 An Arrow in a Sunbeam by Sarah Oran-Jewitt. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. An Arrow in a Sunbeam by Sarah Oran-Jewitt. The minister of a fashionable church had noticed Sunday after Sunday a little old lady with a sad, patient face dressed in very shabby mourning, sitting in the stranger's pew. Like Job, this good man could say, the cause that I knew not I sought out. He soon learned from the sexton her name and residence and was surprised to find her in the very topmost room of a house amid evidences of real poverty. In the one little window bloomed a monthly rose and a vigorous heliotrope, and beside the pots lay half a dozen books such as are rarely seen in the homes of the very poor. On the wall hung two fine engravings and an old-fashioned gold watch was suspended from a faded velvet case over the mantelpiece. Her story, when she was induced to tell it, was neither new nor startling. She had long been a widow. Her children had been called from her till now she had but one, and he, being a cripple, could do little more than supply his own absolute wants by his work as a repairer of watches. The pastor was charmed with her patient endurance of what others would call the hard discipline of life, and when he left her he felt that he had been a learner instead of a teacher in that poor room. Being too delicate to allude to her apparent poverty he said at parting, as you are a stranger among us I will send some of the visitors of the church to cheer and comfort you. He selected two bright rosy girls full of life and happiness of whose visits among the poor he had often heard. They came to the widow like sunbeams through a storm. They talked cheerily and did not appear to notice the bareness of the room. They asked something of her history and told of their grandmothers, who also had seen much sorrow, and in this way drew her out till she told of her former competency, of her early advantages in England, and of all the misfortunes which had brought her to her present position. And yet she said, I have little to complain of while I have the love and tender care of such a son as Walter. Little by little without a complaint from her, they found that the old lady lacked many things for her comfort. Their sympathies were aroused. It would be a delight to make her happy by gifts that would be of service to her. Lucy Gray, a girl full of fun as well as of kindness, said, I wish she would let me make you a bonnet. I make lovely ones. Grandma won't wear a milliner's bonnet. She likes mine so much better. Grace Wheeler volunteered to make a dress and caps, adding playfully, as my dear grandma is gone, you must let me adopt you and do all I can for you. There are four of us girls always looking around for somebody to help. You can call on us for anything you want. Four young girls who laughingly styled themselves, the Quartet of Mercy, met at Grace Wheeler's house with the materials for a dress and a bonnet and caps. The old lady was coming two hours afterward to be fitted, having been measured before they left her house. The girls were in a perfect gala of joy that bright afternoon. They chatted merrily while working, and one would have thought they were making costumes for comic tableau rather than the garb of a sorrowful widow. I'll tell you girls, said Lucy Gray. The old dowager will shine when she gets my bonnet on. And trying it on over her chestnut curls, she added, I half wish I was a dawnfallen lady myself. I have her dasher's daughter from England. Oh, I hope I shall be a widow sometime. Widows caps are so becoming. Well, replied Grace, laughing, do your best for goody horn and maybe she'll let you have dear Walter. Then you'll be a widow soon. He's so feeble. Oh, I wish I had the dressing of her. She'd surprise herself, as the Dutchman said. I'd put a canary-colored pom-pom and a white agrette in that bonnet, and here she slipped a scarlet bird out of her own hat and stuck it into a fold of the crepe Lucy was laying on to the old-fashioned close frame. I'd make her an upper skirt with a tie-back at starlet stockings and low shoes, and, fff, you'd make the dear old soul look like Mother Hubbard, cried another. No, said Grace, but she looks now like little Dame Crump with a brand-new broom. And no doubt Walter looks either like Mother Hubbard's dog or, I don't know what. Oh, by the way, did you notice a violin on the bureau? Whoever gets dear Walter will have a chance to do all the family dancing. The dowager's too old and Walter's too lame, but there, what stuff I'm talking. It's well, Mother, as it was in hearing. She won't let me have any sport. But I do think old folks are so comical I'll do anything in the world to help them, though. They worked on some time, and in the real kaidenance which was hidden under this nonsense, they laid plans for the dear old stranger's future comfort. Why, girls, it's time she was here now. Nora, called Grace as a girl past the door, when an old lady comes, send her right upstairs. There was an old person here an hour ago, and as you told me not to let anyone in who asked for you for an hour, I told her to sit down in the hall. I suppose she's there now. I forgot all about her, was the reply. Grace flew down, but no one was there. That was some old beggar who got tired of waiting. I'm sure she'll be here soon, said Lucy. But she did not come, and they grew tired of waiting to try on the dress and hat. So they resolved to go all four together the next day to the opening at Madam Horns to carry the things themselves. They did so, but when the dowager opened the door at their knock, they hardly knew her. She looked straight, and solemn, and cold. She did not even ask them in, but they went in and seated themselves. Grace said, you didn't come yesterday to try on the dress. I'm thinking you might be ill, we brought it here. But I did go, ladies. I went an hour earlier than you asked me to beg that the dress might be cut perfectly plain without upper skirt or flounds. The girl seated me in the hall, and while I sat there, I was forced to hear myself and my son ridiculed and turned to scorn in a way I could not believe possible. I have done nothing to merit this. I never begged of you, nor sought your sympathy in my sorrows, and I cannot understand why I made the bud of your scorn. Oh, Mrs. Horn, cried Lucy, we are only in sport. I hope you will forgive us. Is it sport to cast contempt on an aged woman who has been walking for years in a fiery furnace upheld and comforted by God? Is it sport to ridicule an unfortunate boy who has a continual warfare with pain to keep up his poor home? Don't speak of it again, said Grace, blushing deeply and half ready to cry as she untied the package in her hand while Lucy unpinned the paper that held the bonnet. Put them up, please, young ladies. I cannot look on them, and I never could wear them. When you first came, I told Walter that I felt as if a sunbeam had come into the house and remained behind you. Last night I told him that my new sunbeam had an arrow concealed in it. But you will take the things, after all our trouble, implored Grace with tears dropping from her eyes. No, never. I can hear the gospel in my old clothes. I should take no pleasure in these they are associated with too painful thoughts. I hope God will bless you children and save you from an old age of poverty and give you what he has given me, a full trust in his love and tenderness. Goodbye. You can imagine the feelings of those young girls when they left that poor room in tears. Respectful treatment is more to the sensitive poor than gifts of food, garments, or money. And nothing is so likely to harden the hearts of the young as the habit of getting sport out of the sorrows and infirmities of others. End of An Arrow in a Sunbeam, Recording by Jessica Louise, St. Paul, Minnesota This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Henry Fregan, Beowulf, Retold by Hamilton Wright Mabey Old King Hrothgar built for himself a great palace covered with gold, with benches all around the outside and a terrace leading up to it. It was bigger than any hall men had ever heard of, and there Hrothgar sat on his throne to share with the men the good things God had given him. A band of brave knights gathered around him, all living together in peace and to joy. But there came a wicked monster, Grendel, out of the moors. He stole across the fends in the thick darkness and touched the great iron bars of the door on the hall, which immediately sprang open. Then, with his eyes shooting out flame, he spied the knights sleeping after battle. With his steel fingernails, the hideous fiend sees thirty of them in their sleep. He gave yells of joy and sped as quick as lightning across the moors to reach his home with his prey. When the knights awoke, they erased a great cry of sorrow, whilst the aged king himself sat speechless with grief. None could do battle with the monster. He was too strong, too horrible for anyone to conquer. For twelve long years, Grendel warred against Hrothgar, like a dark shadow of death. He prowled around the hall and lay and wait for his men on the misty moors. One thing he could not touch, and that was the king's sacred throne. Now there lived in a far off land, a youngster called Beowulf, who had the strength of thirty men. He heard of the wicked deeds of Grendel and the sorrow of the good king Hrothgar. So he made ready a strong ship with fourteen friends, set sail to visit Hrothgar, as he was in need of help. The good ship flew over the swelling sea like a bird, till in due time, the voyagers saw shining white cliffs before them. Then they knew their journey was at an end. They made fast their ship, grasped their weapons, and thanked God that they had an easy voyage. Now the coast guard spied them from a tower. He set off to the shore, riding on horseback and brandishing a huge lance. Who are you? he cried, bearing arms and openly landing here. I am bound to know from once you come, before you make a step forward. Listen to my plain words and hasten to answer me. Beowulf made answer that they came as friends to rid Hrothgar from his wicked enemy Grendel, and at that the coast guard led them on to guide them to the king's palace. Down hill they ran together, with the rushing sound of voices and armed tread, until they saw the hall shining like gold against the sky. The guard bade them to go straight to it, then, wheeling round on his horse, he said, It is time for me to go. May the father of all keep you in safety, for myself I must guard the coast. The street was paved with stone, and Beowulf's men marched along, following it to the hall. Their armor shining in the sun, clanging as they went. They reached the terrace, where they set down their broad shields. Then they seated themselves on the bench, while they stacked their spears together, and made themselves known to the herald. Hrothgar speedily bade them welcome. They entered the great hall with measured tread. Beowulf, leading away, his armor shone like a gold network. His look was high and noble. As he said, Hail, O King, to fight against Grendel, single-handed I have come. Grant me this that I may have this task alone, I and my little band of men. I know that the terrible monster despises weapons, and therefore I shall bear neither sword nor shield nor buckler. Hand to hand I will fight the foe, and death shall come to whomsoever God wills. If death overtakes me, then will the monster carry away my body to the swamps, so care not for my body, but send my armor to my king, my fate is in God's hands. Hrothgar loved the youth for his noble words, and bade him and his men sit down to the table, and merrily share the feast. If they had mind to do so. As they feasted, a minstrel sang with a clear voice. The queen in cloth of gold moved down the hall and handed a jeweled cup of meat to the king and all the warriors, old and young. At the right moment, with gracious words, she brought it to Beowulf, full of pride and high purpose. The youth drank from this blended cup and vowed that he would conquer the enemy, or die. When the sun sank in the west, all the guests arose. The king bade Beowulf guard the house and watch for the foe. Have courage, he said. Be watchful. Resolve on success. Not a wish of yours shall be left unfulfilled if you perform this mighty deed. Then Beowulf lay down to rest in the hall, putting off from his coat of mail, helmet, and sword. Through the dim night, Grendel came stealing. All slept in the darkness, all but one. The door sprang open at the first touch that the monster gave it. He trod quickly over the paved floor of the hall, his eyes gleaming as he saw the troop of kinsmen laying together asleep. He laughed as he reckoned on sucking the life of each one before the day broke. He seized a sleeping warrior, and in a trice had crunched his bones. Then he stretched out his hand to see his Beowulf on his bed. Quickly did Beowulf rip his arm. He stood up in full length, and grappled with him, with all his might, till his fingers cracked as if they would burst. Never had Grendel felt such a grip. He had a mind to though, but could not. He roared, and the hall resounded with his yells. As up and down he raged, with Beowulf holding him in a fast embrace. The benches were overturned. The timbers of the hall cracked. The beautiful hall was all but wrecked. Beowulf's men had seized their weapons, and thought to hack Grendel on every side, but no blade could touch him. Still Beowulf held him by the arm. His shoulder cracked, and he fled, wounded to death, leaving hand, arm, and shoulder in Beowulf's grasp. Over the moors into the darkness, he sped as best he might, and to Beowulf was the victory. Then, in the morning, many a warrior came from far and near, riding in troops that tracked the monster's path, where he had fled, stricken to death. In a desmo pool, he had yielded up his life. Racing their horses over the green turf, they reached again the paved street, the golden roof of the palace glittered in the sunlight. The king stood on the terrace, and gave thanks to God. I have had much will, he said, but this lad, through God's might, has done the deed that we, with all our wisdom, could not do. Now I heartily love you, Beowulf, as if you were my son. You shall want nothing in this world, and your fame shall live forever. The palace was cleansed. The walls hung anew with cloth and gold. The whole place was made fair and straight, for only the roof had been left altogether unhurt after the fight. A merry feast was held. The king brought forth out of his treasure a banner, helmet, and mail coat. These he gave to Beowulf. But more wonderful than all was the famous sword handed down to him through the ages. Then, eight horses with golden cheek plates were brought within the court. One of them was saddled with Harathgar's own saddle, decorated with silver. Harathgar gave all to Beowulf, bidding him and joy them well. To each of Beowulf's men he gave rich gifts. The minstrel sang. The queen, beautiful and gracious, bore the cup to the king and Beowulf. To Beowulf she too gave gifts. Mantle and bracelets and collar of gold. Use these gifts, she said, and prosper well. As far as the sea rolls, your name shall be known. Grateful is the joy of all till evening came. Then the hall was cleared of benches and strewn with beds. Beowulf, like the king, had his own bower this night to sleep in. The nobles lay down in the hall. At their heads they set their shields and placed ready for their helmets and their mail coats. Each slept, ready in an instant to do battle for his lord. So they sank to rest, little dreaming what sorrow was to fall on them. Harathgar's men sank to rest, but death was to be the portion of one. Grendel, the monster was dead, but Grendel's mother still lived. Furious at the death of her son, she crept to the great hall and made her way in, clutching an earl, the king's dearest friend, and crushed him in his sleep. Great was the up-war, though the terror was less than when Grendel came. The night slept up, sword in hand, the witch hurried to escape. She wanted to get out with her life. The aged king felt bitter grief when he heard that his dearest friend was slain. Decent for Beowulf, who like the king had had his own sleeping bower that night, the youth stood before Harathgar and hoped that all was well. Do not ask if things go well, said the sorrowed king. We have fresh grief this morning, my dearest friend and noblest knight is slain. Grendel, you yourself destroyed with the strength given you by God. But another monster has come to avenge his death. I have heard the country folks say there were two huge fiends to be stalking over the moors, one like a woman as near as they could make out, the other had the form of the man, but was huge or far. It was he they called Grendel, these two haunt a fearful spot and land of untrodden bogs and windy cliffs. A waterfall plunges into the blackness below and twisted trees with gnarled roots overhang it. Unearthly fire is seen gleaming there night after night. None can tell the depth of the stream. Even a stag, hunted to death, will face his foes on the bank rather than plunge into those waters. It is a fearful spot. You are our only help. Dare you enter this horrible haunt? Quick was Beowulf's answer. Sorrow not, oh king. Rouse yourself quickly and let us track the monster. Each of us must look for death, and he who has the chance should do mighty deeds before it comes. I promise you, Grendel's kin shall not escape me, if she hid in the depths of the earth or the ocean. The king sprang up gladly and Beowulf and his friends set out. They passed stony banks and narrow gullies, the haunts of gallblons. Suddenly they saw a clump of gloomy trees overhanging a dreary pool. A shutter ran through them, for the pool was blood red. All set down by the edge of the pool. While the horn sounded the cheerful blast, in water were monstrous sea snakes, and on the jutting points of land were dragons and strange beasts. They tumbled away, full of rage at the sound of the horn. One of Beowulf's men took aim at the monster with his arrow and pierced him through, so he swam no more. Beowulf was making ready for the fight. He covered his body with armor, lest the fiend should clutch him. On his head was a white helmet, decorated with figures of bores, worked in silver. No weapon could hurt it. His sword was a wonderful treasure. With an edge of iron, it had never failed anyone who had needed it in battle. Be like a father to my men, if I perish, said Beowulf to Hrothgar, and send the rich gifts you have given me to my king. He will see that I had good fortune while life lasted. Either I will win fame, or death shall take me. He dashed away, plunging headlong into the pool. It took nearly the whole day before he reached the bottom. While he was still on his way, the water which met him. For a hundred years she had lived in those depths. She made gravate him, and caught him with her talons, but his coat of mail saved him from her loathsome fingers. Still she clutched him tight, and bore him in her arms to the bottom of the lake. He had no power to use his weapons, though he had courage enough. Water beasts swam after him, and battered him with their tusks. Then he saw that he was in a vast hall, where there was no water, but a strange unearthly glowing of fire-lights. At once the fight began, but the sword would not bite. It failed its master in his need. For the first time, its fame broke down. Away Beowulf threw it in anger, trusting to the strength of his hands. He cared nothing for his own life, for he thought but of honor. He seized the witch by the shoulder, and swayed her thus so that she sank on the pavement. Quickly she recovered, and closed in on him. He staggered, and fell, worn out. She sat on him, and drew her knife to take his life. But his good mail coat turned to the point. He stood up again, and then truly God had helped him. Where he saw among the armor on the wall, an old sword of the huge size, the handiwork of giants. He seized it, and smote with all his might, so that the witch gave up her life. His heart was full of gladness, and light, calm and beautiful as that of the sun filled the hall. He scanned the vast chamber, and saw Grendel lying there, dead. He cut off his head as a trophy for King Hrothgar, whose men the fiend had killed and devoured. Now those men, who were seated on the banks of the pool, watching with Hrothgar, saw that the water was tinged with blood. Then the old men spoke together of the brave Beowulf, saying they feared they would never see him again. The day was waning fast, so they and the king went homeward. Beowulf's men stayed on, sick at heart, gazing at the pool. They longed, but did not expect to see their lord and master. Under the depths, Beowulf was making his way to them. The magic sword melted in his hand, like snow in sunshine. Only the hilt remained, so venomous was the fiend that had been slain therewith. He brought nothing more with him than the hilt, and Grendel's head. Up he rose through the waters, where the furious sea beasts had chased them. Now not one was to be seen. The depths were purified, when the witch lost her life. So he came to land, bravely swimming, bearing his spoils. His men saw him. They thanked God and ran to free him of his armor. They were joyous to get sight of him, sound and whole. Now they marched gladly through the highways up to the town. It took four of them to carry Grendel's head. On they went, all fourteen, their captain glorious in their midst. They entered the great hall, startling the king and queen as they sat at meet, with the fearful sight of Grendel's head. Beowulf handed the magic hilt to Hrothgar, who saw that it was the work of giants of old. He spake to Beowulf, while all held their peace, praised him for his courage, said he would love him as his son, and bade him to help to mankind, remembering not to glory in his own strength, for he held it from God, and death without more ado might subdue it altogether. Many, many treasures, he said, must pass from me to you tomorrow. But now rest and feast. Gladly Beowulf sat down to the banquet, and well he liked the thought of rest. One day dawned he bade the king farewell with noble words, promising to help him in time of need. Hrothgar with tears and embraces let him go, giving him fresh gifts of hoarded jewels. He wept, for he loved Beowulf well, and he knew he wouldn't ever see him anymore. The coast guard saw the gallant warriors coming, bade them welcome, and led them to their ship. The wind whistled in the sails, and a pleasant humming sound was heard as the good ship sped on her way. So Beowulf returned home, having done mighty deeds, and gained great honor. In due time Beowulf himself became king, and well he governed the land for fifty years, then trouble came. A slave fleeing from his master stumbled by an evil chance into the den of the dragon. There he saw a dazzling horde of gold guarded by the dragon for three hundred winters. The treasure tempted him, and he carried off a tankard of gold to give to his master to make peace with him. The dragon had been sleeping, now he awoke, and sniffed the scent of the enemy along the rock. He hunted diligently over the ground. He wanted to find the man who had done the mischief in his sleep. In his rage he swung around the treasure mound, thrashing into it, now and again to seek the jewel to tankard. He found it hard to wait until evening came, when he meant to avenge with fire the loss of his treasure. Presently the sun sank, and the dragon had his will. He set forth, burning all the cheerful homes of men. His rage was felt far and wide. Before dawn he shot back again to his dark home, trusting in his mound and his craft to defend himself. Now Beowulf heard that his own home had been burnt to the ground. It was a great grief to him, almost making him break out in rage against Providence. His breast heaved with anger. He meant to rid his country of the plague, and to fight the dragon single-handed. He would have thought it shame to seek him with a large band. He, who as a lad, had killed Rendle and his kin. As he armed for the fray, many thoughts filled his mind. He remembered the days of his youth and manhood. I fought many wars in my youth, he said. Now that I am aged and the keeper of my people, I will yet again seek the enemy and do famously. He bade his men await him on the mountainside. They were to see which of the two would come out alive out of the tussle. There the aged king beheld where a rocky archway stood, with a stream of fire gushing from it. No one could stand there and not be scorched. He gave a great shout, and the dragon answered with hot breath of flame. Beowulf, with drawn swords, stood well up to his shield when the burning dragon curved like an arch came headlong upon him. The shield saved him, but little. He swung up the sword to smite the horrible monster, but his edge did not bite. Sparks flew around him on every side. He saw that the end of his days had come. His men crept away from the woods to save their lives. One, and one only, wig-laughed by a name, sped through the smoke and flame to help his lord. My lord Beowulf, he cried, with all your might defend life, I will support you to the utmost. The dragon came on in fury. In a trice the flames consumed wig-laughed shield, but nothing daunted. He stepped under the shelter of Beowulfs as his own felon ashes about him. The king remembered his strength of old, and he smote with his sword with such force that it stuck in the monster's head while splinters flew all around. His hand was so strong that, as men used to say, he broke any sword in using it, and was none the worse for it. Now, for the third time the dragon rushed upon him, and seized him by the neck with his poisonous fangs. Wig-laugh, with no thought for himself, rushed forward, though he was scorched with flames, and smote the dragon lower down than Beowulf had done. With such effect the sword entered the dragon's body, that from that moment the fire began to cease. The king recovered his senses, drew his knife, and ended the monster's life. So these two together destroyed the enemy of the people. To Beowulf, that was the greatest moment of his life, when he saw his work completed. The wound that the dragon had given him began to burn and swell, for the poison had entered it. He knew that the tale of his days was told. As he rested on a stone by the mound, he pondered thoughtfully, looking on the cunning work of the dwarves of old. The stone arches on their rocky pillars, Wig-laugh with tender care unloosed his helmet, and brought him water, Beowulf discoursing the while. Now I would gladly give up my armor to my son, had God granted me one. I have ruled this people fifty years, and no king has dared attack them. I have held my own with justice, and no friend has lost his life through me. Though I am sick with deadly wounds, I have comfort in this. Go now quickly, beloved Wig-laugh, show me the ancient wealth that I have won for my people, the gold and brilliant gems that I may contentedly give up my life. Quickly did Wig-laugh enter the mound, at the bidding of his master. On every side he saw gold and jewels and choice vases, helmets and bracelets, and overhead a mysterious banner, all golden, gleaming with light, so that he could scam the surface of the floor and see the curious treasured hordes. He filled his lap with golden cups and platters, also took the brilliant banner. He hastened to return with his spoils, wondering with pain if he should find his king still alive. He bore his treasures to him, laid them on the ground, and again sprinkling him with water. I thank God, said the dying king, that I have been permitted to win this treasure for my people. Now they will have all they need, but I cannot be any longer here. Bid my men make a lofty mound on the headland overlooking the sea, and there placed my ashes. In time to come, men shall call it Beowulf's Barrow. It shall tower aloft to guide sailors over the stormy seas. The brave king took from his neck his golden collar, took his helmet and his coronet, and gave them to his true knight, Wig-laugh. Fate has swept all my kinsmen away, he said, and now I must follow them. That was his last word, as his soul departed from his bosom to join the company of the just. Of all kings in the world, he was, said his men, the gentlest to his knights, and the most desirous of honor. End of story. Recorded by Henry Fragon on August 14th, 2008, San Diego, California. The Cat That Walked By Himself by Rudyard Kipling This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Cat That Walked By Himself by Rudyard Kipling Here and attend and listen, for this befell, and behappened, and became, and was, oh, my best beloved, when the tame animals were wild. The dog was wild, and the horse was wild, and the cow was wild, and the sheep was wild, and the pig was wild, as wild as wild could be. And they walked in the wet wild woods by their wild lones, but the wildest of all the wild animals was the cat. He walked by himself, and all places were alike to him. Of course, the man was wild, too. He was dreadfully wild. He didn't even begin to tame till he met the woman, and she told him that she did not like living in his wild ways. She picked out a nice dry cave instead of a heap of wet leaves to lie down in, and she strewed clean sand on the floor, and she lit a nice fire of wood at the back of the cave. And she hung a dried wild horse-skin tail down across the opening of the cave, and she said, wipe your feet, dear, when you come in, and now we'll keep house. That night, best beloved, they ate wild sheep roasted on the hot stones and flavored with wild garlic and wild pepper, and wild ducks stuffed with wild rice and wild fenugreek and wild coriander, and marrow bones of wild oxen and wild cherries and wild grinadillas. Then the man went to sleep in front of the fire ever so happy, but the woman sat up, combing her hair. She took the bone of the shoulder of mutton, the big fat blade bone, and she looked at the wonderful marks on it, and she threw more wood on the fire, and she made a magic. She made the first singing magic in the world. Out in the wet wild woods, all the wild animals gathered together where they could see the light of the fire a long way off, and they wondered what it meant. Then wild horse stamped with his wild foot and said, O my friends, and O my enemies, why have the man and the woman made that great light in that great cave, and what harm will it do us? Wild dog lifted up his wild nose and smelled the smell of roast mutton, and said, I will go up and see and look and say, for I think it is good. Cat, come with me. Nanny, said the cat, I am the cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me. I will not come. Then we can never be friends again, said wild dog, and he trotted off to the cave. But when he had gone a little way, the cat said to himself, All places are alike to me. Why should I not go to and see and look and come away at my own liking? So he slipped after the wild dog softly, very softly, and hid himself where he could hear everything. When wild dog reached the mouth of the cave, he lifted up the dried horse again with his nose and sniffed the beautiful smell of the roast mutton, and the woman, looking at the blade bone, heard him and laughed, and said, Here comes the first wild thing out of the wild woods. What do you want? Wild dog said, Oh my enemy, and wife of my enemy, what is this that smells so good in the wild woods? Then the woman picked up a roasted mutton bone and threw it to wild dog, and said, Wild thing out of the wild woods, taste and try. Wild dog nodded the bone, and it was more delicious than anything he had ever tasted, and he said, Oh my enemy, and wife of my enemy, give me another. The woman said, Wild thing, out of the wild woods, help my man to hunt through the day, and guard this cave at night, and I will give you as many roast bones as you need. Ah! said the cat, listening. This is a very wise woman, but she is not so wise as I am. Wild dog crawled into the cave and laid his head on the woman's lap, and said, Oh my friend, and wife of my friend, I will help your man to hunt through the day, and at night I will guard your cave. Ah! said the cat, listening. That is a very foolish dog. And he went back through the wet wild woods, waving his wild tail, and walking by his wild lone. But he never told anybody. When the man waked up, he said, What is Wild dog doing here? And the woman said, His name is not Wild dog anymore, but the first friend, because he will be our friend for always and always and always. Take him with you when you go hunting. Next night the woman cut great green armfuls of fresh grass from the water meadows, and dried it before the fire, so that it smelt like pneumon hay. And she sat at the mouth of the cave, and plated a halter out of horse hide, and she looked at the shoulder of mutton bone, at the big broad-blade bone, and she made a magic. She made the second singing magic in the world. Out in the wild woods all the wild animals wondered what had to happen to Wild dog, and at last Wild horse stamped with his foot and said, I will go and see and say why Wild dog has not returned. Cat, come with me. Nanny, said the cat, I am the cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me. I will not come. But all the same he followed Wild horse softly, very softly, and hit himself where he could hear everything. When the woman heard Wild horse tripping and stumbling on his long mane she laughed and said, here comes the second, Wild thing out of the wild woods, what do you want? Wild horse said, oh my enemy and wife of my enemy, where is Wild dog? The woman laughed and picked up the blade bone and looked at it and said, Wild thing out of the woods you did not come here for Wild dog but for the sake of this good grass. And Wild horse tripping and stumbling on his long mane said, that is true. Give it me to eat. The woman said, Wild thing out of the wild woods, bend your wild head and wear what I give you and you shall eat the wonderful grass three times a day. Ah, said the cat, listening, this is a clever woman, but she is not so clever as I am. Wild horse bent his wild head and the woman slipped the plated hide halter over it and Wild horse breathed on the woman's feet and said, oh my mistress and wife of my master, I will be your servant for the sake of the wonderful grass. Ah, said the cat, listening, that is a very foolish horse. And he went back through the wet wild woods waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lawn, but he never told anybody. When the man and the dog came back from hunting the man said, what is Wild horse doing here? And the woman said, his name is not Wild horse anymore, but the first servant because he will carry us from place to place for always and always and always, right on his back when you go hunting. Next day, holding her wild head high, that her wild horn should not catch in the wild trees, Wild cow came up to the cave and the cat followed and hid himself just the same as before. And everything happened just the same as before and the cat said the same things as before. And when Wild cow had promised to give her milk to the woman every day in exchange for the wonderful grass, the cat went back through the wet wild woods waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lawn, just the same as before. But he never told anybody. And when the man and the horse and the dog came home from hunting and asked the same questions, same as before, the woman said, her name is not Wild cow anymore, but the giver of good food. She will give us the warm white milk for always and always and always and I will take care of her while you and the first friend and the first servant go hunting. Next day the cat waited to see if any other wild thing would go up to the cave, but no one moved in the wet wild woods, so the cat walked there by himself. And he saw the woman milking the cow and he saw the light of the fire in the cave and he smelled the smell of the warm white milk. Cat said, O my enemy and wife of my enemy, where did Wild cow go? The woman laughed and said, Wild thing, out of the wild woods, go back to the woods again, for I have braided up my hair and I have put away the magic blade bone and we have no more need of either friends or servants in our cave. Cat said, I am not a friend and I am not a servant, I am the cat who walks by himself and I wish to come into your cave. Woman said, then why did you not come with the first friend on the first night? Cat grew very angry and said, as Wild dog told tales of me. Then the woman laughed and said, You are the cat who walks by himself and all places are alike to you, you are neither a friend nor a servant, you have said it yourself, go away and walk by yourself and all places alike. Then the cat pretended to be sorry and said, Must I never come into the cave, must I never sit by the warm fire, must I never drink the warm white milk? You are very wise and very beautiful, you should not be cruel, even to a cat. Woman said, I knew I was wise, but I did not know I was beautiful, so I will make a bargain with you. If ever I say one word in your praise, you may come into the cave. And if you say two words in my praise, said the cat, I never shall, said the woman. But if I say two words in your praise, you may sit by the fire in the cave. And if you say three words, said the cat, I never shall, said the woman. But if I say three words in your praise, you may drink the warm white milk three times a day for always and always and always. Then the cat arched his back and said, Now let the curtain at the mouth of the cave and the fire at the back of the cave and the milk pots that stand beside the fire. Remember what my enemy and the wife of my enemy has said. And he went away through the wet wild woods, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lawn. That night, when the man and the horse and the dog came home from hunting, the woman did not tell them of the bargain that she had made with the cat, because she was afraid that they might not like it. Cat went far and far away and hid himself in the wet wild woods by his wild lawn for a long time till the woman forgot all about him. Only the bat, the little upside down bat that hung inside the cave, knew where the cat lived, and every evening bat would fly to cat with news of what was happening. One evening, bat said, There is a baby in the cave. He is new and pink and fat and small, and the woman is very fond of him. Ah! said the cat, listening. But what is the baby fond of? He is fond of things that are soft and tickle, said the bat. He is fond of warm things to hold in his arms when he goes to sleep. He is fond of being played with. He is fond of all those things. Ah! said the cat, listening. Then my time has come. Next night, cat walked through the wet wild woods and hid very near the cave till morning time, and man and dog and horse went hunting. The woman was busy cooking that morning, and the baby cried and interrupted, so she carried him outside the cave and gave him a handful of pebbles to play with, but still the baby cried. Then the cat put out his patty-paw and patted the baby on the cheek, and it cooed, and the cat rubbed against its fat knees and tickled it under its fat chin with his tail, and the baby laughed, and the woman heard him and smiled. Then the bat, the little upside-down bat, that hung in the mouth of the cave said, O my hostess and wife of my host and mother of my host son, a wild thing from the wild woods is most beautifully playing with your baby. A blessing on that wild thing, whoever he may be, said the woman, straightening her back, for I was a busy woman this morning, and he has done me a service. That very minute and second, best beloved, the dried-horse-skin curtain that was stretched tail-down at the mouth of the cave fell down, whoosh! Because it remembered the bargain she had made with the cat, and when the woman went to pick it up, lo and behold the cat was sitting quite comfy inside the cave. O my enemy and wife of my enemy and mother of my enemy, said the cat. It is I, for you have spoken a word in my praise, and now I can sit within the cave for always and always and always, but still I am the cat, who walks by himself, and all places are all alike to me. The woman was very angry, and shut her lips tight, and took up her spinning wheel, and began to spin. But the baby cried, because the cat had gone away, and the woman could not hush it, for it struggled, and kicked, and drew black in the face. O my enemy and wife of my enemy and mother of my enemy, said the cat. Take a strand of the wire that you are spinning, and tie it to your spinning-whirl, and drag it along the floor, and I will show you a magic that shall make your baby laugh as loudly as he is now crying. I will do so, said the woman, because I am at wit's end, but I will not thank you for it. She tied the thread to the little clay's spindle-whirl, and drew it across the floor. And the cat ran after it, and patted it with his paws, and rolled head over heels, and tossed it backward over his shoulder, and chased it between his hind legs, and pretended to lose it, and pounced down upon it again, till the baby laughed as loudly as it had been crying, and scrambled after the cat, and frolicked all over the cave till it grew tired, and settled down to sleep. With the cat in its arms. Now, said the cat, I will sing the baby a song that shall keep him asleep for an hour, and he began to purr, loud and low, low and loud, till the baby fell fast asleep. The woman smiled as she looked down upon the two of them, and said, That was wonderfully done. No question, but you are very clever, O cat. That very minute and second, best beloved, the smoke of the fire at the back of the cave came down in clouds from the roof, puff, because it remembered the bargain she had made with the cat. And when it had cleared away, low and behold, the cat was sitting quite comfy, close to the fire. O my enemy, and wife of my enemy, and mother of my enemy, said the cat. It is I, for you have spoken a second word in my praise, and now I can sit by the warm fire at the back of the cave for always, and always, and always. But still I am the cat, who walks by himself, and all places are all alike to me. Then the woman was very, very angry, and let down her hair, and put more wood on the fire, and brought out the broad-blade bone of the shoulder of mutton, and began to make a magic that should prevent her from saying a third word in praise of the cat. It was not a singing magic, best beloved, it was a still magic, and by and by the cave grew so still that a little wee-wee mouse crept out of a corner and ran across the floor. O my enemy, and wife of my enemy, and mother of my enemy, said the cat. Is that little mouse part of your magic? O, gee, no indeed, said the woman, and she dropped the blade bone, and jumped upon the footstool in front of the fire, and braided up her hair very quick, for fear that the mouse should run up it. Ah, said the cat, watching, then the mouse will do me no harm if I eat it. Did it? No, said the woman, braiding up her hair. Eat it quickly, and I will ever be grateful to you. Cat made one jump, and caught the little mouse, and the woman said, A hundred thanks. Even the first friend is not quick enough to catch little mice as you have done. You must be very wise. That very moment, and second, O, best beloved, the milk-pot that stood by the fire cracked in two pieces, because it remembered the bargain she had made with the cat, and when the woman jumped down from the footstool, low and behold, the cat was lapping up the warm white milk that lay in one of the broken pieces. O, my enemy, and wife of my enemy, and mother of my enemy, said the cat. It is I, for you have spoken three words in my praise, and now I can drink the warm white milk three times a day, for always, and always, and always. But still I am the cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me. Then the woman laughed, and set the cat a bowl of the warm white milk, and said, O cat, you are as clever as a man, but remember that your bargain was not made with the man or the dog, and I do not know what they will do when they come home. What is that to me? said the cat. If I have my place in the cave by the fire, and my warm white milk three times a day, I do not care what the man or the dog can do. That evening, when the man and the dog came into the cave, the woman told them all the story of the bargain, while the cat sat by the fire and smiled. Then the man said, Yes, but he has not made a bargain with me, or with all proper men after me. Then he took off his two leather boots, and he took up his little stone ax, that makes three, and he fetched a piece of wood and a hatchet, that is five altogether, and he set them out in a row, and he said, Now we will make our bargain. If you do not catch mice when you are in the cave for always and always and always, I will throw these five things at you whenever I see you, and so shall all proper men do after me. Ah! said the woman, listening. This is a very clever cat, but he is not so clever as my man. The cat counted the five things, and they looked very knobby, and he said, I will catch mice when I am in the cave for always and always and always, but still I am the cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me. Not when I am near, said the man. If you had not said that last, I would have put all these things away for always and always and always, but I am now going to throw my two boots and my little stone ax, that makes three, at you whenever I meet you, and so shall all proper men do after me. Then the dog said, Wait a minute. He has not made a bargain with me or with all proper dogs after me, and he showed his teeth and said, If you are not kind to the baby while I am in the cave for always and always and always, I will hunt you till I catch you, and when I catch you I will bite you, and so shall all proper dogs do after me. Ah! said the woman, listening. This is a very clever cat, but he is not so clever as the dog. Cat counted the dog's teeth, and they looked very pointed, and he said, I will be kind to the baby while I am in the cave as long as he does not pull my tail too hard for always and always and always, but still I am the cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to me. Not when I am near, said the dog. If you had not said that last, I would have shut my mouth for always and always and always, but now I am going to hunt you, up a tree, whenever I meet you, and so shall all proper dogs do after me. Then the man threw his two boots and his little stone axe, that makes three, at the cat, and the cat ran out of the cave, and the dog chased him up a tree, and from that day to this, best beloved, three proper men out of five will always throw things at a cat whenever they meet him, and all proper dogs will chase him up a tree. But the cat keeps his side of the bargain too. He will kill mice, and he will be kind to babies when he is in the house, just as long as they do not pull his tail too hard. But when he has done that, and between times, and when the moon gets up and night comes, he is the cat that walks by himself, and all places are all alike to him. Then he goes out to the wet wild woods, or up the wet wild trees, or on the wet wild roofs, waving his wild tail, and walking by his wild, alone. Pussy can sit by the fire and sing, Pussy can climb a tree, or play with a silly old cork and string to muse herself, not me. But I like Binky my dog because he knows how to behave. So Binky is the same as the first friend was, and I am the man of the cave. Pussy will play Man Friday till it's time to wet her paw, and make her walk on the windowsill for the footprint Crusoe saw. Then she fluffles her tail and muse, and scratches and won't attend. But Binky will play whatever I choose, and he is my true first friend. Pussy will rub my knees with her head, pretending she loves me hard. But the very minute I go to my bed, Pussy runs out in the yard. And there she stays till the morning light, so I know it's only pretend. But Binky snores at my feet all night, and he is my finest friend. End of The Cat That Walked By Himself by Rudyard Kipling The Gift of the Magi by O'Henry One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man, and the butcher, until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas. There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating. While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at eight dollars per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad. In the vestibule below was a letter box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining there on two was a card bearing the name Mr. James Dillingham Young. The Dillingham had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid thirty dollars per week. Now when the income was shrunk to twenty dollars though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above, he was called Jim and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young. Already introduced to you as Della, which is all very good. Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only one dollar and eighty-seven cents with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only one dollar and eighty-seven cents to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim! Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling. Something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim. There was a pure glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pure glass in an eight dollar flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art. Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length. Now there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the air shaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate her majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed just to see him pluck at his beard from envy. So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet. On went her old brown jacket. On went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street. Where she stopped, the sign read, Madam Sufrani, hair goods of all kinds. One flight up Della ran and collected herself panting. Madam, large, too white, chilly. Hardly looked the Sufrani. Will you buy my hair, asked Della? I buy hair, said Madame. Take your hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it. Down rippled the brown cascade. Twenty dollars, said Madame, lifting the mask with a practiced hand. Give it to me quick, said Della. Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present. She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain, simple and chased in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation, as all good things should do. It was even worthy of the watch. As soon as she saw it, she knew it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value, the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the eighty-seven cents. With that chain on his watch, Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly, on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of the chain. When Della reached home, her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends. A mammoth task. Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, long, carefully, and critically. If Jim doesn't kill me, she said to herself, before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do? Oh, what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents? At seven o'clock the coffee was made and the frying pan was on the back of the stove, hot and ready to cook the chops. Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight and she turned white just for a moment. She had a habit of saying a little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things. And now she whispered, Please, God, make him think I am still pretty. The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two and to be burdened with a family. He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves. Jim stopped inside the door as a moveable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della and there was an expression in them that she could not read and it terrified her. It was not anger nor surprise nor disapproval nor horror nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face. Della wriggled off the table and went for him. Jim, darling, she cried, don't look at me that way. I had my haircut often sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again. You won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say Merry Christmas, Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice, what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you. You've cut off your hair? asked Jim laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor. Cut it off and sold it, said Della. Don't you like me just as well anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I? Jim looked about the room curiously. You say your hair is gone, he said, with an air almost of idiocy. You needn't look for it, said Della. It's sold, I tell you, sold and gone too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered, she went on with sudden serious sweetness. But nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim? Out of his trance, Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year. What is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The Magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on. Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table. Don't make any mistake, Della, he said, about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap the package, you may see why you had me going a while at first. White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy. And then, alas! A quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the Lord of the Flat. For there lay the combs, the set of combs, tied and back that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell with jeweled rims, just the shade to wear in the beautiful, vanished hair. They were expensive combs she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now they were hers. But the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone. But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and smile and say, My hair grows so fast, Jim. And then Della leaped up like a singed cat and cried, Oh, oh! Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit. Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it. Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled. Dell, he said, Let's put our Christmas presents away and keep them awhile. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on. The Magi, as you know, were wise men, wonderfully wise men, who brought gifts to the babe and the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts, these too were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts such as they are the wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the Magi. End of Gift of the Magi. Recording by Rhonda Fetterman. The Messengers by Richard Harding Davis. 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 Ambrosius16. The Messengers by Richard Harding Davis. When Ainsley first moved to Lone Lake Farm, all of his friends asked him the same question. They wanted to know if the farmer who sold it to him had abandoned it as worthless. How one of the idle rich who could not distinguish a plow from a hero hoped to make it pay. His answer was that he had not purchased the farm as a means of getting richer by honest toil. But as a retreat from the world and as a test of true friendship. He argued that the people he knew accepted his hospitality at Sherries because, in any event, they themselves would be dining within a taxicab fare of the same place. But if to see him they travelled all the way to Lone Lake Farm, he might feel assured that they were friends indeed. Lone Lake Farm was spread over many acres of rocky ravine and forest, at a point where Connecticut approaches New York, and between it and the nearest railroad station stretch six miles of an execrable wood road. In this wilderness directly upon the Lone Lake and at a spot equally distant from each of his boundary lines, Ainsley billed himself a red brick house. Here in solitude he exiled himself, ostensibly to become a gentleman farmer, in reality to wait until Polly Kirkland had made up her mind to marry him. Lone Lake, which gave the farm its name, was a pond hardly larger than a city block. It was fed by hidden springs and fringed about with reeds and cactails, stunted willows and shivering birch. From its surface jetted points of the same rock that had made farming unremunerative. And to these miniature promontories and islands Ainsley in keeping with a fancied resemblance gave such names as the Needles, St Helena, the Isle of Pines. From the edge of the pond that was farther up from the house rose a high hill heavily wooded. At its base oak and chestnut trees spread their branches over the water, and when the air was still were so clearly reflected in the pond that the leaves seemed to float upon the surface. To the smiling expanse of the farm the lake was what the eye is to the human countenance. The oaks were its eyebrows, the fringe of reeds its lashes, and in changing mood it flashed with happiness or brooded in somber melancholy. For Ainsley it held a deep attraction. Through the summer evenings as the sun set he would sit on the brick terrace and watch the fish leaping and listen to the venerable bullfrogs croaking false alarms of rain. Indeed after he met Polly Kirkland staring moodily at the lake became his favorite form of exercise. With a number of other men Ainsley was very much in love with Miss Kirkland and unprejudiced friends thought that if she were to choose any of her devotees Ainsley should be that one. Ainsley heartily agreed in this opinion but in persuading Miss Kirkland to share it he had not been successful. This was partly his own fault for when he dared to compare what she meant to him with what he had to offer her he became a mass of sudden humility. Could he have known how much Polly Kirkland envied and admired his depth of feeling? Entirely apart from the fact that she herself inspired that feeling how greatly she wished to care for him in the way he cared for her life even alone in the silences of Lone Lake would have been a beautiful and blessed thing. But he was so sure she was the most charming and wonderful girl in all the world and he an unworthy and despicable being that when the lady demurred he faltered and his pleading at least to his own ears carried no conviction. When one thinks of being married said Polly Kirkland gently it isn't a question of the man you can live with but the man you can't live without and I'm sorry but I've not found that man. I suppose returned Ainsley gloomily that my not being able to live without you doesn't affect the question in the least. You have lived without me Miss Kirkland pointed out reproachfully for thirty years. Lived, almost said Ainsley, do you call that living? What was I before I met you? I was an ignorant beast of the field and it was much about living as one of the cows on my farm. I could sleep twelve hours at a stretch or if I was in New York I never slept. I was a day and night bank of health and happiness a great big useless puppy and now I can't sleep, can't eat, can't think except of you. I dream about you all night think about you all day go through the woods calling your name cutting your initials and tree trunks doing all the fool things a man does when he's in love and I'm the most miserable man in the world and the happiest. He finally succeeded in making Miss Kirkland so miserable also that she decided to run away. Friends had planned to spend the entire spring on the Nile and were eager that she should accompany them. To her the separation seemed to offer an excellent method of discovering whether or not Ainsley was a man she could not live without. Ainsley saw in it only an act of torture devised with devilish cruelty. What will happen to me, he announced firmly, is that I will plain die. As long as I can see you, as long as I have the chance to try and make you understand that no one can possibly love you as I do and as long as I know I am worrying you to death and no one else is, I still hope. I've no right to hope, still I do. And that one little chance keeps me alive. But Egypt? If you escape to Egypt what hold will I have on you? You might as well be in the moon. Can you imagine me writing love letters to a woman in the moon? Can I send American beauty roses to the runes of Karnak? Here I can telephone you, not that I ever have anything to say that you want to hear, but because I want to listen to your voice and have you ask, Oh, is that you? As though you are glad it was me. But Egypt? Can I call up Egypt on the long distance? If you leave me now you'll leave me forever for I'll drown myself in Lone Lake. The day she sailed away he went to the steamer and separating her from her friends and family drew her to the side of the ship farther from the wharf and which for the moment was deserted. Directly below a pile driver with rattling of chains and shrieks from her donkey engine was smashing great logs. On the deck above the ship's band was braying forth fictitious gady and from every side they were assailed by the raucous whistles of ferry boats. The surroundings were not conductive to sentiment but for the first time Polly Kirkland seemed a little uncertain, a little frightened. Almost on the verge of tears, almost persuaded to surrender. For the first time she laid her hand on Ainsley's arm and the shock sent the body to his heart and held him breathless. When the girl looked at him there was something in her eyes that neither he nor any other man had ever seen there. The last thing I tell you, she said, the thing I want you to remember is this, that though I do not care, I want to care. Ainsley caught at her hand and to the delight of the crew of a passing tugboat kissed it raptorously. His face was radiant. The fact of parting from her had caused him real suffering and marked his face with hard lines. Now, hope and happiness smoothed them away and his eyes shone with his love for her. He was trembling, laughing, jubilant. And if you should, he banged, how soon will I know? You will cable, he commanded, you will cable, come, and the same hour I'll start toward you. I'll go home now, he cried, and pack. The girl drew away. Already she regretted the admission she had made. In fairness and in kindness to him she tried to regret the position she had abandoned. But a change like that, she pleaded, might not come for years, may never come to recover herself, to make the words she had uttered seem less serious. She spoke quickly and lately. And how could I cable such a thing? She protested. It would be far too scared, too precious. You should be able to feel that the change has come. I suppose I shouldn't, assented Ainsley doubtfully. But it's a long way across two oceans. It would be safer if you promised to use the cable, just one word, come. The girl shook her head and frowned. If you can't feel that the woman you love loves you, even across the world, you cannot love her very deeply. I don't have to answer that, said Ainsley. I will send you a sign, continued the girl hastily, a secret wireless message. It shall be a test. If you love me you will read it at once. You will know the instant you see it that it comes from me. No one else will be able to read it. But if you love me you will know that I love you. Whether she spoke in metaphor or in fact, whether she was playing for time or whether in her heart she already intended to soon reward him with a message of glad tidings, Ainsley could not decide. And even as he begged her to enlighten him the last whistle blew and a determined officer ordered him to the ship's side. Just as in everything that is beautiful, he whispered eagerly, I always see something of you. So now, in everything wonderful, I will read your message. But, he persisted, how shall I be sure? The last bag of mail had shot into the hold, the most reluctant of the visitors were being hustled down the last remaining gang-plane. Ainsley's state was desperate. Will it be in symbol or in cipher? He demanded. Must I read it in the sky or will you hide it in a letter or where? Help me, give me just a hint. The girl shook her hand. You will read it in your heart, she said. From the end of the wharf Ainsley watched the funnels of the ship disappear in the haze of the lower bay. His heart was sore and heavy, but in it there was still room for righteous indignation. Read it in my heart, he protested. How the devil can I read it in my heart? I want to read it printed in a cable-gram. Because he had always understood that young men fell in love, found solace for their mystery and solitude and in communion with nature, he had once drove his car to Lone Lake. But his misery was quite genuine, and the emptiness of the Burke House only served to increase his loneliness. He had built the house for her, though she had never visited it, and was associated with it only through the somewhat indefinite medium of the telephone box. But in New York they had been much together, and Ainsley quickly decided that in revisiting those places where he had been happy in her company, he would derive from the recollection some melancholy consolation. He accordingly raced back through the night to the city, nor did he halt until he was at the door of her house. She had left it only that morning, and though it was locked in darkness it still spoke of her. At least it seemed to bring her nearer to him than when he was listening to the frogs in the lake and crushing his way through the pines. He was not hungry, but he went to a restaurant where, when he was host, she had often been the honoured guest, and he pretended they were at supper together and without a chaperone. Either the illusion or the supper cheered him, for he was encouraged to go on to his club. In his library, with the aid of an atlas, he worked out where, after thirteen hours of moving at the rate of twenty-two knots an hour, she should be at that moment. Having determined that fact to his own satisfaction, he sent a wireless after the ship. It rend. It is now midnight, and you are in latitude forty degrees north, longitude sixty-eight degrees west, and I have grown old and grey waiting for the sign. Last morning, and for many days after, he was surprised to find that the city went on as though she were still in it. With unfeeling regularity, the sun rose out of the east river. On Broadway, electric light signs flashed. Streetcars pursued each other. Taxicabs bumped and skitted. Women and even men dared to look happy, and had apparently taken some thought to the art and attire. They did not respect even his widowerhood. They smiled upon him and asked him jocularly about the farm and his crops, and what he was doing in New York. He pitied them, for obviously they were ignorant of the fact that in New York there were art galleries, shops, restaurants of great interest, owing to the fact that Polly Kirkland had visited them. They did not know that on Upper Fifth Avenue were houses of which they were designed to approve, or which they had destroyed with ridicule, and that to walk that avenue and help before each of these houses was an inestimable privilege. Each day with pathetic vigilance Ainsley examined his heart for the promised sign, but so far from telling him that the change he longed for had taken place, his heart grew heavier, and as weeks went by and no sign appeared what little confidence he had once enjoyed passed with them. But before hope entirely died several false alarms had thrilled him with happiness. One was a cablegram from Gibraltar in which the only words that were intelligible were congratulate and engagement. This lifted him into an ecstasy of joy and excitement until on having the cable company repeat the message, he learned it was a request from Miss Kirkland to congratulate two mutual friends who had just announced their engagement, and of whose address she was uncertain. He had hardly recovered from this disappointment that he was again thrown into a tumult by the receipt of a mysterious package from the Custom House containing an intanglio ring. The ring came from Italy, and her ship had touched a genoa. The fact that it was addressed in an unknown handwriting did not disconsert him, for he argued that to make the test more difficult she might disguise the handwriting. He had once carried the intanglio to an expert at the Metropolitan Museum, and when he was told that it represented Cupid feeding a fire upon an altar, he reserved a state room on the first steamer bound for Mediterranean. But before his ship sailed a letter also from Italy from his Aunt Maria, who was spending the winter in Rome, informed him that the ring was a Christmas gift from her. In his rage he unjustly condemned Aunt Maria as a meddling old busybody, and gave her ring to the Coke. After two months of pilgrimages to place his sacred to the memory of Polly Kirkland, Ainsley found that feeding his love in post-mortems was poor fare, and, in surrender, determined to evacuate New York. Since her departure he had received from Miss Kirkland several letters, but they contained no hint of a change in her affections, and searched them as he might he could find no cipher or hidden message. They were merely frank friendly notes of travel, at first filled with gossip of the steamer, and later telling of excursions around Cairo. If they held any touch of feeling they seemed to show that she was so worried for him, and as she could not regard him in any way more calculated to increase his discouragement. He, in utter hopelessness, retreated to the solitude of the firm. In New York he left behind him two trunks filled with such garments as a man would need on board a steamer, and did in the early spring in Egypt. They had been packed and in readiness since the day she sailed away, when she had told him of the possible sign. But there had been no sign. Nor did he longer believe in one. So in the baggage-room of an old hotel the trunks were abandoned, accumulating layers of dust and charges for storage. At the farm the snow still lay in the crevices of the rocks and beneath the branches of the evergreens, but under the wet dead leaves little flowers had begun to show their faces. The backbone of the winter was broken, and spring was in the air. But as Ainsley was certain that his heart was also broken, the signs of spring did not console him. At each weekend he filled the house with people, but they found him gloomy and he found them dull. He liked better the solitude of the midweek days. Then for hours he would tramp through the woods, pretending she was at his side, pretending he was helping her across the streams swollen with winter rains and melted snow. On these excursions he cut down trees that hid of you he thought she would have liked. He cut paths over which she might have walked, or he sat idly in a flat bottomed scow in the lake and made a pretense of fishing. The loneliness of the lake and the isolation of the boat suited his humor. He did not find it true that misery loves company. At least to human beings he preferred his companions of lone lake, the beaver building his home among the reeds, the kingfisher, the blue heron, the wild fowl that in their flight north rested for an hour or day upon the peaceful waters. He looked upon them as his guests, and when they spread their wings and left him again alone he felt he had been hardly used. It was while he was sunk in the state of Melancholy, and some months after Miss Kirkland had sailed Egypt that hope returned. For a weekend he had invited Holden and Lowell, two former classmates, and Nelson Mortimer and his bride. They were all old friends of their host and well acquainted with the cause of his discouragement, so they did not ask to be entertained but disregarding him amused themselves after their own fashion. It was late Friday afternoon. The members of the host party had just returned from a tramp through the woods and had joined Ainsley on the terrace, where he stood watching the last rays of the sun leave the lake in darkness. All through the day there had been sharp splashes of rain with the clouds dull and forbidding, but now the sun was seeking in a sky of crimson, and for the morrow a faint moon held out a promise of fair weather. Elsie Mortimer gave a sudden exclamation and pointed to the coast, Look! she said. The men turned and followed the direction of her hand. In the fading light against a background of somber clouds that the sun could not reach toward them and descending as they moved, six great white birds. When they were above the tops of the trees that edged the lake, the birds halted and hovered uncertainly, their wings lifting and falling, their bodies slanting and sweeping slowly in short circles. The suddenness of their approach, their presence so far inland, something unfamiliar and foreign in the way they had winged their progress, for a moment held the group upon the terrace silent. Goals from the sound, said Lowell. They're too large for goals, returned Mortimer. They might be wild geese, but, he answered himself in a puzzled voice, is too late and wild geese follow a leader. As though they feared the birds might hear them and take alarm, the men unconsciously had spoken in low tones. They move as though they were very tired, whispered Elsie Mortimer. I think, said Ainsley, they have lost their way. But, even as he spoke, the birds, as though they had reached their goal, spread their wings to the full length and sank to the shallow water at the farthest margin of the lake. As they fell, the sun struck full upon them, turning their great pinions into flashing white and silver. Oh, cried the girl, but they are beautiful. Between the house and the lake, there was a ridge of rock higher than the head of a man, and to this Ainsley and his guests ran for cover. On hands and knees, under stocking game, they scrambled up the face of the rock and peered cautiously into the pond. Below them, less than one hundred yards away, on a tiny promontory, the six white birds stood motionless. They showed no sign of fear. They could not but know that beyond the lonely circle of the pond were the haunts of men. From the farm came the tinkle of a cowbell. The bark of a dog and in the valley, six miles distant, running upon the stillness of the sunset hour, the rumble of a passing train. But if these sounds carried, the birds gave no heed. In each drooping head and dragging wind, in the forward stoop of each white body, weighing heavily on the slim black legs, was written, utter awareness, abject fatigue. To each even to lower his bill and sip from the cool waters was a supreme effort. And in their exhaustion, so complete was something humanly helpless and pathetic. To Ainsley, the mysterious visitors made a direct appeal. He felt as though they had thrown themselves upon his hospitality. That they showed such confidence that the sanctuary would be kept sacred touched him. And while his friends spoke eagerly, he remained silent, watching the drooping, ghost-like figures, his eyes filmed with pity. I've seen birds like those in Florida, Mortimer was whispering, they were not migratory birds. And I've seen white cranes in the Adirondacks, said Lowell, but never six at one time. They're like no bird I ever saw out of a zoo, declared Elsie Mortimer. Maybe they are from the zoo. Maybe they escaped from the Bronx. The Bronx is too near, objected Lowell. These birds have come a great distance. They move as though they had been flying for many days. As though the absurdity of his own thought amused him, Mortimer laughed softly. I'll tell you what they do look like, he said. They look like that bird you see on the Nile, the sacred ibis. They, something between a gasp and a cry, startled him into silence. He found his host staring wildly. His lips parted, his eyes wide open. Where? demanded Ainsley. Where did you say? His voice was so hoarse, so strange that they all turned and looked. On the Nile, repeated Mortimer. All over Egypt, why? Ainsley made no answer. Unclasping his hold, he suddenly slid down the face of the rock. And with a bump, lit on his hands and knees. With one bound, he had cleared a flower bed. In two more, he had mounted the steps to the terrace, and in another instant had disappeared into the house. What happened to him? demanded Elsie Mortimer. He's gone to get a gun, exclaimed Mortimer. But he mustn't. How can he think of shooting them? He cried indignantly. I'll put a stop to that. In the hall, he found Ainsley surrounded by a group of startled servants. You get that car at the door in five minutes, it was shouting, and you telephone the hotel to have my trunks out of the cellar and onboard the cron Prince Albert by midnight. Then you telephone Hoboken that I want a cabin, and if they haven't got a cabin, I want the captains. And tell them anyway, I'm coming on board tonight, and I'm going with them if I have to sleep on deck. And you, he cried, turning to Mortimer, take a shotgun and guard that lake, and if anybody tries to molest those birds, shoot him. They've come from Egypt. From Polly Kirkland, she sent them. They're a sign. Are you going mad? cried Mortimer. No, roared Ainsley. I'm going to Egypt, and I'm going now. Polly Kirkland and her friends were travelling slowly in the snow, and had reached Luxor. A few hundred yards below the village, their Dahabia was moored to the bank, and on the deck Miss Kirkland was watching a scarlet sun sink behind two palm trees. By the grace of that special providence that cares for drunken men, citizens of the United States and lovers, her friends were on shore and she was alone. For this she was grateful, for her thoughts were of melancholy and tender nature. She had no wish for any companion save one. In consequence, when a steam-launch approaching at full speed with the rattle of a quick-firing gun broke upon her meditations, she was distinctly annoyed. But when, with much ringing of bells and shutting of orders, the steam-launch rammed the paint of her Dahabia and a young man flung himself over the rail and ran toward her, her annoyance passed, and with a sigh she sank into his outstretched eager arms. Half an hour later, Ainsley laughed proudly and happily. Well, he exclaimed, you can never say I kept you waiting. I didn't lose much time, did I? Ten minutes after I got your CQD signal I was going down the Boston Post road at seventy miles an hour. My what? said the girl. The sign! explained Ainsley. The sign you were to send me tell me you bent over her hands and added gently that you cared for me. Oh, I remember laughed Polly Kirkland. I was to send you a sign, wasn't I? You were to read it in your heart, she quoted. And I did return to Ainsley complacently. There were several false alarms and I'd almost lost hope but when the messengers came I knew them. With puzzled eyes the girl frowned and raised her head. The messengers, she repeated. I sent no message. Of course, she went on, when I said you would read it in your heart I meant that if you really loved me you would not wait for a sign but you would just come. She sighed proudly and contentedly. And you came. You understood that, didn't you? She asked anxiously. For an instant Ainsley stared blankly and then to hide his guilty continents threw her toward him and kissed her. Of course, he stammered, of course I understood. That was why I came. I just couldn't stand it any longer. Breathing heavily at the thought of the blunder he had so narrowly avoided Ainsley turned his head toward the great red disk that was disappearing into the sands of the desert. He was so long silent that the girl lifted her eyes and found that already he had forgotten her presence and transfixed was staring at the sky. On his face was bewilderment and wonder and a touch of awe. The girl followed the direction of his eyes and in the swiftly gathering darkness saw coming slowly toward them and descending as they came six great white burns. They moved with the last effort of complete exhaustion. In the drooping head and dragging wings of each was written utter weariness abject fatigue for a moment they hovered over the habia and above the two young lovers and then like tired travelers who had reached their journey's end they spread their wings and sank into the muddy waters of the Nile and into the enveloping night. Some day, said Ainsley I have a confession to make to you. End of The Messengers Recording by Ambrosius