the corner of the barn he saw the intruder a mere boy of 19 or 20 for all of his uniform jumped back to escape being run down at the same moment the ron swerved and its rider caught a glimpse of the razz men by the house some were springing from their horses and he could see rifles going up to their shoulders he passed the kitchen door and dried corpses swinging in the shade compelling his foes to run around the front of the house a rifle cracked and second but he was going fast leaning forward low in the saddle one hand clutching the shirt of apples the other guiding the horse the top part of the fence was four feet high but he knew his ron and leapt it at full career to the accompaniment of several scattered shots 800 yards straight away were the woods and a ron was covering distance with mighty strides every man was now firing they were pumping their guns so rapidly that he no longer heard the individual shots a bullet went through his hat but he was unaware though he did know when another tore through the apples on the pommel and he winced and docked even lower when the third bullet fired low struck a stone between the horses legs and ricocheted off through the air buzzing and humming like some incredible insect the shots died down as magazines were emptied until quickly there was no more shooting the young man was elated through that stanching fuselage he'd come unscathed he glanced back yes they had emptied their magazines he could see several reloading others running back behind the house for their horses as he looked too already mounted came back into view around the corner riding hard and at the same moments he saw the man with the unmistakable ginger beard kneel down on the ground level his gun and coolly take his time for a long shot the young man threw spurs into the horse in the light in order to distract the others aim and still the shot did not come with each jump of the horse wood sprang nearer there were only 200 yards away and still the shot was delayed and then he heard it last thing he was ever to hear for he was dead ere he hit the ground in the long crashing fall from the saddle and they, watching at the house, saw him fall saw his body bounce when it struck the earth and saw the burst of red-cheeked apples rolled about him they laughed at the unexpected eruption of apples and the applause of the long shot of the man with the ginger beard end of war The Watchtower by Lord Dunseny this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org this recording by James Christopher The Watchtower by Lord Dunseny I sat one April in province on a small hill above an ancient town that goth and vandal as yet to bring up to date on the hill was an old worn castle with a watchtower and a well with narrow steps and water still in it The Watchtower, staring south with neglected windows faced a broad valley full of the pleasant twilight and the hum of evening things it saw the fires of wanderers blink from the hills beyond them the long forest black with pines one star appearing and darkness settling slowly down on var sitting there listening to the green frogs croaking hearing far voices clearly but all transmuted by evening watching the windows in the little town glittering one by one and seeing the gloaming dwindle solemnly in tonight a great many things fell for mine that seemed important by day and evening in their place planted strange fancies little winds had arisen and were whispering to and fro it grew cold and I was about to descend the hill when I heard a voice behind me saying beware beware so much the voice appeared a part of the evening I did not turn round at first it was like voices that one hears in sleep and thinks to be of one's dreams and the word was monotonously repeated in French when I turned round I saw an old man with a horn he had a white beard marvelously long and still went on saying slowly beware beware he had clearly just come from the tower by which he stood though I had heard no footfall had a man come stealthily upon me at such an hour and so long as my place I had certainly felt surprised but I saw almost at once that he was a spirit and he seemed with his uncouth horn and his long white beard and that noiseless step of his to be so naive to that time and place that I spoke to him as one does to some fellow traveler who asked you if you mind having the window up I asked him what there was to beware of of what should the town beware he said but the serocenes serocenes I said yes serocenes serocenes he answered in brandishedest horn and who are you I said I I in the spirit of the tower he said when I asked him how he came by so human an aspect and was so unlike the material tower beside him he told me that the lies of all the watchers who had ever held the horn in the tower there had gone to make the spirit of the tower it takes a hundred lives he said none hold the horn of late and men neglect the tower when the walls are in ill repair the serocenes come it was ever so the serocenes don't come nowadays I said but he was gazing past me watching and did not seem to heed me they will run down those hills he said pointing away to the south out of the woods about nightfall and I shall blow my horn the people will all come up from the town to the tower again but the loopholes are in very ill repair we never hear of the serocenes now I said hear of the serocenes the old spirit said hear of the serocenes the white robes that they wear and I blow my horn that is the first that anyone ever hears of the serocenes I mean I said that they never come at all they cannot come and men fear other things for I thought the old spirit might rest if he knew that the serocenes can never come again but he said there is nothing in the world to fear but the serocenes nothing else matters how can men fear other things then I explained so that he might have rest how all Europe and in particular France had terrible engines of war both on land and sea and how the serocenes had not these terrible engines either on land or sea and so could by no means cross the Mediterranean or escape destruction on shore even though they should come there I alluded to the European railways that could move armies night and day faster than horses could gallop and when as well as I could I had explained it all he answered in time all these things pass away there would still be the serocenes and then I said there has not been a serocene either in France or Spain for over 400 years and he said the serocenes you do not know they're cunning that was ever the way of the serocenes they do not come for a while no not they for a long while and then one day they come and peering southwards but not seen clearly because of the rising mist he silently moved to his tower and up its broken steps End of The Watchtower by Lord Duncany This recording by James Christopher JxChristopher at Yahoo.com The Wrong Black Bag by Angelo Lewis 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 Jessica Louise The Wrong Black Bag by Angelo Lewis It was the eve of Good Friday within a modest parlor of number 13, Primrose Terrace a little man wearing a grey felt hat and a red necktie stood admiring himself in the looking glass over the mantelpiece such a state of things anywhere else would have had no significance whatever but circumstances proverbially alter cases At 13 Primrose Terrace it approached the dimensions of a portent Not to keep the reader in suspense the little man was Benjamin Quelch clerk in the office of Monsieur Cobble and Clink Cole Merchants and he was about to carry out a desperate resolution Most men have some secret ambition Benjamin's was two fold for years he had yearned to wear a soft felt hat and to make a trip to Paris and for years fate in the person of Mrs. Quelch had stood in the way and prevented the indulgence of his longing Quelch being as we have hinted exceptionally small of stature had in accordance with mysterious law of opposites selected the largest lady of his acquaintance as the partner of his joys he himself was of amique and retiring disposition Mrs. Quelch on the other hand was a woman of stern and decided temperament with strong views upon most subjects she administered Benjamin's finances regulated his diet and prescribed for him when his health was out of order though fond of him in her own way she ruled him with a rod of iron and on three points she was inflexible to make up for his applicants of stature she insisted on his wearing the tallest hat that money could procure to the exclusion of all other headgear secondly on the ground that it looked more professional she would allow him none but black silk neckties and lastly she would not let him smoke she had further an intense repugnance to all things foreign holding as an article of faith that no good thing whether in art, cookery or morals was to be found on other than English soil when Benjamin once in a rash moment suggested a trip to Balone by way of summer holiday the suggestion was received in a manner that took away his appetite for a week afterward the prohibition of smoking Quelch did not much mind for having in his salad days made trial of a cheap cigar the result somehow satisfies him Marco was not in his line and he ceased to yearn for it accordingly but the tall hat and the black necktie were constant sources of irritation he had an idea based on his having once won a drawing prize at school that nature had intended him for an artist and he secretly lamented the untoward fate which had thrown him away upon coals now the few artists Benjamin had chance to meet affected a soft and slouchy style of headgear and a considerable amount of freedom generally with a touch of color in the region of the neck such therefore in the fitness of things should have been the hat and such the neck gear of Benjamin Quelch and the veto of his wife only made him yearn for them the more intensely in later years he had been seized with a longing to see Paris it chanced that a clerk in the same office one Peter Flip had made one of a personally conducted party on a visit to the gay city the cost of the trip had been but five guineas but never surely were five guineas so magnificently invested there was a good deal of romance about Flip and it may be that his accounts were not entirely trustworthy but they so fired the imagination of our friend Benjamin that he had at once begun to hoard up surreptitious expenses with the hope that someday he too might by some unforeseen combination of circumstances be enabled to visit the enchanted city and at last that day had come Mrs. Quelch her three children and her one domestic had gone to Lowstoft for an Easter outing Benjamin and a deaf charwoman Mrs. Widger being left in charge of the family belongings Benjamin's Easter holidays were limited to Good Friday and Easter Monday and as it seemed hardly worthwhile that he should travel so far as Lowstoft for such short periods, Mrs. Quelch had thoughtfully arranged that he should spend the former day at the British Museum and the latter at the zoological gardens two days after her departure however Mr. Cobble called Quelch into his private office and told him that if he liked he might for once take holiday from the Friday to the Tuesday inclusive and join his wife at the seaside Quelch accepted the boon with an honest intention of employing it as suggested Indeed he had even begun a letter to his wife announcing the pleasing intelligence and had gone as far as my dear Penelope when a wild and wicked thought struck him Why should he not spend his expected holiday in Paris? Laying down his pen he opened his desk and counted his secret hoard It amounted to five pounds seventeen, twelve shillings more than flips outlay There was no difficulty in that direction and nobody would be any the wiser His wife would imagine that he was in London while his employers would believe him to be at Lowstoft There was a brief struggle in his mind but the tempter prevailed and with the courage worthy of a better cause he determined to risk it and go and thus it came to pass that on the evening of our story Benjamin Quelch having completed his packing which merely comprised what he was accustomed to call his night things neatly bestowed in a small black handbag belonging to Mrs. Quelch stood before the looking glass and contemplated his guilty splendor The red neck tie in the soft grey felt hat purchased out of surplus funds He had expended a couple of guineas in a second class return ticket and another two pounds in coupons entitling him to bed, breakfast and dinner for five days at certain specified hotels in Paris This outlay with half a crown for a pair of gloves and a bribe of five shillings to secure the silence of Mrs. Widger left him with little more than a pound in hand but this small surplus would no doubt amply suffice for his modest needs His only regret as he gazed at himself in the glass was that he had not had time to grow a mustache the one thing needed to complete his artistic appearance but time was fleeting and he dared not linger over the enticing picture He stole along the passage and softly opened the street door As he did so a sudden panic came over him and he felt half inclined to abandon his rash design But as he wavered he caught sight of the detested tall hat hanging up in the passage and he hesitated no longer He passed out and closing the door behind him started at a brisk pace for Victoria Station His plans had been laid with much ingenuity though at a terrible sacrifice of his usual straightforwardness He had written a couple of letters to Mrs. Quelch to be posted by Mrs. Widger on appropriate days giving imaginary accounts of his visits to the British Museum and Zoological Gardens with pointed illusions to the behavior of the elephant and other circumstantial particulars To ensure the posting of these in proper order he had marked the dates in pencil on the envelopes in the corner usually occupied by the postage stamp so that when it was affixed the figures would be concealed He explained the arrangement to Mrs. Widger who promised that his instructions should be faithfully carried out After a sharp walk he reached the railway station and in due course found himself streaming across the channel to Dieppe The passage was not especially rough but to poor Quelch unaccustomed as he was to the sea it seemed as if the boat must go to the bottom every moment of sea sickness were added the mental pains of remorse and between the two he reached Dieppe more dead than alive Indeed he would almost have welcomed death as a release from his sufferings Even when the boat had arrived at the pier he still remained in the berth he had occupied all night and would probably have continued to lie there had not the steward lifted him by main force to his feet He seized his black bag with a groan and staggered on deck Here he felt a little better but new terrors seized him at the sight of the gold-laced officials in blue-bloust porters who lined each side of the gangway all talking at the top of their voices and in tones which seemed to his unaccustomed ear to convey a thirst for British blood No sooner had he landed than he was accosted by a ferocious looking personage in truth a harmless custom house officer who asked him in French whether he had anything to declare and made a movement to take his bag in order to mark it as past Quelts jumped to the conclusion that the stranger was a brigand bent on depriving him of his property and he held on to the bag with such tenacity that the douanier naturally inferred there was something specially contraband about it He proceeded to open it and produced, among sundry other feminine belongings fur-belowed nightdress from which, as he unrolled it fell a couple bundles of cigars Benjamin's look of astonishment as he saw these unexpected articles produced from his handbag was interpreted by the officials as a look of guilt As a matter of fact half-stupified by the agonies of the night he had forgotten the precise spot where he had left his own bag and had picked up in its stead one belonging to the wife of a sporting gentleman found his way to some races in Longchamp Desiring to smuggle a few weeds and deeming that the presence of such articles would be less likely to be suspected among a lady's belongings the sporting gentleman had committed them to his companions' keeping Handbags as a rule are past, unopened and such would probably have been the case in the present instance had not Quelts's look of panic excited his suspicion The real owners of the bag had picked up Quelts's which it precisely resembled and were close behind him on the gangway The lady uttered an exclamation of dismay as she saw the contents of her bag spread abroad by the customs officer but was promptly silenced by her husband Keep your blessed tongue quiet he whispered If a blooming idiot chooses to sneak our bag and then to give himself away to the first man that looks at him he must stand the wrecked whereupon the sporting gentleman and lady first taking a quiet peep into Benjamin's bag to make sure that it contained nothing compromising passed the examiner with a smile of conscious innocence and after an interval for refreshment at the buffet took their seats in the train for Paris Meanwhile poor Quelts was taken before a pompous individual with an extra large mustache and a double allowance of gold lace on his cap and charged not only with defrauding the revenue but with forcibly resisting an officer in the execution of his duty The accusation being in French Quelts did not understand a word of it and in his ignorance took it for granted that he was accused of stealing the strange bag in its contents Visions of imprisonment penal servitude, nay even capital punishment floated before his bewildered brain Finally the official with a large mustache made a speech to him in French setting forth that for his dishonest attempt to smuggle he must pay a fine of a hundred francs With regard to the assault on the official as said official was not much hurt he graciously agreed to throw that in and make no charge for it When he had fully explained matters to his own satisfaction he waited to receive the answer of the prisoner but none was forthcoming for the best of reasons It finally dawned on the official that Quelts might not understand French and he therefore proceeded to address him in what he considered to be his native tongue You smuggle, smuggle cigar Then it must be as you pay amend, hundred francs You may understand Hundred francs pay, pay, pay At each repetition of the last word he brought down a dirty fist into the palm of the opposite hand immediately under Quelts nose Hundred francs, English money four pound Quelts caught the last words and was relieved to find that it was merely a money payment that was demanded of him But he was little better off for having but a few shillings in his pocket to pay four pounds was as much out of his power as if it had been four hundred He determined to appeal to the mercy of his captors Not got, he said, apologetically with a vague idea that by speaking very elementary English he came somehow nearer to French That all, he continued producing his little store and holding it out, beseechingly to the official Pas assez not enough growled the latter Quelts tried again in all his pockets but only succeeded in finding another three penny piece The officer shook his head and after a brief discussion with his fellows said Comment vous appelez-vous, monsieur? How do you call yourself? With a vague idea of keeping his disgrace from his friends Quelts rashly determined to give a false name If he had a few minutes to think it over he would have invented one for the occasion but his imagination was not accustomed to such sudden calls and on the question being repeated he desperately gave the name of his next store neighbor Mr Henry Flatgate Henry Flauget repeated the officer as he wrote it down Et vous demi-rue, you le voir? And Quelts proceeded to give the address of Mr Flatgate, 11 Primrose Terrace Très bien, un violon and poor Benjamin was ignominiously marched to the local police station Meanwhile, Quelts's arrangements at home were scarcely working as he had intended The estimable Mrs. Widger partly by reason of her deafness and partly of native stupidity had only half understood his instructions about the letters She knew she was to stamp them and she knew she was to post them but the dates in the corners might have been runic inscriptions for any idea they conveyed to her obfuscated intellect Accordingly the first time she visited her usual house of call which was early in the morning of Good Friday she proceeded in her own language to get the dreaded things off her mind by dropping them both into the nearest pillar box On the following day therefore Mrs. Quelts at Laws Toft was surprised to find on the breakfast table two letters in her Benjamin's handwriting Her surprise was still greater when on opening them she found one to be a graphic account of a visit to the zoological gardens following Monday The conclusion was obvious either Benjamin had turned profit and had somehow got ahead of the almanac or he was carrying on in some very underhand manner Mrs. Quelts decided for the latter alternative and determined to get to the bottom of the matter at once She cut a sandwich put on her bonnet and grasping her umbrella in a manner which boated no good to anyone who stayed her progress on the next train for Liverpool Street On reaching home she extracted from the weeping witcher who had just been spending the last of Benjamin's five shillings and was far gone in depression and gin and water that her good gentleman had not been home since Thursday night This was bad enough but there was still more conclusive evidence that he was up to no good in the shape of his tall hat which hung silent accuser having pumped Mrs. Widger till there was no more save tears to be pumped out of her Mrs. Quelts still firmly grasping her umbrella preceded next door on the chance that her neighbour Mrs. Flatgate might be able to give her some information She found Mrs. Flatgate weeping in the parlor with an open telegram before her being a woman who did not stand upon ceremony she read the telegram which was dated from Dieppe and ran as follows Monsieur Flatgate here detained for to have smuggled cigars fined to pay 100 franc send money and he will be release Oh the men, the men ejaculated Mrs. Quelts as she dropped into an armchair They're all alike First Benjamin and now Flatgate I shouldn't wonder if they'd gone off together You don't mean to say Mr. Quelts has gone too sobbed Mrs. Flatgate He has taken a shameful advantage of my absence He has not been home since Thursday evening and his hat is hanging up in the hall You don't think he has been murdered I'm not afraid of that replied Mrs. Quelts It wouldn't be worth anybody's while But what has he got on his head That's what I want to know Of course if he's with Mr. Flatgate in some foreign den of iniquity that accounts for it Don't foreigners wear hats inquired Mrs. Flatgate innocently Not the respectable English sort I'll bet bound replied Mrs. Quelts Some outlandish rubbish I dare say But I thought Mr. Flatgate on his scotch journey Mr. Flatgate should be stated was a traveller in the oil and colour line So he is I mean so he ought to be In fact I expected him home today But now he's in prison and I may never see him any more Mrs. Flatgate wept afresh Stuff and nonsense retorted Mrs. Quelts You've only to send the money they ask for and they'll be glad enough to get rid of him but I wouldn't hurry I'd let him wait a bit You'll see him soon enough never fear The prophecy was fulfilled sooner than the prophet expected Mrs. Quelts out of her mouth when a cab was heard to draw up at the door and a moment later Flatgate himself a big jovial man wearing a white hat very much on one side entered the room and threw a bundle of rugs on the sofa Home again old girl and glad of it Morning Mrs. Quelts said the newcomer Mrs. Flatgate gazed at him doubtfully for a moment and then flung her arms around his neck ejaculating Martha said Mrs. Quelts approvingly have you no self-respect is this the way you deal to so shameful a deception then turning the supposed defender so Mr. Flatgate you have escaped from your foreign prison Foreign how much have you both gone dotty ladies I've just escaped from a third class carriage on the London and Northwest the space is limited but I never have a foreign prison it is useless to endeavor to deceive us said Mrs. Quelts sternly look at that telegram Mr. Flatgate and deny it if you can you have been getting about in some vile foreign place with my misguided husband oh Quelts is in it too is he then it must be a bad case but let's see what we have been up to for upon my word I'm quite in the dark at present he held out his hand for the telegram and guided carefully somebody's been having a lark with you old lady he said to his wife you know well enough where I've been my regular northern journey and nowhere else I don't believe a word of it said Mrs. Quelts you men are all alike deceivers every one of you much obliged for your good opinion Mrs. Quelts I had no idea a Quelts was such a bad lot but so far as I'm concerned the things easily tested here is the bill for my bed last night at Carlisle now if I was in Carlisle and looking about it at the same time perhaps you kindly explain how I managed it Mrs. Quelts was staggered but not convinced but if if you were at Carlisle where is Benjamin and what does this telegram mean not being a wizard I really can't say but concerning Quelts we shall find him never fear when did he disappear Mrs. Quelts told her story not forgetting the mysterious letter I think I see daylight said flatgate the party who has got into that mess is Quelts and being frightened out of his wits he has given my name instead of his own that's about the size of it but Benjamin doesn't smoke and how should he come to be at depth went for a holiday I suppose as for smoking I shouldn't have thought he was up to it but with that sat-upon sort of man and Mrs. Quelts you never know where he may break out worms will churn you know and sometimes they take a wrong turning but Benjamin would never dare that's just it he'd dare to do anything when you've got your eye on him when you haven't perhaps he may and perhaps he may't the fact is you hold up his head too tight and if he jibbs now and then you can't wonder at it you have a very coarse wear Mr. Flatgate Mr. Quelts is not a horse that I'm aware of we won't quarrel about the animal my dear madam but you may depend upon it my solutions right a hardened villain like myself say would never have got into such a scrape but Quelts don't know enough of the world to keep himself out of mischief they've got him in quote that's clear but the best thing you can do is to send the coin and get him out again send money to those swindling Frenchmen never if Benjamin is in prison I will fetch him out myself he would never risk that dreadful sea passage exclaimed Mrs. Flatgate and how will you manage the language you don't understand French oh I shall do very well said the heroic woman they won't talk French to me that same night a female passenger crossed by the boat from New Haven to Dieppe the passage was rough the passenger was very seasick but she still sat grimly upright never for one moment relaxing her grasp on the handle of her silk umbrella what she went through on landing how she finally obtained her husband's release and what explanations passed between the reunited pair must be left to the reader's imagination for Mrs. Quelts never told the story 24 hours later a four-wheeled cab drew up at the Quelts' door the carriage descended first a stately female and then a woe-bagon little man in a soft-felt hat and a red necktie both sorely crushed and soiled with a black bag in his hand is there a fire in the kitchen asked Mrs. Quelts the moment she set foot in the house being assured that there was she proceeded down the kitchen stairs Quelts meekly following her now she said the bag those things Benjamin opened the bag and tremblingly took out the frilled night dress and the cigars his wife pointed to the fire and he meekly laid them on it now that necktie the necktie followed the cigars and that thing and the hat crowned the funeral pile the smell was peculiar and to the ordinary nose disagreeable but to Mrs. Quelts it was as the odor of burnt incense she watched the heap as it smoldered away and finally dispersed the embers by a vigorous application of the poker now Benjamin she said to her trembling spouse I forgive you but if ever again the warning was left unspoken but it was not needed Benjamin's one experience Benjamin satisfied his yearning for soft raiment and foreign travel and his hats are taller than ever end of the wrong black bag recording by Jessica Louise St. Paul, Minnesota September 25th, 2008