 Reality Miss Sophia Jackson in the state of Illinois was a beautiful girl, and had a devoted lover, E. from Slade, a merchant's clerk. Their attachment was sullenly permitted by Miss Jackson's parents, but not encouraged. They thought she might look higher. Sophia said, while he was handsome and good and loved her, and was not that enough, they said, no, to marry beauty a man ought to be rich. Well, said Sophie, he is on the way to it. He is in a merchant's office. It's a long road, for he is only a clerk. The above is a fair specimen of the dialogue, and conveys as faint an idea of it as specimens generally do. All this did not prevent E. from and Sophia from spending many happy hours together. But presently another figure came on the scene, Mr. Jonathan Clark. He took a fancy to Miss Jackson and told her parents so, and that she was the wife for him, if she was disengaged. They said, well, now there was a young clerk after her, but the man was too poor to marry her. Now Mr. Jonathan Clark was a wealthy speculator. So on that information he felt superior, and courted her briskly. She complained to E. from, the idea of their encouraging that fat fool to think of me, said she. She called him old, though he was but thirty, and turned his person and sentiments into ridicule, though in the opinion of sensible people he was a comely man, full of good sense and sagacity. Mr. Clark paid her compliments. Miss Jackson laughed and reported them to Slade in a way to make him laugh too. Mr. Clark asked her to marry him. She said no. She was too young to think of that. She told E. from that she had flatly refused him. Mr. Clark made her presents. She refused the first and blushed, but was prevailed on to accept. She accepted the second and the third, without first refusing them. As she didn't trouble E. from Slade with any portion of this detail, she was afraid it might give him pain. Clark wooed her so warmly that E. from got jealous and unhappy. He remonstrated. Sophia cried and said it was all her parents fault, forcing the man upon her. Clark was there every day. E. from scolded. Sophia was cross. They parted in anger. Sophia went home and snubbed Clark. Clark laughed and said, Take your time. He stuck there for hours. She came round and was very civil. Matters progressed. E. from always unhappy. Clark always jolly. Parents in the same mind. Clark urged her to name the day. Never urged her again. Next year urged her again before her parents, and they put in their word. Oh, Sophie, don't trifle any longer. You're overdoing it. There, there, do what you like with me, said the girl. I'm miserable. And ran out crying. Clark and parents laughed and stayed behind and settled the day. When Sophie found they had settled the day, she sent for E. from and told him with many tears. Oh, said she, you little know what I've suffered these six months. Oh, my poor girl, said E. from, let us alope and end it. What? Oh, my parents would curse me. Oh, they would forgive us in time. Oh, never. You don't know them. Oh, no, my poor E. from, we are unfortunate. We can never be happy together. We must bow. I should die if this went on much longer. You're a fickle, faithless jade, cried E. from in agony. Oh, God forgive you, dear, said she, and wept silently. Then he tried to comfort her. Then she put her arm around his neck and assured him she yielded to constraint, but her heart could never forget him. She was more unhappy than he, and always should be. They parted with many tears on both sides, and she married Clark. At her earnest request Slade kept away from the ceremony. By that means, she was not compelled to wear the heir of a victim, but could fling the cloak of illusory happiness and gaiety over her aching heart. And she did it, too. She was as gay a bride as had been seen for some years in those parts. E. from Slade was very unhappy. However, after a bit he comprehended the character of Sophia Clark, Nay Jackson, and even imitated her. She had gone in for money, and so did he, only on the square, a detail she had omitted. Years went on. He became a partner in the house instead of a clerk. The girls set their caps at him, but he didn't marry. Mrs. Clark observed this, and secretly approved. Say she had married, that was no reason why he should. Justice des femmes! And now you will observe that by all the laws of fiction, Mrs. Clark ought to have learned to her cost that money does not bring happiness, and ought to have been miserable, especially whenever she encountered the pale face of him whose love she valued too late. Well, she broke all those laws, and went in for life as it is. She was happier than most wives. Her husband was kind, but not doting. A gentle master, but no slave. And she liked it. She had two beautiful children, and they helped fill her life. Her husband's gold smoothed her path, and his manly affection strewed it with flowers. As she was not passionately devoted to him, but still by the very laws of nature, the wife was fonder of Jonathan than the maid had ever been of Ephraim. Not but what the latter remaining unmarried tickled her vanity, and so completed her content. She passed six years in clover, and the clover in full bloom all the time. Nevertheless, guilt's happiness is apt to get a rub sooner or later. Clark had losses one upon the other, and at last told her he was done for. He must go back to California and make another fortune. Lucky the old folks made me settle a good lump on you, he said. You're all right, and the children. Away went stout-hearted Clark, and left his wife behind. He knew the country, and went at all in the ring, and began to remake money fast. His letters were not very frequent, nor models of conjugal love, but they had good qualities. One was their contents. A draft on New York. Some mischievous person reported that he was often seen about with the same lady, but Mrs. Clark did not believe that, the remittances being regular. But presently both letters and remittances ceased. Then she believed the worst, and sent a bitter remonstrance. She received no reply. Then she wrote a bitterer one, and for the first time since their union cast Ephraim's Slade in his teeth. There he is, said she, unmarried to this day, for my sake. No reply, even to this. She went to her parents, and told them how she was used. They said they had foreseen it. That being a lie, some people think it necessary to deliver themselves off before going seriously into any question. And then, after a few pros and cons, they bet her observe that her old lover, Ephraim Slade, was a rich man, a man unmarried, evidently for her sake, and if she was wise, she would look that way, and get rid of a mock husband, who was probably either dead or false, and in any case had deserted her. But what am I to do? said Mrs. Clark, affecting not to know what they were driving at. Why, sue for a divorce. Divorce, Jonathan? Think of it. He's the father of my children, and he was a good husband to me all the time he was with me. It's all that nest, California. And she began to cry. The old people told her she must take people as they were, not as they had been, and it was no fault of hers, nor California's if her husband was a changed man. In short, they pressed her hard to sue for a divorce. And let Slade know that she was going to do it. But the woman was still handsome and under thirty, and was not without a certain pride and delicacy that grace her sex even when they lack the more solid virtues. No, said she, I will never go begging to any man. I'll not let Ephraim Slade think I divorce my husband just to get him. I'll part with Jonathan since he has parted with me, and after that I will take my chance. Ephraim Slade, he's not the only man in the world with eyes in his head. So she sued for a divorce and got it quite easy. Divorce is beautifully easy in the West. When she was free she had no longer any scruple about Ephraim. He lived at a town seven miles from her. She had a friend in that town. She paid her a visit. She let the other lady into her plans and secured her cooperation. Mrs. X said it abroad that Mrs. Clark was a widow, and from one to another Ephraim Slade was given to understand that a visit from him would be agreeable. Will it? said Ephraim, then I'll go. He called on her, and was received with a sweet, pensive tenderness. Sit down, Ephraim, Mr. Slade, said she, softly and tremulously, and left the room. She had scarcely cleared it when he heard her tell the female servant, with a sharp, imperious tone, to admit no other visitors. It did not seem the same voice. She came back to him on Lodious. The sight of you after so many years upset me, said she, and then after a pause and a sigh. You look well. Oh yes, I'm all right. We are neither of us quite so young as we were, you know. Oh no indeed, with another sigh. Well, dear friend, I suppose you've heard. I'm punished, you see, for my want of courage and fidelity. I have always been punished, but you couldn't know that. Perhaps after all, you have been the happier of the two. I'm sure I hope you have. Well, I'll tell you, Mrs. Clark, said he in open, manly tones. She stopped him. Oh, please don't call me Mrs. Clark when I have parted with the name forever. And sort of, Oce, call me Sophia. Well then, Sophia, I'll tell you the truth. When you jilted me—who?—and married—oh, who shall I say?—well, then, married another, because he had got more money than I had. No! No! Ephraim, it was all my parents. But I will try to bear your reproaches. Go on. Well, then, of course, I was awfully cut up. I was wild. I got a six-shooter to kill you and—oh, the other. Oh, I wish you had, said she. She didn't wish anything of the kind. Well, I'm very glad I didn't, then. I dropped the six-shooter and took to the moping and crying line. Oh, poor Ephraim. Oh, yes, I went through all the changes, and ended as other men do. Oh, and how is that? Why, by getting over it. What, you've got over it? Oh, Lord, yes, long ago. Oh, indeed, said she, bitterly, and then with sly incredulity. How is it you've never married? Well, I'll tell you. When I found out that money was everything with you girls, I calculated to go in for money, too. So I speculated, like the other, and made money. But when I had once begun to taste money-making, somehow I left off troubling about women. Besides, I know a great many people, and I look coolly on, and what I see in every house has set me against marriage. Most of my married friends envy me and say so. I don't envy any one of them and don't pretend to. Marriage. It's a bad institution. You've got clear of it, I hear. All the better for you. I mean to take a shorter road. I won't ever get into it. This churl, then, who had drowned hot passion in the waves of time, and instead of nursing a passion for her all his days, had been hugging celibacy as man's choicest treasure, asked her coolly if there was anything he could do for her. Could he be of service in finding out investments, et cetera, or could he place either of the boys in the road to wealth? Instead of hating these poor children like a man, he seemed all the more inclined to serve them, that their absent parent had secured him the sweets of celibacy. She was bursting with ire, but had the self-restraint to thank him, though very coldly, and to postpone all discussion of that kind to a future time. Then he shook hands with her and left her. She was wounded to the core. It would have been very hard to wound her heart as deeply as this interview wounded her pride. She sat down and shed tears of mortification. She was aroused from that condition by a letter in a well-known hand. She opened it all in a flutter. My dear Sophie, you're a nice wife you are. Here I have been slaving my life out for you, and shipwrecked, and nearly dead with a fever, and coming home rich again. And I asked you just to come from Chicago to New York to meet me, that have come all the way from China and San Francisco. And it's too much trouble. Did you ever hear of Lunham's dog that was so lazy he leaned against the wall to bark? It's very disheartening to a poor fellow that has played a man's part for you and the children. Now, be a good girl and meet me at Chicago tomorrow evening at six p.m. For if you don't buy thunder, I'll take the children and absquatchelate with them to Paris or somewhere. I find the drafts on New York I sent from China have never been presented. Wrecked by that, you never got them. Has that raised your dander? Well, it's not my fault. So put on your bonnet, and come and meet your affectionate husband, Jonathan Clark. I sent my first letter to your father's house. I send this to your friend, Mrs. X. Mrs. Clark read this in such a tumult of emotions that her mind couldn't settle a moment on one thing. But when she had read it, the blood in her beating veins began to run cold. What on earth should she do? Fall to the ground between two stools? No, that was a man's trick, and she was a woman every inch. She had not any time to lose, so she came to a rapid conclusion. Her acts will explain better than comments. She dressed, packed up one box, drove to the branch station, and got to Chicago. She bought an exquisite bonnet, took private apartments at a hotel, and employed an intelligent person to wait for her husband at the station, and call out his name and give him a card on which was written Mrs. Jonathan Clark at the Blank Hotel. This done, she gave her mind entirely to the decoration of her person. The ancients, when they had done anything wrong and wanted to be forgiven, used to approach their judges with dishevelled hair and shabby clothes, saw didis vestibus. This poor, shallow woman, unenlightened by the wisdom of the ancients, thought the nicer a woman looked, the likelier a man would be to forgive her, no matter what. So she put on her best silk dress, and her new French hat bought on purpose, and made her hair very neat, and gave her face a wash and a rub that added colour. She did not rouge, because she calculated she should have to cry before the end of the play, and crying hard over rouge makes channels. When she was as nice as could be, she sat down to wait for her divorcee. She might be compared to a fair spider, which has spread her web to catch a wasp, but is sorely afraid that when he does come he will dash it all to ribbons. The time came, and passed, an expected character is always as slow to come as a watched part to boil. At last there was a murmur on the stairs, then a loud, hearty voice, and then a blow at the door, you couldn't call it a tap, and in burst Jonathan Clarke, brown as a berry, beard a foot long, genial and loud, open heart, Californian manners. At the sight of her he gave a hearty, ah, and came at her with a rush to clasp her to his mandibusm, and knocked over a little cane chair and guilt. The lady, quaking internally and trembling from head to foot, received him like the awful sit-ins with one hand nobly extended, forbidding his profane advance. A word first, if you please, sir. Then Clarke stood transfixed, with one foot advanced, and his arms in the air like Ixion when Juno turned to cloud. You have ordered me to come here, sir, and you have no longer any right to order me, but I am come, you see, to tell you my mind. What, do you really think a wife is to be deserted and abandoned, most likely for some other woman, and then be whistled back into her place like a dog? No man shall use me so. Why, what's the row, has a mad dog bitten you, you cantankerous critter? Not a letter for ten months! That's the matter! cried Mrs. Clarke, loud and aggressive. That's not my fault. I wrote three from China and sent you two drafts on New York. It's easy to say so. I don't believe it. Louder and aggressiver. And Clarke, bawling in his turn, I don't care whether you believe it or not. Nobody but you calls Johnny Clarke a liar. Mrs. Clarke, competing in violence, I believe one thing, that you were seen all about San Francisco with a lady. To us to her you directed my letters and drafts. That's how I lost them. It's always the husband that's in fault and not the post. Very amicably all of a sudden. How long were you in California after you came back from China? Two months. How often did you write in that time? Sharply. Well, you see, I was always expecting to start for home. You never wrote once. Very loud. Oh, that was the reason. That and the lady screaming loud. Oh, stuff. Give me a kiss and no more nonsense. Solemnly. That I shall never do again. Husbands must be taught not to trifle with their wives' affections in this cruel way. And tenderly. Oh, Jonathan, how could you abandon me? What could you expect? I'm not old. I am not ugly. Damn it all, if you've been playing any games, and he felt instinctively for a Bowie knife. Oh, sir! said the lady in an awful tone that subjugated the monster directly. Well then, said he sullenly, don't talk nonsense. Please remember we are man and wife. And Mrs. Clark are very gravely. Jonathan, we are not. Damn nation! What do you mean? If you're going into a passion, I won't tell you anything. I hate to be frightened. Language the man has picked up in California. Well, that's neither here nor there. You go on. Well, Jonathan, you know I have always been under the influence of my parents. It was at their wish I married you. Well, that's not what you told me at the time. Oh, yes, I did. Only you've forgotten. Well, when no word came from you for so many months, my parents were indignant, and they worked upon me so, and pestered me so, that— Oh, Jonathan, we're divorced. The actress thought that this was a good point to cry at, and cried accordingly. Jonathan started at the announcement, swore a heartful, and then walked the room in rage and bitterness. So then, said he, you leave the woman you love, and the children whose smiles are your heaven, you lead the life of a dog for them, and when you come back by God, the wife of your bosom has divorced you, just because a letter or two miscarried. Oh, that outweighs all you've done and suffered for her. Oh, you're crying, are you? What, you've given up facing it out and laying the blame on me, have you? Oh, yes, dear, I find you were not to blame. It was my parents. Your parents? You're not a child, are you? You are the parents of my children, you little idiot. Have you forgotten that? Oh, no! I have acted hastily. I'm very, very wrong. Oh, come, that's a good deal for a pretty woman to own. There, dry your eyes, and let us order dinner. What, dine with you? Oh, dammit, it's not the first time by a few thousand. Oh, Lord Jonathan, I should like. But I mustn't. Why not? I should be compromised. What, with me? Oh, yes, with any gentleman. Do try and realise the situation, dear. I'm a single woman. Good Mr. Clark from California delivered a string of curses so rapidly that they all ran into what Sir Walter calls a Clish-McLover, even as when the ringers clashed and jangled the church bells. Mrs. Clark gave him time, but as soon as he was in a state to listen quietly, compelled him to realise her situation. You see, said she, I am obliged to be very particular now. Delicacy demands it. You remember poor E. from Slade? Your old sweetheart, I can found him. Has he been after you again? Why, Jonathan, ask yourself, he has remained unmarried ever since, and when he heard I was free, of course he entertained hopes. But I kept him at a distance, and so, tenderly and regretfully, I must you. I am a single woman. Look me in the face, Sophie. You won't dine with me? Oh, I'd give the world. But I mustn't, dear. Not if I twist your neck round, darling, if you don't. No, dear. You shall kill me, if you please, but I am a respectable woman, and I will not brave the world. But I know I've acted rashly, foolishly, ungratefully, and I deserve to be killed. Oh, kill me, dear. You'll forgive me then. With that, she knelt down at his feet, crossed her hands over his knees, and looked up sweetly in his face with brimming eyes. Waiting, yay, even requesting to be killed. He looked at her with glistening eyes. You cunning, hosy, he said. You know I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head. What's to be done? I tell you what it is, Sophie. I've lived three years without a wife, and that's enough. I won't live any longer so. No, not a day. It shall be you or somebody else. Huh, what's that, a bell? I'll ring an order one. I've got lots of money. There always to be had for that, you know. Oh, Jonathan, don't talk so. It's scandalous. How can you get a wife all in a minute by ringing? Well, if I can't, then the town crier can. I'll hire him. For shame! How is it to be, then, you that are so smart at dividing couples, you don't seem to be very clever in bringing them together again? It was my parents, Jonathan, not me. Well, dear, I always think when people are in difficulty, the best thing is to go to some very good person for advice. Now the best people are the clergymen. There's one in this street, number 18. Perhaps he could advise us. Jonathan listened gravely for a little while before he saw what she was at. But the moment he caught the idea so slightly conveyed, he slapped his thigh and shouted out, You are a sensible girl. Come on! And he almost dragged her to the clergyman. Not but what he found time to order a good dinner in the hall as they went. The clergyman was out, but soon found. He remarried them, and they dined together, man and wife. They never mentioned grievances that night, and Jonathan said afterwards his second bridal was worth a dozen of his first, for the first time she was a child and had to be courted uphill. But the second time she was a woman and knew what to say to a fellow. Next day, Mr. and Mrs. Clark went over to the town. They drove about in an open carriage for some hours, and did a heap of shopping. They passed by Ephraim Slade's place of business much oftener than there was any need, and slower. It was Mrs. Clark who drove. Jonathan sat and took it easy. She drives to this day, and Jonathan takes it easy. End of Reality by Charles Reed Two Precipitators A. Ablution. The act of cleansing. The little sweep has washed his face. But not as we advise. For black as soot he's made the soup, and rubbed it in his eyes. B. Butter. Exchange. Here's Master Mack presenting for it, of which he makes display. He knows he'll soon have Lucy's rope, and with it skip away. C. Catastrophe. A final event. Generally unhappy. But here's a sad catastrophe. Was Mrs. Blossom's cry. Then water, water, bring to me. Or all my fish will die. D. Delightful. Pleasant. Charming. These boys are bathing in the stream, when they should be at school. The master's coming round to see who disregards his role. E. Isintricity. Irregularity. Strangeness. We often see things. Seeming strange. But skarsh so strange as this. Here everything is misapplied. Here every change I miss. F. Fraud. Deceit. Trick. Artifice. Cheat. Here is Pat Murphy. Fast to sleep. And there is Nettie Bray. The thief of watchful eye doth keep until he gets away. G. Genius. Mental power. Faculty. A little boy with little slate, we sometimes make more clear. The little thoughts that he should state than can by words appear. H. Horror. Terror. Dread. This little harmless, speckled frog, seems Lady Townsend's dread. I fear she'll run away and cry and hide her silly head. I. Ichabod. At the jam. Ichabod. A Christian name. J. Jam. A conserve of fruits. Enough is good. Excess is bad. Yet Ichabod, you see. Will with the jam his stomach cram until they disagree. K. Knowing. Conscious. Intelligent. The horses know both beans and corn and snuff them in the wind. They also all know Jimmy Small and what he holds behind. L. Lucky. Fortunate. Happy by chance. We must admire, in Lovebook's case, the prompt decision made, as he could not have gained the wood if time had been delayed. M. Mimic. Imitative burlesque. The gentleman who struts so fine unconscious seems to be of imitation by the boy who has the street door key. N. Negligence. Heedlessness. Carelessness. The character Tom, slow boy bears, would much against him tell, for any work that's want it done, or even play done well. O. Obstinency. Stubborness, waywardness. The obstinacy of the pig is nature, as you see, but boys and girls who have a mind should never stubborn be. P. Pets. Favorites. Spoiled fondlings. Some people say that Aunt Grey, two animals, is kind. We think, instead, they are overfed and kept too much confined. Q. Quantry. A doubt, a difficulty. Dame. Heartlets. In difficulty. And looks around with doubt. Let's hope a she, some way, got in. She may, some way, get out. R. Rivalry. Competition. Emulation. In every competition prize, this should be kept in view. Whoever wins should be the one who does deserve it, too. S. Sluggard. An inactive, lazy fellow. To lie so many oars in bed, you surely must be ill, and need some physic, master-ned, as birch, or drought, or pill. T. Topsy-turvy. Upside down, bottom top. Here's Topsy-turvy. Upside down, the ceiling seems the base. Reverse the ground, and twill be fine, the things are out of place. U. Uncommon vegetation. Uncommon. Rare, not frequent. V. Vegetation. The power growth. The uncommon vegetation here, with art has much to do. The trees are nature, but the fruit uncommon and untrue. W. Wander. Admiration. Astonishment. The wise men live in Wanderstel however much they know, but simple giles has wonderfined within the penny-show. X. No English word begins with this letter. Xantip. A Greek matron, wife of Socrates. Here's Socrates and Xantip, philosopher and wife. For gentleness, renowned was he. She better known for strife. Y. Yern. To grieve, to vex. Miss Cross has tried to reach the grapes. She's tried and tried again, and now she's vexed to think that all her efforts are in vain. Z. Zanny. A buffoon, a merry Andrew. Here's Zanny reading a book, with heels above his head, and judging by his laughing look, finds fun in what he's read. End of THE ROYAL PITCHER OF A BET by John Leaton An Untold Story by Thomas Bailey Aldrich 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 Anita Sloma Martinez An Untold Story The night was heavy, with the sense of flowers distilled in the dampness. A band was playing under pavilion on the further side of the garden. Among the foliage hung hundreds of colored lights. The moon had risen, and in open spaces the over-leaning sprays and branches were stamped in black on the asphalt walks, which, diverging right and left, led to fountains and cafes and secluded nooks. Here, after the heat of the day, the beauty and fashion of Budapest assemble for an hour or two to lounge and eat ices and get a breath of cool air. In the gay season, nearly every nation on earth contributes a costume or a singularity to the picturesque throng. Within a dozen paces of the little iron table where I was seated, the Danube swept by almost flush with the stone coping. At this point the current is very strong, running at a speed of not less than five or six miles an hour. The spring floods, fed by the snows and rains of the Blocksburg, must at times, I thought, test the strength of the buttresses of the airy bridges whose far-stretched threads of light were now repeating themselves in the water. A sultry summer night, with scarcely wind enough to stir a leaf on the topmost bow, and only now and then a hasty breath like a sigh from the river. The crowds of promenaders were gathered about the music stand, and I was virtually alone, as I sat listening to the straws' waltz and repealing the height of the opposite shore with the hordes of turbaned turks who stormed and took the place in 1526. Etched against the sky was a crumbling citadel, no longer solicitous of the straggling gray town that had crept up to it for protection. A sentinel fallen asleep, ages and ages ago. From time to time a small boat glided across the broad strip of moonlight lying on the water, and vanished. Suddenly a figure, the slender figure of a girl, rushed past me so closely that I felt the wind of the flying drapery. An instant afterward she had thrown herself into the Danube. A dark shape, which the velocity of the current pressed against the masonry, was carried twenty or thirty yards down the stream almost before I could spring to my feet. As I did so, a policeman who seemed to rise out of the ground in the shadow of an acacia tree leaned over the low curbing and clutched at the outspread skirt which had not yet lost its buoyancy. A moment later two other guardians reached the spot, and the girl was lifted from the river insensible and lay glittering on the greensward. She was not more than eighteen or nineteen, a very beautiful girl, with the full delicate lines which distinguished the slob women of even the peasant class. Her black hair hung in strands about the throat and face, the pallor of which was further intensified by the deep fringe of her eyelashes. On one half-bared shoulder, where it had probably grazed the brickwork, was a bruise. She wore a robe of some soft white material plainly made, but in the fashion of the hour. A narrow scarlet ribbon, the bow of which had slipped under the ear, encircled her neck. A ring set with a single stone sparkled on the forefinger of the right hand. There were no other attempts of personal adornment. The simplicity of the girl's dress, with its certain negative evidences of refinement, left her great in life indeterminate. She might have been a lady's maid, or a duchess. Beauty knows no distinction. The colour had gone from the lips. They were slightly parted as though she were smiling in her trance, if it was a trance. Could it be death? That seemed hardly probable under the circumstances, though so complex and delicate as the mechanism of the heart that a lighter shock than she had sustained may stop it. She had floated face downward, and there was some delay in lifting the body from the water. But not three minutes had elapsed between the desperate act and the rescue. By this time a number of persons had collected, and there were many gesticulations in much chattering in French, Italian, and Hungarian, the import of which I could not catch beyond an inference that the girl had been identified by one of the bystanders, a nondescript elderly person with glasses, who seemed in no special manner afflicted by what had occurred, but was appreciative of his own accidental importance. Subsequently I received the impression that the man found himself mistaken and had relapsed into nobody again. The looker's on increased momentarily, drawn to the spot by some inscrutable instinctive sightseeing. One of the undreamed of penalties of the suicide is to become spectacular. At the approach of a newcomer, a physician, the crowd respectfully drew aside making planks for him. His examination was of necessity, superficial, and preliminary. When it was ended he rose from his knee, and without speaking spread a handkerchief over the face until then uncovered. The thin tissue adhered to the damp features, and straightaway molded itself into a startling mask. The doctor briefly interrogated the three guards, made a few memoranda on his tablets, and departed. A little distance off, their curiosity partly overcoming their fear, stood a group of children in an attitude of hesitation ready for instant flight like a flock of timid sparrows. The physician's departure was the signal for renewed chattering and gesticulation, in which a helmeted Sergeant DeVille now joined, taking rapid notes and occasionally pausing to wave the book over his head, an energetic Sergeant DeVille. Then an interval of poignant silence ensued. Everybody waited. Presently four men appeared with a litter, and the girl was laid upon it, looking like a marble statue carved on some medieval tomb, and was so borne away. The cortege had hardly disappeared down the main avenue, when a gentleman, evidently a person of consequence, came hurriedly from an opposite direction of footmen and livery, following closely at his heels. On learning which path the bears had taken the pair hastened after them, the crowd dispersed as quickly as it had gathered, and I went back to my seat under the trees. The river flowed on in the moonlight, strains of music from the orchestra, and sounds of happy voices softened by distance drifted through the shrubbery. The cafes were emptying, and the richly decked women and men in evening-dress sauntered idly past. Nothing was changed in the mise-en-scene of half an hour before. All the fairy-like stage properties were the same. The effacement of the tragedy was so complete that the swift, dark interlude had scarcely left a sense of its incongruity. It was like a dream that one recalls confusedly unawakening. Did I imagine this thing a while ago as I sat drowsing in my chair with the untasted ice beside me? One tangible detail remained. The trampled greens were in yonder where the body had lain, and the parapet splashed with water. The next morning I searched the papers, such at least as were printed in French, for some item touching the occurrence, but found none. How came it that the taste of life so soon turned bitter on those young lips? Was it some lover who scorned her, or one from whose love she fled? To the heart of what man walking the thronged streets of the city, or dwelling alone in some adjacent suburb, did this piteous death send an intended pang? There was a kind of relief in knowing nothing more than I had witnessed. Perhaps the vague drama that pieced itself loosely together in my imagination was better than the reality would have been. A gloss of grim fact might have spoiled the finer text. As it was, the pathos and the mystery of it all haunted me and followed me across the sea. In the months that succeeded, the incident gradually faded out of my mind, and probably would never have detached itself from the blur of half-forgotten things if chance had not again brought me to the Hungarian capital. As the Orient Express was nearing Budapest, the recollection of the girl who threw herself into the river two years before came abruptly into my thought and insisted on staying there. The reminiscence was natural enough, time and place considered, but the obstinacy of it irritated me a little. After dinner that evening I joined the promenaders in the garden. The small iron table with its green painted chair under the linden was in the same place, and had quite the error of having kept itself unoccupied for me all this while. The river once more turned itself into silver and lapis lazuli as I looked. The military band was playing the old interminable waltz, and the same waiter took my order for an ice. It might have been the untasted ice of two years ago re-frozen. The thing that had happened seemed weirdly on the point of happening over again. Sitting there I half expected a slender girlish figure to rush past me. At intervals the remembered face glimmered among the shadows under the acacia trees, the face like white rose drenched with rain. My halt at Budapest was of the briefest, a break in a long eastward journey to be resumed the following afternoon. As I was driving to the station the next day a block in the crowded street brought my conveyance to a stand. Facing me on my right, and some eight or ten yards distant, was a landow wedged in a mass of carriages. The gold braid of the coachman and footman first caught by eye, then I glanced at the occupants of the carriage, a lady and a gentleman, and on them my gaze rested spellbound. It was the girl I had helped to drag from the river. The gentleman at her side and the footman on the box were the two men who had hurried into the garden that night just after the removal of the body. Accepting for them I might have discredited my eyes. I could not be mistaken in all three. It was she, pale as I remember her, but now with an aerial of distinction which she had not seemed to wear in her forlorner state. I had seen only her slavonic beauty. She was simply robed as then, but now more richly, with a flash of diamonds at the wrist as she lifted one hand in a sudden imperious gesture to the driver of a vehicle behind her. There was, I fancied, something characteristic and temperamental in that gesture. I had only a moment for observation. The impeded stream of traffic flowed again and the landow swept by, leaving a deepened mystery on my hands. Here was a more complex drama than I had sketched my imagination two years previously. Then I had been content with the commonplace plot of some poor girl deserted by her lover, but now the play was not so simple as that. It involved subtler motive and action and a different setting. There were new elements in the tragedy and sharper contrasts to be considered. These two persons were evidently persons of rank. On the panels of the landow was a heraldic blazin', a clue if it had been possible for me to follow it. Who were they, father and daughter, or husband and wife, or mistress and lover? I was not to know. I had caught a glimpse of one lurid page in the book of those two lives, then the volume had been closed, and so far as I was concerned, sealed forever. That shut book, it stands darkling on a shelf by itself in my library, unread and never to be opened. In certain frequent moods I find myself tantalised beyond reason by its conjectural romance. I have read many a famous novel which has not had for me one half the charm that lies in that untold story. Recording by Chad Horner from Ballyclair in Cunhaunter, Northern Ireland, situated in the north-east of the island of Ireland. Valiant Vicki, the brave weaver. Once upon a time there lived a little weaver, by name Victor Prince, but because his head was big, his legs thin, and he was altogether small and weak and ridiculous. His neighbours called him Vicki, little Vicki the weaver, but despite his size, his thin legs and his ridiculous appearance, Vicki was very Valiant and loved to talk for hours of his bravery, and the heroic acts he would perform if fate gave him an opportunity. Only fate did not, and in consequence Vicki remained little Vicki, the Valiant weaver, who was laughed at by all for his boasting. Now one day as Vicki was sitting at his limb, weaving, a mosquito settled on his left hand, just as he was throwing the shuttle from his right hand, and by chance, after gliding swiftly through the shuttle, came flying into his left hand, and on the very spot where the mosquito had settled and squashed it. Seeing this, Vicki became desperately excited. It is as I have always said, he cried, if I only had the chance I knew, I could show my middle. Now I'd like to know how many people could have done that. Killing a mosquito is easy, and throwing a shuttle is easy, but to do both, at one time, is a mighty different affair. It is easy enough to shoot a great, hulking man. There is something to say, something to aim at. Then guns and crossbows are made for shooting, but to shoot a mosquito with a shuttle is quite another thing. That requires a man. The more he thought over the matter, the more elated he became over his skill and bravery, until he determined that he would no longer suffer himself to be called Vicki. Now that he had shown his middle, he would be called Victor. Victor Prince, or better still, Prince Victor. That was a name worthy, his merits. But when he announced this determination to the neighbours, they roared with laughter, and though some did call him Prince Victor, it was with such sniggering and giggling and mock reverence, that the little man flew home in a rage. Here he met with no better reception, for his wife, a fine handsome young woman, who was tired to death by her ridiculous little husband's whims and fancies, sharply bade him hold his tongue, and not make a fool of himself. Upon this, beside himself with pride and mortification, he seized her by the hair, and beat her most unmercifully. Then, resolving to stay no longer in a town where his merits were unrecognised, he bade her prepare some bread for a journey, and set about packing his bundle. I will go into the world, he said to himself. The man who can shoot a mosquito dead with a shuttle ought not to hide his light under a bushel. So off he sat with his bundle, his shuttle, and a loaf of bread tied up in a handkerchief. Now, as he journeyed, he came to a city where a dreadful elephant came daily to make a meal of the inhabitants. Many mighty warriors had gone against it, but none had returned. On hearing this, the valiant little weaver thought to himself, Now is my chance. A great haste-duck of an elephant will be a fine mark to a man who has shot a mosquito with a shuttle. So he went to the king and announced that he proposed, single-handed, to meet and slay the elephant. At first the king thought the little man was mad. But as he persisted in his words, he told him that he was free to try his luck if he chose to run the risk, adding that many better men had than he had failed. Nevertheless, our brave weaver was nothing dunted. He even refused to take either sword or bow, but strutted out to meet the elephant, armed only with a shuttle. It is a weapon I thoroughly understand, good people, he replied most fully, to those who urged him to choose some more deadly arm. And it has done its work in its time, I can tell you. It was a beautiful sight to see little Vicki swaggering out to meet his enemy, while the townsfolk flocked to the walls to witness the fight. Never was such a valiant weaver till the elephant, discrying its tiny antagonist, trumpeted fiercely, and charged right at him, and then alas, all the little man's courage disappeared. And forgetting his new name, Prince Victor he dropped his bundle, his shuttle and his bread, and bolted away as fast as Vicki's legs could carry him. Now it so happened that his wife had made the bread ever so sweet, and had put all sorts of tasty spices in it, because she wanted to hide the flavour of the poison she had put in it also, for she was a wicked, revengeful woman, who wanted to be rid of her tourism, whimsical little husband. And so, as the elephant charged past, it smelt with delicious spices, and catching up the bread with its long trunk, gobbled it up, without stopping an instant. Meanwhile fear lent speed to Vicki's short legs, but though he ran like a hare, the elephant soon overtook him. In vain he doubled and doubled, and the beast's hot breath was on him, when in sheer desperation he turned, hoping to bolt through the enormous creature's legs, being half-blind with fear however, he ran full-tilt against them instead. Now as luck would have it, at that very moment the poison took effect, and the elephant fell to the ground, stone-dead. When the spectators saw the monster fall, they could scarcely believe their eyes, but their astonishment was greater still, when running up to the scene of action they found valiant Vicki seated in triumphed, on the elephant's head, calmly mobbing his face with his handkerchief. I had to pretend to run away, he explained, or the card would never have engaged me. Then I gave him a little push, and he fell down, as you see. Elephants are big beasts, but they have no strength to speak of. The good folks were amazed at the careless way in which valiant Vicki spoke of his achievement, and as they had been too far off to see very distinctly what had occurred, they went and told the king that the little weaver was just a fearful e-man, and had knocked over the elephant like a nine-pin. Then the king said to himself, none of my warriors and wrestlers, no, not even the heroes of old, could have done this. I must secure this little man's services, if I can. So he asked Vicki why he was wondering around the world. For pleasure, for service, or for conquest, returned valiant Vicki, laying such stress on the last word that the king, in a great hurry, made him commander in chief of his old army, for fear he should take service elsewhere. So there was valiant Vicki a mighty fine warrior, and as proud as a peacock of having fulfilled his own predictions. I knew it, he would say to himself, when he was dressed out in full fig, with shining armour and waving plumes, and spears, swords, and shields. I felt I had it in me. Now after some time, a terribly savage tiger came ravaging the country, and at last the city folk petitioned that the mighty prince victor might be sent out to destroy it. So out he went at the head of his army, for he was a great man now, and had quite forgotten all about limbs and shuttles. But first he made the king promise his daughter in marriage as a reward. Nothing for nothing said, the astute little weaver, to himself, and when the promise was given he went out as gay as a lark. Do not distress yourselves, good people, he said to those who flocked round him, praying for his successful return. It is ridiculous to suppose the tiger will have a chance, why I knocked over an elephant with my little finger. I am really invincible. But alas for our valiant Vicki, no sooner did he see the tiger lashing its tail and charging down on him than he ran for the nearest tree and scrambled into the branches. There he sat like a monkey, while the tiger glowed at him from below. Of course when the army saw their commander in chief boat like a mouse, they followed his example, and never stopped until they reached the city, where they spread the news that the little hero had fled up a tree. There let him stay, said the king, secretly relieved, for he was jealous of the little weaver's prowess, and did not want him for a son-in-law. Meanwhile, valiant Vicki sat cowering in the tree, while the tiger occupied itself below, with sharpening its teeth and claws and curling its whiskers, till Purvicki nearly tumbled into its jaws with fright. So one day, two days, three days, six days passed by. On the seventh, the tiger was fiercer, hungrier and more watchful than ever. As for the poor little weaver, he was so hungry that his hunger made him brave, and he determined to try and slip past his enemy during its mint-day snooze. He crept stealthily, down inch by inch, till his foot was within a yard of the ground, and then, why then, the tiger, which had had one eye open all the time, jumped up with a roar. Valiant Vicki shrieked with fear, and making a tremendous effort, swung himself into a branch, cogging his little, bandy legs over it to keep them out of reach, for the tiger's red, panting mouth and gleaming white teeth were within half an inch of his toes. In doing so, his dagger fell out of its sheath, and went up into the tiger's wide-open mouth, and thus, point foremost down into its stomach, so that it died. Valiant Vicki could scarcely believe his good fortune, but, after pruning at the body with a branch, and finding it not move, he concluded the tiger really was dead, and ventured down. Then he cut off its head, and went home in triumph to the king. You and your warriors are a nice set of choirs, said he, wrathily. Here have I been fighting that tiger for seven days and seven nights, without bite or sup, whilst you have been guzzling and snoozing at home. Ha! It's disgusting, but I suppose everyone is not a hero as I am. So Prince Victor married the king's daughter, and was a greater man than ever. But by and by a neighbouring prince, who bore a grudge against the king, came with a huge army and encamped outside the city, swearing to put every man, woman and child within it, to the sword. Hearing this, the inhabitants of course cried with one accord, Prince Victor, Prince Victor to the rescue. So the valiant little weaver was ordered by the king to go out and destroy the invading army, after which he was to receive half the kingdom as a reward. The valiant thickie, with all his boasting, was no fool, and he said to himself, this is a very different affair from the others. A man may kill a mosquito, an elephant, and a tiger, yet another man may kill him. And here is not one man but thousands, no, no. What is the use of half a kingdom, if you haven't, ahead on your shoulders? Under the circumstances, I prefer not to be a hero. So in the dead of night, he bade his wife rise, pack up her golden dishes and follow him. Not that you will want the golden dishes at my house, he explained boastfully. For I have heaps and heaps, but on the journey these will be useful. Then he crept outside the city, followed by his wife, carrying the bundle, and began to steal through the enemy's camp. Just as they were in the middle of it, a big cult chiefer flew into valiant Biggie's face. Run, run. He shrieked to his wife, in a tremble, taking and setting off as fast as he could, never stopped till he had reached his room again and hidden under the bed. His wife set off, at a run likewise, dropping her bundle of golden dishes with a clang. The noise roused the enemy who, thinking they were attacked, flew to arms. But being half asleep, and the night being pitch dark, they could not distinguish friend from foe. And falling on each other, fought with such fury, that by next morning not one was left alive, and then, as may be imagined, great were the rejoicings at Prince Victor's price. It was a mere trifle, remarked the valiant little gentleman modestly. When a man can shoot a mosquito with a shuttle, everything else is child's play. So he received half the kingdom, unrolled it with great dignity, refusing ever afterwards to fight, saying, truly, that kings never fought themselves, but paid others to fight for them. Thus he lived in peace, and when he died, everyone said, valiant Biggie was the greatest hero the world had ever seen. And a valiant Biggie, the brave weaver by Flora Ani Still.