 An Old Maid by Anna Cora Mawit-Ritchie This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Coming by Kelly Taylor An Old Maid. An Old Maid. Was there ever woman so wise that she could hear the obnoxious title applied to herself without a suppressed sigh, though few are the old maids who might not have been wives if they had so willed, the sense of incompleteness, of undeveloped capacities, of unfulfilled duties, forceful cause, a passing pang? But who knows Miriam Pleasance feels that the life of an Old Maid is necessarily dreary, profitless, colorless, and is Miriam an Old Maid? Damsels in the primrose season of youth, from whom the wedding-ringed vines in its charm circled the manifold joys of an ideal lesionly, mockingly, call her so. Happy mothers, about whose next twine the chubby arms of cherub childhood keep low and wise the vines that bear such fruit pityingly call her so. Evenhearted wives, whose shattered idols prove all clay and ashes, whose pale lips, wreathed in smiles, veil with Spartan heroism, the vulture preying on their souls indignantly call her so. But Mark held men, intellectual, thinking, feeling men, hesitate. To apply the ungallant appellation to sweet Miriam. Perhaps they are tongue-tied by that vague charm about her, which half-cheats one into the belief that she carries in the Vestal bosom some mystical light, the lamp of human love. And let's fall its radiance on the path she treads, on the hearth where she sits, on the face into which she gazes, certain it is that all are strangely brightened by her presence. Man recognizes the magic of a cheerful influence in woman more quickly and more willingly than the potency of dazzling genius, of commanding worth, or even of enslaving beauty. Thus men, in general, value Miriam's special gift above the more brilliant endowments of her favored sisters. In stature Miriam is below medium height, a form not voluptuously rounded nor charmingly fragile, but a neat, compact little figure, supple in light of motion. Not a single feature of her countenance can be termed beautiful, yet the whole face possesses a mobility, a capacity for rapidly varying expression, an indefinable harmony that produced the effect of beauty, her white teeth sparkle between flexible lips, her black eyes dance and shine through jetty fringes, her dark hair, fine but not abundant, is knotted with peculiar grace at the back of an admirably balanced head, her dress is usually of some neutral tint, a silver gray, a delicate fawn, or a soft dove color, lighted up or relieved by a gleam of crimson, or dark blue, or purple ribbons, then her age. She has passed the season of youth, of summer perhaps, and is verging upon autumn, a rich mellow autumn, an autumn full of gorgeous tents, an autumn whose forest leaves turn to scarlet and gold without withering, an autumn that makes one think the springtime could hardly have been so beautiful. True, the dewy evanescent morning freshness is gone, but in its place reigns the more lasting, self-renewed freshness of mental and physical vigor. In a word Miriam has reached and passed the green ascent of thirty-five, and is calmly descending the verdant slope beyond, but life has been all gained to her, she has gathered fruits of knowledge and flowers of beauty, and herbs of balm on the way, and lost nothing she does not think it well to part with in exchange. We have seldom met with an old maid upon the pages of whose early history there was not some love-tale inscribed, some story of unrequited affection, of betrayed hopes, of love sacrificed to duty, or of the graves untimely snatching away, but, strange to say, there is no love-tale written upon Miriam's book of life. She could never have been numbered among that large class of maidens who, according to Rassilis, think they are in love, when in fact they are only idle. Her intellect is too highly cultivated, her penetration too acute, her life too active for her to form an attachment through the Mir Besson de Mie, the longing, though often unconscious desire, to be loved and protected, which is the secret spring of half the so-called love-matches in the world. A young girl's affections, like graceful tendrils, form to cling, too often twine themselves around the object nearest and most inviting, with no other vindication save that it was near and invited. Seeing that to waste true love on anything is womanly, past question. But if Miriam unconsciously admits that love is a grand necessity of existence, she feels that existence has other necessities. To bestow her heart her judgment must approve the gift, and she has not encountered the being, though doubtless such exist, who could win the one with the approval of the other. This is the sole secret of her freedom. Had Miriam been thrown upon her own resources to gain a livelihood, her energy of character and her delight in use would have impelled her to fill and dignify some of the few intellectual advocations which women's hands and brains are allowed to grace. Her birth and wealth forbid, yet the current of life was such an organization, can never become stagnant. Occupation is enjoyment. Her perceptions are keenly alive to discover the work that is spread for her hands and to do it when found. She religiously believes that there is work, heaven allotted, to all in the great vineyard of the world, and that our work lies just within our grasp, if we will but look for and recognize the task. Labor is worship, says the Prophet. Labor is worship, responds, every throbbing pulse in Miriam's well-tuned frame. Like the woman of Bethany who poured the perfumed ointment, her humble tribute of love, upon the head of her Lord, she did what she could. What she could? What more could be required of her? Do what we can, as much as we can, all that we can. Oh, how large would be the sum of works of the very humblest, feeblest, poorest, when counted up in the hereafter, if they only did what they could, alas. For the thousand opportunities of ministering and comforting thrown daily in our pathway, while we pass by on the other side through sheer unconcern, through lack of thought rather than lack of heart, will they not rise up to convict us when we render the account of our stewardship in the great day? With such thoughts ever quickening her to action, Miriam takes a lively, never-failing interest in all things around her. No fellow creature is indifferent to her. She regards all with a tender sympathy, a sympathy which breaks unaware through cold conventionalities, and fraternizes with beings too seldom recognized as members of the human family. Towards the sick, the poor, the sad, the suffering in any shape, her hand is unhesitatingly stretched out. They need no credentials, save the stamp of sadness, sickness, poverty, and prompt aid is true aid. She seems endowed with God's special license to console, to translate mysterious sorrows into promised joys, to strengthen the weak, to soften the hard, to reconcile the rebellious. The history of any one day of her life would fill chapters with scenes of anguish, of passion, of hope, of happy consummations that might adorn the pages of a romance. Thus Miriam, the old maid, is not less happy, less useful, less beloved, than the wife and the mother whose heart and hands are full of alternate cares and blessings. Those upon whose path of life the smile of Miriam Pleasant's shines never speak scornfully of an old maid. We entertain but one fear for Miriam. It is that she will not always bear the vestal title around which she has woven such an indescribable charm. End of An Old Maid by Anna Cora-Mawet Richie Read by Kelly Taylor The Oval Portrait by Edgar Allan Poe, 1809 to 1849. 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 Peter Tomlinson. The Oval Portrait by Edgar Allan Poe. A chateau into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrants rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the open air was one of those piles of comming-led gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the apennines, not less, in fact, than in the fancy of Mrs Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a remote turret of the building. Its decorations were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multi-form amoreal trophies, together with an unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque. In these paintings which depended from the walls, not only in their main surfaces, but in very many nooks which the bizarist architecture of the chateau rendered necessary, in these paintings my incipitant delirium perhaps had caused me to take deep interest, so that I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room, since it was already night, delight the tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood by the head of my bed, and to throw open far and wide the fringe curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself. I wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to sleep, at least alternately, to the contemplation of these pictures, and the perusal of a small volume which had been found upon the pillow, and which purported to criticise and describe them. Long, long I read, and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly and gloriously the hours flew by, and a deep midnight came. The position of the candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my hand with difficulty, rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book. But the action-producing effect altogether unanticipated. The rays of the numerous candles, for there were many, now fell within the niche of the room, which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the bedposts. I thus saw in vivid light a picture all unnoticed before. It was a portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood. I glanced at the painting hurriedly and enclosed my eyes. Why I did this was not at first apparent, even to my own perception. But while my lids remained thus shut, I ran over in my mind my reason for so shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to gain time for thought, to make sure that my vision had not deceived me, to calm and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting. That I now saw a right I could not and would not doubt, for the first flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the dreamy stupef which was stealing over my senses, and to startle me at once into waking life. The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It was a mere head and shoulders done in what is technically termed a vignette manner, much in the style of the favourite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the background of the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded and filigreed in moresque. As a thing of art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself, but it could have been neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the countenance which had so subtly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design of the vignetting and of the frame must have instantly dispelled such idea, must have prevented even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half reclining with my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of the picture in an absolute life-likeness of expression which, at first startling, finally confounded, subdued, and appalled me. With deep in reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its form of position. The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint words which follow. She was a maiden of rarest beauty and not more lovely than full of glee, and evil was the hour when she saw and loved and wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his art, she a maiden of rarest beauty and not more lovely than full of glee. All light and smiles and fulcrum as the young fawn, loving and cherishing all things, hating only the art which was her rival, dreading only the palette and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark, high turret chamber, where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour and from day to day. And he was a passionate and wild and moody man, who became lost in reveries, so that he would not see that the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter, who had high renown, took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him, and yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak. And in sooths some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her, whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labour drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret, for the painter had grown wild with the ardour of his work, and turned his eyes from the canvas merely even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sat beside him. And when many weeks had passed, and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given, and then the tint was placed, and for one moment the painter stood in trance before the work which he had wrought. But in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, this is indeed life itself, turned suddenly to regard his beloved. She was dead. End of The Oval Portrait by Edgar Allan Poe Recording by Peter Tomlinson Three Detective Anecdotes Number One The Pair of Gloves by Charles Dickens 1812 to 1870 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 Peter Tomlinson It's the singular story, sir, said Inspector Weald, of the detective police, who, in company with Sergeant Daunton and Mith, paid us another twilight visit one July evening. And I've been thinking you might like to know it. It's concerning the murder of the young woman, Elisa Grimwood, some years ago, over in the Waterloo Road. She was commonly called the Countess because of her handsome appearance and her proud way of carrying off herself. And when I saw the poor Countess, I had known her well to speak to, lying dead with her throat cut on the floor of her bedroom, you'll believe me that a variety of reflections calculated to make a man rather low in his spirits came into my head. That's neither here nor there. I went to the house the morning after the murder and examined the body and made a general observation of the bedroom where it was, turning down the pillar of the bed with my hand, I found underneath it a pair of gloves, a pair of gentlemen's dress gloves, very dirty, and inside the lining the letters T-R and a cross. Well, sir, I took them gloves away and I showed them to the magistrate over at Union Hall before whom the case was. He says, Weld, he says, there's no doubt this is a discovery that may lead to something very important, and what you have got to do, Weld, is to find out the owner of these gloves. I was of the same opinion, of course, and I went at it immediately. I looked at the gloves pretty narrowly and it was my opinion that they had been cleaned. There was a smell of sulfur and rosin about them, you know, which clean gloves usually have, more or less. I took him over to a friend of mine at Kennington, who was in that line, and I put it to him. What do you say now? Have these gloves been cleaned? These gloves have been cleaned, says he. Have you any idea who cleaned them, says I? Not at all, says he. I've a very distinct idea who didn't clean them, and that's myself. But I'll tell you what, Weld, there ain't above eight or nine regular glove cleaners in London. There were not at that time, it seems, and I think I can give you their addresses, and you may find out by that means who did clean them. Accordingly he gave me the directions and I went here and I went there and I looked up this man and I looked up that man. But although they all agreed that the gloves had been cleaned, I couldn't find the man, woman or child, that had cleaned that aforesaid pair of gloves. What with this person not being at home, and that person being expected home in the afternoon and so forth, the inquiry took me three days. On the evening of the third day, coming over Waterloo Bridge from the surrey side of the river, quiet beat, and very much vexed and disappointed, I thought I'd have a shillings worth of entertainment at the Lyceum Theatre to freshen myself up. So I went into the pit at half-price and sat myself down next to a very quiet, moddy sort of young man. Seeing I was a stranger, which I thought it just as well to appear to be, he told me the names of the actors on the stage, and we got into conversation. When the play was over we came out together and I said, We've been very companionable and agreeable and perhaps you wouldn't object to a drain. Well, you're very good, says he. I shouldn't object to a drain. Accordingly we went to a public house near the theatre, sat ourselves down in a quiet room upstairs on the first floor and called for a pint of half and half, a piece and a pipe. Well, sir, we put our pipes aboard and we drank our half and a half and sat a talking, very sociably, when the young man says, You must excuse me stopping very long, he says, because I'm forced to go home in good time and must be at work all night. At work all night, says I. You ain't a baker. No, he says, laughing. I ain't a baker. I thought not, says I. You haven't the look of a baker. No, says he. I'm a glove cleaner. I never was more astonished in my life than when I heard them words come out of his lips. You're a glove cleaner, are you, says I? Yes, he says I am. Then perhaps, says I, taking the gloves out of my pocket, you can tell me who cleaned this pair of gloves. It's a rum story, says I was dining over at Lambeth the other day at a free and easy, quite promiscuous, with a public company, when some gentleman, he left these gloves behind him. Another gentleman of me, you see, we laid a wager of a sovereign that I wouldn't find out who they belonged to. I've spent as much as seven shillings already in trying to discover, but if you could help me, I'll stand another seven and welcome. You see, there's TR and a cross inside. I see, he says. Bless you, I know these gloves very well. I've seen dozens of pairs belonging to the same party. No, says I. Yes, says he. Then you know who cleaned them, says I. Rather so, says he. My father cleaned them. Where does your father live, says I? Just round the corner, says the young man, near Exeter Street, here. He'll tell you who they belong to directly. Would you come round with me now, says I? Certainly, says he. But you needn't tell my father that you found me at the play, you know, because he mightn't like it. All right. We went round to the place, and there we found an old man in a white apron with two or three daughters, all rubbing and cleaning away at lots of gloves, in a front parlour. O father, says the young man, here's a person been and made a bet about the ownership of a pair of gloves, and I've told him you can settle it. Good evening, sir, says I, to the old gentleman. Here's the gloves your son speaks of. Letters, T.R., you see, and a cross. Oh, yes, he says. I know these gloves very well. I've cleaned dozens of pairs of them. They belong to Mr. Trinkle, the great upholsterer in Cheepside. Did you get him from Mr. Trinkle Direct, says I? If you'll excuse my asking the question. No, says he. Mr. Trinkle always sends them to Mr. Fibbs, the haberdasher's, opposite his shop, and the haberdasher sends them to me. Perhaps you wouldn't object to a drain, says I. Not in the least, says he. So I took the old gentleman out and had a little more talk with him and his son over a glass, and we parted excellent friends. This was late on a Saturday night. First thing on the Monday morning, I went to the haberdasher's shop, opposite Mr. Trinkle's, the great upholsterer in Cheepside. Mr. Fibbs in the way, my name is Fibbs. Oh, I believe you sent this pair of gloves to be clean. Yes, I did, for young Mr. Trinkle over the way. There he is in the shop. Oh, that's him in the shop, is it? Him in the green coat. The same individual. Well, Mr. Fibbs, this is an unpleasant affair, but the fact is, I am Inspector Weald of the Detective Police, and I found these gloves under the pillow of the young woman that was murdered the other day over in the Waterloo Road. Good Heaven, said he. He's a most respectable young man, and if his father was to hear of it, it would be the ruin of him. Oh, I'm very sorry for it, says I, but I must take him into custody. Good Heaven, said Mr. Fibbs again. Can nothing be done? Nothing, says I. Will you allow me to call him over here, says he, that his father may not see it done? I don't object to that, says I, but unfortunately, Mr. Fibbs, I can't allow of any communication between you. If any was attempted, I should have to interfere directly. Perhaps you'll beckon him over here. Mr. Fibbs went to the door and beckoned, and the young fellow came across the street directly. A smart, brisk young fellow. Good morning, sir, says I. Good morning, sir, says he. Would you allow me to inquire, sir, says I, if you have ever had any acquaintance with a party of the name of Grimmwood? Grimmwood? Grimmwood? Does he know? You know the Waterloo Road? Oh, of course I know the Waterloo Road. Happened to have heard of a young woman being murdered there. Yes, I read it in the paper, and very sorry I was to read it. Here's a pair of gloves belonging to you that I found under her pillow the morning afterwards. He was in a dreadful state, sir. A dreadful state? Mr. Weald, he says, upon my solemn oath I never was there. I never so much as saw her to my knowledge in my life. I am very sorry, says I, to tell you the truth. I don't think you are the murderer, but I must take you to Union Hall in a cab. However, I think it's a case of that sort, that at present, at all events, the magistrate will hear it in private. A private examination took place, and then it came out that this young man was acquainted with the cousin of the unfortunate Elisa Grimmwood, and that, calling to see this cousin a day or two before the murder, he left these gloves upon the table. Who should come in, shortly Arthur Woods, but Elisa Grimmwood? Whose gloves are these, she says, taking him up? Those are Mr. Trinkel's gloves, says her cousin. Oh, says she, they are very dirty, and have no use to him, I am sure. I shall take him away for my girl to clean the stoves with, and she put him in her pocket. The girl had used him to clean the stoves, and, I have no doubt, had left him lying on the bedroom mantelpiece, or on the drawers, or somewhere, and her mistress, looking round to see that the room was tidy, had caught him up and put him under the pillow where I found him. That's the story, sir. End of The Pair of Gloves by Charles Dickens Recording by Peter Tomlinson Three detective anecdotes, number three, The Sofa by Charles Dickens, 1812 to 1870. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, auto-volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Peter Tomlinson. What young men will do, sometimes, to ruin themselves and break their friends' hearts, said Sergeant Daunton. It's surprising, I had a case at St. Blank's Hospital, which was of this sort. A bad case, indeed, with a bad end. The secretary and the house surgeon and the treasurer of St. Blank's Hospital came to Scotland Yard to give information of numerous robberies having been committed on the students. The students could leave nothing in the pockets of their greatcoats, while the greatcoats were hanging at the hospital. But it was almost certain to be stolen. Property of various descriptions was constantly being lost, and the gentlemen were naturally uneasy about it and anxious for the credit of the institution that the thief or thief should be discovered. The case was entrusted to me, and I went to the hospital. Now, gentlemen, said I, after we had talked it over, I understand this property is usually lost from one room. Yes, they said, it was. I should wish, if you please, said I, to see the room. It was a good-sized bare room downstairs, with a few tables and forms in it, and a row of pegs all round for hats and coats. Next, gentlemen, said I, do you suspect anybody? Yes, they said, they did suspect somebody. They were sorry to say, they suspected one of the porters. I should like, said I, to have that man pointed out to me and to have a little time to look after him. He was pointed out, and I looked after him, then I went back to the hospital and said, now, gentlemen, it's not the porter. He's, unfortunately, for himself, a little too fond of drink, but he's nothing worse. My suspicion is that the robberies are committed by one of the students, and if you'll put me a sofa into that room where the pegs are, as there's no closet, I think I should be able to detect the thief. I wish the sofa, if you please, to be covered with chintz or something of that sort, so that I may lie on my chest underneath it without being seen. The sofa was provided, and next day at eleven o'clock, before any of the students came, I went there with those gentlemen to get underneath it. It turned out to be one of those old-fashioned sofas, with a great cross-beam at the bottom. That would have broken my back in no time if I could ever have got below it. We had quite a job to break all this away in the time. However, I fell to work, and they fell to work, and we broke it out and made a clear place for me. I got under the sofa, lay down on my chest, took out my knife, and made a convenient hole in the chintz to look through. It was then settled between me and the gentlemen that when the students were all up in the wards, one of the gentlemen should come in and hang up a great coat on one of the pegs. And that great coat should have, in one of the pockets, a pocket-book containing marked money. After I had been there some time, the students began to drop into the room by ones and twos and threes, and talk about all sorts of things, little thinking there was anybody under the sofa, and then to go upstairs. At last there came in one who remained until he was alone in the room by himself, a tallish, good-looking young man of one or two and twenty, with a light whisker. He went to a particular hat peg, took off a good hat that was hanging there, tried it on, hung his own hat in its place, and hung that hat on another peg, nearly opposite to me. I then felt quite certain that he was the thief, and would come back by and by. When they were all upstairs, the gentleman came in with the great coat. I showed him where to hang it, so that I might have a good view of it, and he went away, and I lay under the sofa on my chest for a couple of hours or so, waiting. At last the same young man came down. He walked across the room, whistling, stopped and listened, took another walk and whistled, stopped again and listened, then began to go regularly round the pegs, feeling in the pockets of all the coats. When he came to the great coat, and felt the pocketbook, he was so eager and so hurried that he wrote the strap in tearing it open. As he began to put the money in his pocket, I crawled out from under the sofa, and his eyes met mine. My face, as you may perceive, is brown now, but it was pale at that time, my health not being good, and looked as long as a horse's. Besides which, there was a great draught of air from the door underneath the sofa, and I had tied a handkerchief round my head, so what I looked like altogether, I don't know. He turned blue, literally blue, when he saw me crawling out, and I couldn't feel surprised at it. I am an officer of the Detective Police, said I, and I've been lying here since you first came in this morning. I regret for the sake of yourself and your friends that you should have done what you have, but this case is complete. You have the pocketbook in your hand and the money upon you, and I must take you into custody. It was impossible to make out any case in his behalf, and on his trial he pleaded guilty. How or when he got the means, I don't know, but while he was awaiting his sentence, he poisoned himself in Newgate. We inquired of this officer on the conclusion of a foregoing anecdote, whether this time appeared long or short when he lay in that constrained position under the sofa. Why, you see, sir, he replied, if he hadn't come in the first time and I had not been quite sure he was a thief and would return, the time would have seemed long. But, as it was, I, being dead certain of my man, the time seemed pretty short. End of The Sofa by Charles Dickens Recording by Peter Tomlinson Thomas the Rimer It is six hundred years ago since Thomas the Rimer lived and rhymed, and in those far-off days little need was there to tell his tale. It was known far and wide throughout the countryside. Thomas was known as Thomas the Rimer because of the wonderful songs he sang. Never another harper in all the land had so great a gift as he. But at that no one marveled. No one, that is to say, who knew that he had gained his gift in Elfland. When Thomas took his harp in his hand and touched the strings, a hush would fall upon those who heard. Were they princes or were they peasants? For the magic of his music reached the hearts of all who stood around him. Were the strains merry, gleeful? The faces of those who heard were wreathed in smiles. Were they sad, melancholy? The faces of those who looked upon the harpist were bathed in tears. Truly, Thomas the Rimer held the hearts of the people in his hand. But the minstrel had another name, wonderful as the one I have already told to you. Thomas the Rimer was named True Thomas, and that was because even had he wished it, Thomas could not say or sing what was not true. This gift too, as you will hear, was given to him by the Queen of Elfland. And yet another name had this wonderful singer. He was born, so the folk said, in a little village called Erichle Dune. He lived there, so the folk knew, in a castle strongly built on the banks of a little river. Thus, to those who dwelt in the countryside, the Rimer was known as Thomas of Erichle Dune. The river, which flowed past the castle, was the leader. It flowed broader and deeper, until two miles beyond the village, it ran into the beautiful river Tweed. And today the ruins of an old tower are visited by many folk who have heard that it was once the home of the ancient harpist. Thomas of Erichle Dune, Thomas the Rimer, and True Thomas, were thus only different names for one marvelous man who sang and played, never told in untruth, and who, moreover, was able to tell beforehand events that were going to take place. Listen, and I will tell you how Thomas of Erichle Dune came to visit Elfland. It was one beautiful May morning that Thomas felt something stirring in his heart. Spring had come. Spring was calling to him. He could stay no longer in the grim tower on the banks of the leader. He would away, away to the woods where the thrush and the jay were singing, where the violets were peeping forth with timid eyes, where the green buds were bursting their bonds for very joy. Thomas hastened to the woods and threw himself down by the bank of a little brook. Ah, yes, spring has come. Spring has come. How the little bird sing, how the gentle breezes whisper. Yet listen, what is it Thomas hears beyond the song of the birds, the whisper of the breeze? On the air floats the sound of silver bells. Thomas raises his head, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. The sound draws nearer, clearer. It is music such as one might hear in Elfland. Beyond the wood, over the lonely moors, wrote a lady. So fair a lady had Thomas never seen. Her palfrey was dapple gray, and she herself shone as the summer sun. Her saddle was of pure ivory, bright with many precious stones, and hung with cloth of richest crimson. The girths of her saddle were of silk, and the buckles were each one a barrel. Her stirrups of clear crystal, and adorned with pearls hung ready for her fairy feet. The trappings of her palfrey were of finest embroidery. Her bridle was a chain of gold. From the palfrey's mane hung little silver bells, nine and fifty little silver bells. It was the fairy music of the bells that had reached the ears of Thomas as he lay dreaming on the bank of the little brook. The lady's skirt was green, green as the leaves of spring. Her cloak was a fine velvet. Her long black hair hung round her as a veil, and her brow was adorned with gems. By her side were seven greyhounds. Other seven she led by a leash. From her neck hung a horn, and in her belt was thrust a sheath of arrows. It seemed as though the lady gay were on her way to the hunting field. Now she would blow her horn until the echoes answered merrily. Now she would trill her songs until the wild birds answered gaily. Gailily. Gailily. Thomas of Ericheldune gazed, and Thomas of Ericheldune listened, and his heart gave a great bound as he said to himself, Now by my troth the lady is none of mortal birth. She is none other than Mary, the Queen of Heaven. Then up sprang Thomas from the little woodland brook, and away sped he over the mountain side, that he might, so it were possible, reach her as she rode by the yielden tree, which tree grew on the side of the yielden hills. For certainly, said Thomas, if I do not speak with that lady bright, my heart will break in three. And in sooth, as she dismounted under the yielden tree, Thomas met the lady, and kneeling low beneath the greenwood, he spoke, thus eager was he to win a benison from the Queen of Heaven. Lovely lady, have pity upon me, even as thou art a mother of the child who died for me. Nay now, nay now, said the Lady Gay. No Queen of Heaven am I. I come but from the country thou dost call Elfland, though Queen of that country in truth I am. I do but ride to the hunt with my hounds, as thou mayest hear, and she blew on her horn merrily. Now, Thomas did not wish to lose sight of so fair a lady. Go not back to Elfland, stay by my side under the yielden tree, he pleaded. Nay, said the Queen of Elfland, should I stay with thee immortal, my fairness would fade as fades a leaf. But Thomas did not believe her, and, for he was a bold man, he drew near and kissed the rosy lips of the Elfland Queen. Alas, alas, no sooner had he kissed her than the Lady Fair changed into a tired old woman. She no longer wore a skirt of beautiful green, but a long robe of hot and gray covered her from head to foot. The light bright as the summer sun that had shown around her faded, and her face grew pale and thin. Her eyes no longer danced for joy, they gazed dull and dim before her, and on one side of her head the long black hair had changed to gray. It was a sight to make one sad, and Thomas, as he gazed, cried as well he might. Alas, alas, I self has sealed thy doom, Thomas, cried the Lady. Thou must come with me to Elfland, haste thou therefore to bid farewell to sun and moon, to trees and flowers. For come we'll come woe, thou must ease serve me for a twelve month. Then Thomas fell upon his knees and prayed to Mary mild that she would have pity upon him. But when he arose the Queen of Elfland bathed him out behind her, and Thomas could do not save obey her command. Her steed flew forward, the yielding hills opened, and horse and riders were in the caverns of the earth. Thomas felt darkness close around him. On they rode, on and yet on, swift as the wind they rode. Water reached to his knee. Above and around him was darkness and ever and anon the booming of the waves. For three days they rode, then Thomas grew faint with hunger and cried, Woe is me, I shall die for lack of food. As he cried the darkness grew less thick, and they were riding forward into light. Bright sunlight lay around them as they rode toward a garden. It was a garden such as Thomas had never seen on earth. All manner of fruit was there, apples and pears, dates and damsons, figs and currants all ripe, ready to be plucked. In this beautiful garden, too, there were birds, nightingales building their nests, gay poppins jays flitting hither and thither among the trees. Thrushes singing their sweetest songs. But these Thomas neither saw nor heard. Thomas had eyes only for the fruit, and he thrust forth his hand to pluck it. So hungry, so faint was he. Let be the fruit, Thomas cried the lady. Let be the fruit, for dust thou plucket thy soul will go to an evil place, nor shall it escape until the day of doom. Leave the fruit, Thomas, and come lay thy head upon my knee, and I will show thee a sight fairer than ever mortal have seen. And Thomas, being feigned to rest, laid down as he was bid, and closed his eyes. Now open thine eyes, Thomas said the lady, and thou shalt see three roads before thee. Narrow and straight is the first, and hard is it to walk there, for thorns and briars grow thick, and spread themselves across the pathway. Straight up over the mountain tops on into the city of God runs this straight and narrow road. It is named the path of goodness, and ever will the thorns prick and the briars spread, for few there be who tread far on this rough and prickly road. Look yet again, Thomas, said the lady, and Thomas saw stretching before him a long white road. It ran smooth and broad across a grassy plain, and roses blossomed, and lilies bloomed by the wayside. That, said the lady, is named the path of evil, and many there be who saunter along its broad and easy surface. Thomas said no word, but lay looking at the third pathway as it twisted and twined in and out amid the cool green nooks of the woodland. Tiny rills caught the sunlight, and tossed it back to the cold gray rock down which they trickled. Tiny ferns waved a welcome from their sheltered crevices. This, said the lady, this is the fair road to Elfland, and along its beautyous way must thou and I ride this very night. But speak thou to none, Thomas, when thou comest to Elfland. Though strange the sights you see, the sounds you hear, speak thou to none. For never mortal returns to his own country, does he speak one word in the land of Elfs. Then, once again, Thomas mounted behind the lady, and hard and fast did they ride, until they saw before them a castle. It stood on a high hill fair and strong, and as it came in sight, the lady reigned in her white steed. See, Thomas, see, she cried. Here is the castle that is mine, and his who is king of this country. None like it is there for beauty or for strength in the land from which thou comest. My lord is waited on by knights of whom there are thirty in this castle, and noble lord is mine, nor would he wish to hear how thou were bold and kiss me under the aisleed entry. Bear thou in mind, Thomas, that thou speak no word, nay, not though thou art commanded to tell thy tale. I will say to my courtiers that I took from thee the power of speech ere ever we crossed the sea. Thomas listened, and dared not speak. Thomas stood still, still as a stone, and gazed upon the lady, and lo, a great wonder came to pass. Once more the lady shone bright as the sun upon a summer's mourn. Once more she wore her skirt of green, green as the leaves of spring, and her velvet cloak hung round her shoulders. Her eyes flashed, and her long hair waved once more black in the breeze. And Thomas, looking at his own garments, started to see that they too were changed. For he was now clothed in a suit of beautiful soft cloth, and on his feet were a pair of green velvet shoes. Clear and loud the lady fair blew her horn, clear and loud, and forward she rode toward the castle gate. Then, down to welcome their queen, trooped all the fairy court, and kneeling low before her, they did her reverence. Into the hall she stepped, Thomas following close at her side, silent as one who had no power to speak. They crowded around him the nights and squires. They asked him questions about his own country, yet no word dared Thomas answer. Then arose great revelry and feasting in the castle of the Elfin Queen. Harps and fiddles played their wildest and most gladsome tunes. Nights and ladies danced, and all went merry as a marriage bell. Across the hall Thomas looked, and there a strange sight met his glance. Thirty hearts and as many deer lay on the oaken floor, and bending over them their knives and their hands were Elfin cooks making ready for the feast. Thomas wondered if it were but a dream so strange seemed the sights he saw. Gaeli passed the days, and Thomas had no wish to leave the strange Elfland. But a day came when the Queen said to Thomas, Now must thou be gone from Elfland, Thomas, and I myself will ride with you back to your own country. Nay now, but three days have I dwelt my realm, said Thomas, with but little cheer. Give me leave to linger yet a little while. Indeed, indeed, Thomas cried to the Queen of Elfland. Thou hast been with me for seven long years and more. But now thou must away ere the dawn of another day. Tomorrow there comes an evil spirit from the land of darkness to our fair realm. He comes each year to claim our most favoured and most courteous guest, and it will be thou, Thomas, thou whom he will wish to carry to his dark abode. But we tarry not his coming. By the light of the moon we ride to night to the land of thy birth. Once again the Lady Fair mounted her white palfry, and Thomas rode behind until she brought him safe back to the Yildon tree. There, under the leaves of the Greenwood, while the little bird sang their laze, the Queen of Elfland said farewell to Thomas. Farewell, Thomas, farewell. I may no longer stay with thee. Give me a token, pleaded Thomas. A token ere thou leaveest me, that mortals may know that I have in truth been with thee in Elfland. Take with thee, then, said the Lady. Take with thee the gift of harp and song, and likewise the power to tell that which will come to pass in future days. Nor ever shall thy tales be false, Thomas. For I have taken from thee the power to speak ought save only what is true. She turned to ride away, away to Elfland. Then Thomas was sad, and tears streamed from his grey eyes, and he cried. Tell me, Lady Fair, shall I never meet thee more? Yay, said the Elf Queen, we shall meet again, Thomas. When thou art in my castle of Erkeldoon, and hearst of a heart and hind that come out of the forest and pace unafraid through the village, then come thou down to seek for me here under the yielden tree. Then loud and clear blew she her horn, and rode away. Thus Thomas parted from the Elfin Queen. On earth seven slow long years had passed away since Thomas had been seen. In the little village of Erkeldoon, and the villagers rubbed their eyes, and stared with open mouth as they saw him once again in their midst. Often times now Thomas was to be seen wandering down from his grim old castle down to the Bonnie Greenwood. Off times he was to be found lying on the bank of the little brook that babbled to itself as it ran through the forest, or under the yielden tree, where he had met the Elf Queen so long before. He would be dreaming as he lay there of the songs he would sing to the country folk. So beautiful were these songs that people hearing them knew that Thomas the Rimer had a gift that had been given to him by no mortal hand. He would be thinking too, as he lay by the babbling brook, of the wars and dangers that in years to come would fall upon his country. And those who hearkened to the woes he uttered found that the words of true Thomas never failed to come to pass. Seven long years passed away since Thomas had parted from the Elfland Queen, and yet another seven. War had raged here, and now the Elfland Queen has passed away. And there throughout the land, when on a time it chanced that the Scottish army encamped close to the castle of Erkeldune, where Thomas the Rimer dwelt. It was a time of truce, and Thomas wished to give a feast to the gallant soldiers who had been fighting for their country. Thus it was that the doors of the old castle were flung wide, and noise and laughter filled the banquet hall. Mary were the tales, loud the jests, bright the minstrel strains that night in the castle of Erkeldune. But when the feast was over, Thomas himself arose. The harp he had brought from Elfland in his hand, and a hush fell upon the throng, upon lords and ladies, and upon rough armed men. The cheeks of rugged warriors that day were wet ere ever Thomas ceased to sing. Nor ever in years to come did those who heard forget the magic of his song night fell. Those who had feasted had gone to rest. When in the bright moonlight a strange sight was seen by the village folk, along the banks of the leader there paced side by side a heart and a hind. Each white, white as newly fallen snow, slowly and with stately steps they moved, nor were they affrightened by the crowd which gathered to gaze at them. Then, for true Thomas would know the meaning of so strange a sight, then a messenger was sent in haste to the castle of Erkeldune. As he listened to the tale the messenger brought, Thomas started up out of bed, and in haste he put on his clothes. Pale and red did he grow in turn as he listened to the tale. Yet all he said was this. My sand is run, my thread is spun. This token is for me. Thomas hung his elfin harp around his neck, his minstrel cloak across his shoulders, and out into the pale moonlight he walked. And as he walked the wind touched the strings of the elfin harp and drew forth a wail so full of dole that those who heard it whispered, it is a note of death, on walked Thomas slow and sad, and oft he turned to look again at the grim walls of the castle. Which he knew he would never see again. And the moonbeams fell upon the gray tower, and in the soft light the walls grew less grim, less stern, so thought Thomas. Farewell, he cried, farewell. Nor song nor dance shall evermore find place within thy walls. On thy hearthstone shall the wild hare seek a refuge for her young. Farewell, to leader, the stream I love. Farewell, to Urkeldoon, my home, as Thomas tarried for a last look, the heart and the hind drew near. Onward then he went with them towards the banks of the leader. And there, before the astonished folk, he crossed the stream with his strange companions, and nevermore was Thomas the Rimer seen again. For many a day among the hills and through the glens was Thomas sought. But never was he found. There be some who say that he is living yet in Elfland. And that one day he will come again to earth. Meanwhile he is not forgotten. The yielden tree no longer waves its branches in the breeze. But a large stone, named the yielden tree stone, marks the spot where once it grew. And near to the stone flows a little river, which has been named the goblin brook. For by its banks it was believed that Thomas the Rimer used to talk with little men from the land of Elf. End of Thomas the Rimer, by Mary McGregor. It once occurred to a certain king that if he always knew the right time to begin everything, if he knew who were the right people to listen to, and whom to avoid, and above all, if he always knew what was the most important thing to do, he would never fail in anything he might undertake. And this thought, having occurred to him, he had it proclaimed throughout his kingdom that he would give a great reward to anyone who would teach him what was the right time for every action, and who were the most necessary people, and how he might know what was the most important thing to do. And learned men came to the king, but they all answered his questions differently. In reply to the first question, some said that, to know the right time for every action, one must draw up in advance a table of days, months and years, and must live strictly according to it. Only thus, said they, could everything be done at its proper time. Others declared that it was impossible to decide beforehand the right time for every action, but that, not letting oneself be absorbed in idle pastimes, one should always attend to all that was going on, and then do what was most needful. Others again said that however attempt if the king might be to what was going on, it was impossible for one man to decide correctly, the right time for every action, but that he should have a council of wise men who would help him to fix the proper time for everything. But then again others said, there were some things which could not wait to be laid before a council, but about which one had at once to decide whether to undertake them, or not. But in order to decide that, one must know beforehand what was going to happen. It is only magicians who knew that, and therefore in order to know the right time for every action, one must consult magicians. Equally various were the answers to the second question. Some said the people the king most needed were his counsellors, others the priests, others the doctors, while some said the warriors were the most necessary. To the third question, as to what was the most important occupation, some replied that the most important thing in the world was science. Others said it was skill in warfare, and others again that it was religious worship. All the answers being different, the king agreed with none of them, and gave the reward to none, but still wishing to find the right answers to his questions, he decided to consult a hermit, widely renowned for his wisdom. The hermit lived in a wood, which he never quitted, and he received none but common folk, so the king put on simple clothes, and before reaching the hermit's cell, dismounted from his horse, and, leaving his bodyguard behind, went on alone. When the king approached, the hermit was digging the ground in front of his hut, saying the king he greeted him, and went on digging. The hermit was frail and weak, and each time he stuck his spade into the ground and turned a littler, he breathed heavily. The king went up to him and said, I have come to you, wise hermit, to ask you to answer three questions. How can I learn to do the right thing at the right time? Who are the people I most need, and to whom should I therefore pay more attention than to the rest? And what affairs are the most important, and need my first attention? The hermit listened to the king, but answered nothing. He just spat on his hand, and recommenced, digging. You are tired, said the king. Let me take the spade and work a while for you. Thanks, said the hermit, and, giving the spade to the king, he sat down on the ground. When he had dug two beds, the king stopped and repeated his questions. The hermit again, gave no answer but rose, stretched out his hand for the spade and said, Now rest a while, and let me work a bit. But the king did not give him the spade, and continued to dig, one hour past and another. The sun began to sink behind the trees, and the king at last stuck the spade into the ground and said, I came to you, wise man, for an answer to my questions. If you can give me none, tell me so, and I will return home. Here comes someone running, said the hermit. Let us see who it is. The king turned round, and saw a bearded man come running out of the wood. The man held his hands pressed against his stomach, and blood was flowing from under them. When he reached the king, he fell feinting on the ground, moaning feebly. The king and the hermit unfastened the man's clothing. There was a large wind in his stomach. The king washed it as best he could, and bandaged it, with his hinker-chief, and with the towel the hermit had. But the blood would not stop flowing, and the king again and again removed the bandage soaked with warm blood, and washed and rebandaged the wind. When at last the blood ceased flowing, the man revived, and asked for something to drink. The king brought fresh water, and gave it to him. Meanwhile the sun had set, and it had become cool. So the king, with the hermit's help, carried the wounded man into the hut and laid him on the bed. Lying on the bed, the man closed his eyes, and was quiet. But the king was so tired with his walk, and with the work he had done, that he crouched down on the threshold, and also fell asleep. So soundly he had slept all through the short summer night. When he awoke in the morning, it was long before he could remember where he was, or he was the strange bearded man lying on the bed, and gazing intently at him with shining eyes. Forgive me, said the bearded man, in a weak voice. When he saw that the king was awake and was looking at him, I do not know you, and have nothing to forgive you for, said the king. You do not know me but I know you. I am the enemy of yours, who swore to prevent himself from you, because you executed his brother, and seized his property. I knew you had gone alone to see the hermit, and I resolved to kill you on your way back. But the day passed, and you did not return, so I came from my ambush to find you, and I came upon your bodyguard, and they recognised me and wounded me. I escaped from them, but should have bled to death had you not dressed my wound. I wished to kill you, and you have saved my life. Now, if I live, and if you wish it, I will serve you as your most faithful slave, and will bid my sons do the same. Forgive me. The king was very glad to have made peace with his enemy so easily, and to have gained him for a friend, and he not only forgave him, but said he would send his servants and his own physician to attend him, and promised to restore his property. Having taken leave of the wounded man, the king went out into the porch and looked around for the hermit, before going away he wished once more to beg an answer to the questions he had put. The hermit was outside, on his knees, sowing seeds in the beds, but had been dug the day before. The king approached him and said, For the last time I pray you to answer my question, wise man. You have already been answered, said the hermit, still crouching on his thin legs, and looking up at the king who stood before him. How he answered, What do you mean, said the king? Do you not see? replied the hermit. If you had not pitted my weakness yesterday, and had not dug those beds from me, but had gone your way, that man would have attacked you, and you would have repented of not having stayed with me. So the most important time was when you were digging the beds, and I was the most important man, and to do me good was your most important business. Afterwards, when that man ran to us, the most important time was when you were attending to him, for if you had not bound up his wins, he would have died without having made peace with you. So he was the most important man, and what you did for him was your most important business. Remember then, there is only one time that is important. Now, it is the most important time because it is the only time when we have any power. The most necessary man is he with whom you are, for no man knows whether he will ever have dealings with anyone else, and the most important affair is to do him good, because for that purpose alone was man sent into this life. End of Three Questions by Leo Tolstoy